Carolyn looked over Dad’s tools, mounted neatly above his worktable, all rusting in the sea air. She counted five boxes tucked in the rafters. She set up the ladder, pulled her tiered skirt up between her legs and tucked it into her leather belt, and climbed. Brushing away cobwebs, she brought them down one by one. She was warm by the time she lined the boxes on the cement floor. Mom had labeled each: Family Pictures, Clothing, Trip, China/FRAGILE, and Mama.
Carolyn pulled open the top flaps of the box marked Mama and drew out a hand-crocheted granny-square afghan. It reeked of damp and mold, holes eaten away by mice or rats. She folded it into the garbage can, annoyed that Oma’s labor of love had been stuffed in a box to rot. Next was a shoe box. Carolyn uttered a soft gasp when she found Oma’s leather journal on top of bundles of thin, folded airmail letters with Swiss stamps. She took out the journal and carefully opened it. A picture slipped out and fell on the floor: Oma sitting on a chair holding a baby, a little boy beside her, and a tall, blond, very handsome man in a dark suit standing behind them. He was holding a little brown-haired girl and had his other hand on Oma’s shoulder. Carolyn picked up the picture and turned it over. Winnipeg, 1919.
“Mom?” Dawn stood in the doorway, bundled in a down coat. “Please come back inside.”
“I was just going through a few boxes.” She tucked the picture back into Oma’s journal and glanced around. “It is going to be a big job.”
“Not one you can finish tonight. Granny fixed corn bread. The table is set for dinner. We can bring in a few boxes and go through them later, if you’d like.” She examined one of them. “Might be kind of fun.”
Carolyn put Oma’s journal on top of the shoe box and stacked them on the box labeled Family Pictures. May Flower Dawn lifted the box marked Trip. They carried the two boxes into the house and put them in the living room. “It’ll just take me a minute to get the others.” When she’d stacked the other boxes in the middle of the living room, she washed her hands in the kitchen sink before sitting down with May Flower Dawn and her mother, who gave the blessing.
Carolyn put her napkin on her lap. “I found Oma’s journal.”
“My inheritance.” Her mother snorted, scooping stone soup into bowls. “She gave Rikka a few pieces of jewelry. She’d already given Bernie her car. Cloe earns a stipend for handling the college trust Mama set up. I got her recipe book and a box of letters, written in German.” She set a bowl in front of Dawn and filled another for Carolyn.
Dawn took a spoonful of soup and smiled. “Yummy.” She glanced across at Carolyn. “It’s not just a collection of recipes, Granny. When we visited her, Oma gave it to me to read one night. She told me she only wrote important things that made a difference in her life: tips on how to keep a house, yes, and some recipes, but also quotes from people she met, important dates like when you were born and the circumstances, ranch schedules, a funny poem a boy wrote about Summer Bedlam, her thoughts on life. It’s wonderful. It defines her. I’d love to read it again.” She looked at Carolyn. “She sent me a journal after that visit. Remember?”
“You sent her a diploma.” Carolyn smiled, pleased to know that week had meant something to May Flower Dawn, that those few days in Merced had left her daughter with fond memories of Oma.
“The journal she sent me is leather and has my name engraved in gold. May Flower Dawn. I have it with me. I think of Oma every time I open it. I followed Oma’s lead. I didn’t write a lot of teenage nonsense in it. I wrote goals, favorite Scriptures, meaningful dates, places Jason and I have lived, dreams…” She smiled wistfully. “I wish I’d known Oma better. Oma’s journal meant more to her than jewelry, a car, or money, Granny. She gave you the best of herself.”
Carolyn’s mother looked surprised-and a little perplexed.
The lights flickered and went out, enclosing them in complete darkness. “Wow.” Dawn’s voice sounded louder in the inky wrapping. “I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
Carolyn hated the darkness. “I forgot the kerosene lantern in the garage. Where’s a flashlight?”
“In one of the kitchen drawers, under the dish cabinets-middle I think-but the batteries are probably dead.”
Carolyn fumbled around in the darkness, opening drawers and feeling through contents.
“Just wait a minute, Carolyn. Or did you forget you and Mitch put in a generator? There it goes.” A distant whir sounded, and then noise.
Dawn laughed. “No muffler on that baby.”
The lights came on. Relieved, Carolyn returned to her seat. Her mother sat calmly, hands folded on the table. “I don’t think I ever thanked you, did I?”
“No. You didn’t. But then we didn’t ask your permission either.” If they couldn’t get her to move, they’d make sure she had heat and power. Four thousand dollars, not to mention the money spent on a lawyer who took over the fight with the Coastal Commission, and not one word of thanks until now.
After clearing and washing the dishes, Carolyn joined her daughter and mother in the living room. She hesitated on the threshold when she saw them on the couch, May Flower Dawn holding her granny’s hand on her abdomen. They spoke in whispers. Biting her lip, Carolyn stepped back. She felt like an intruder. Mom glanced up and frowned. “Why are you standing there? Come feel the baby moving.”
Carolyn treaded carefully around the stacked boxes and knelt in front of them. Dawn took her hand and placed it on her abdomen. Carolyn didn’t feel anything. Dawn sighed. “Little Miss must have fallen asleep again.” Carolyn rose and sat in the yellow swivel rocker.
Her mother pushed herself up and settled into her recliner. “This is nice, having the two of you here, together.”
Dawn grinned. “Three girls on a sleepover.” She winced in pain and shifted on the couch until she looked more comfortable. Carolyn remembered the final month of pregnancy when her babies had pressed against her rib cage and bore down on her pelvis. The last month was the hardest.
Dawn yawned. She looked so tired.
“Why don’t you go to bed, May Flower Dawn?”
“It’s only eight, Carolyn.”
“She looks exhausted, Mom.”
“I’m not ready for bed yet.” Dawn gave them both a tired smile. “I want to sit and visit.”
“You can lie down and visit.” Carolyn got up and lifted Dawn’s legs onto the couch. “Your ankles are swollen.” Dawn murmured a weary thank-you and said not to worry. Carolyn tucked a needlepoint pillow under her head and draped a soft, white knitted blanket over her. She brushed a wayward strand of blonde hair back from her daughter’s face. She was perspiring. “Do you have a fever?”
Dawn took her hand. “Relax, Mom. It’s a lot of work carrying around an extra thirty pounds.”
Carolyn took her seat and watched Dawn fall asleep. She snored softly. “I guess she is tired.” After a few minutes, she fidgeted in her chair. She felt night fold tight around them, the glass their only barrier against it. “I guess we could go through the boxes.”
“I don’t want to go through those boxes.” Her mother shook her head. “Not tonight. Besides, Dawn would probably get a kick out of it.” She rubbed her leg as though it ached. “You stood in the doorway just now. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Stand outside a door, peer around corners, listen in.”
Carolyn felt the words like a slap. “Like a sneaky little mouse, you mean. Like I’m planning to steal a bit of cheese?”
Mom looked shocked. “No.” She shook her head. “Like you don’t belong. Like you’re waiting for an invitation.”
“I was told to stay out.”