35. Kendra
Kendra
TWENTY YEARS OLD
Being back in Fox Grove feels horrible. But I wanted one week here with Nana in my favorite place—the cabin—before everything changes for me.
“Where the heck are we going? We never come out here, Nana.” I peer around her shoulder as she fiddles with the garage doorknob.
“I know. It’s been years since I’ve gotten out here, and this damn door is sticking like bubblegum on the bottom of a boot,” Nana grumbles.
Laughing, I say, “Let me try.”
Moving aside, Nana allows me to give it my best shot. I use my young hip and slam into the side door, forcing it open, tumbling into the dark garage triumphantly.
“That’s my girl.” Nana pats my cheek. “Tiny, but mighty.”
I grin at her as she flicks on the light to reveal the dusty, but not overly messy garage that I expected.
There are organized shelves, a big sink that has a window looking out to the Savellis’ backyard, some old bins, and things covered in tarps or dustcloths.
Honestly, I thought it would be weeks’ worth of cleaning and sorting, but this is very manageable.
“What do you need from out here?” I ask, running my finger along the dusty sink.
“I’m not very crafty, myself. Your grandpa, God rest his handsome soul, liked to think himself crafty.
I’d play along and let him pretend he was whenever he’d get it in his head that he’d want to try out a new hobby.
The only thing that stuck was golf”—she points to an old set of clubs in the back corner—“and that was fine with me. And that’s a sport, different skill set. ”
I grin at her, knowing that she loved to just tool around the course with him, never swinging a club herself, content to half watch him play while she read a library book. They both got to do something they enjoyed and still spend time together.
“Are you finally going to learn to play?” I tease her.
“Good heavens, no! I can’t even open my own garage door—can you imagine me trying to golf? I’d end up clubbing a poor, unsuspecting young person instead of my own ball.” Nana shuffles toward the middle of the space and a large object covered with a dustcloth. “Help me with this, please.”
Together we pull the stiff fabric back to reveal an old, but in nearly perfect condition, pottery wheel in a dandelion-yellow color that instantly overwhelms the otherwise bland space.
“Your grandpa took one class for fun, next thing I knew we had all the stuff for him to make pottery out here. Even have a kiln under there.” Nana points to another very large, covered shape on the other side of the shelves.
“He never used this?” I ask, my hand itching to plug it in and hear it hum.
“Oh he did, for about three months. Then he got tired of it. You can’t master a new craft, an actual art, in three months, Kendra, especially something like pottery.
It takes time, patience, finesse, and your own magic—he had none of that.
So he covered it all up and left it out here.
Planned to sell it but never got around to it.
” Her bright blue eyes spark with a mix of amusement and pain.
“Do you want me to help you sell them now?”
“No, I want you to have them.” Nana pats my hand.
“What!” I put my other hand to my heart in shock. “Why?”
“Sometimes we need a place to put our pain so we don’t have to carry it around all the time.
You did the therapy thing before and after your mom died, and that was smart for your father to do—but I think you need something else this time.
I think you need something that makes you feel and something that you can get lost in all at the same time. ” Her gaze sees too much, as usual.
I thought I could come here this summer and put on my mask and have the week to hide inside with her. But my nana knows me too well to let that slide, to let me sit in so much pain alone.
“Do you want to tell me why you are only here for a week this year? What happened last summer and after last summer? You know you can tell me anything, Kendra.” Nana patiently waits for me to decide on my answer.
Sighing deeply, I say, “You remember Eli Hargrove, right . . .”