My father. He had to have made this. My shoulders slumped, and I pulled the box closer. Drawings of two parents and a little boy. Happy stick people with big smiles and oversize heads stood close together, facing the world with solidarity.
Traced handprints made to look like a turkey or a baby Jesus manger. I covered the tiny hand with my own. So small. If only I could have known the man he’d become. Had he always been close to his mother? Did he go to college? Get a good job? Think about having children one day?
Regret throwing away his own baby?
The bitter thought soured the precious innocence in my hands. I tried to thrust it away, but still it lingered.
I unpacked one art project after another. All treasures Ida had kept stored away. These memories I didn’t need stories to decode. They each painted a picture of a mother who’d loved her child and cherished the imperfect creations of his little hands. Weight settled on my shoulders, pressing me closer to the priceless shards of love in my lap as though nearness to them could somehow infuse their essence into my splintered heart.
Had my adoptive mother kept anything I’d made in school? If she had, I hadn’t found them after she’d died. My adoptive father certainly wouldn’t have. He’d tossed the picture I’d drawn of him wearing a “#1 Dad” shirt into the trash. Said once he’d seen it, we didn’t need to fill the house with useless clutter. My heart still bore the third-grade scar of rejection.
I put the top back on and gently returned the treasure box to the tomb where it could remain unsullied. Wiping moisture from my nose, I smeared my hand across my jeans and fortified myself. What had I expected, digging through other people’s private memories?
But Ida had wanted me to know the stories. Understand my family and our history. These treasured items belonged to me now. If I didn’t honor them, who would? Grabbing the next box, I hoped I didn’t find anything embarrassing. I flipped open the lid.
Interesting. This box contained several folded t-shirts. I laughed as I pulled out the one on top. Seriously? Metallica? I shook out the black cotton shirt. The purple band name shot lightning bolts into some kind of spark plug or something with the words Ride the Lightning across the bottom. Wow. Next I found a Motley Crue 1983 “Shout Tour” shirt, a Harley Davidson Orlando tee, and an acid-washed Led Zeppelin shirt featuring a blimp. Crazy.
My dad had been into Harleys and hair metal? Not at all what I’d expected. At what point did a little boy who made paper flowers and a tender-hearted middle schooler who had rescued a dumpster cat turn into a head-banging biker?
Why had Ida kept all of this? I stacked the shirts neatly on the floor next to me. Wouldn’t that make an interesting quilt? Ida’s floral fabric next to my birth dad’s Harley logo?
What would I find next in this plastic Pandora’s Box? Finally, something other than acid wash or black. I unfolded one much smaller than the rock shirts. Maryville Hornets Band in peeling white letters slashed across the front of a kelly green shirt Dad must have worn in middle school. I ran my fingers across it. This was a good find. I pictured the little boy from Ida’s albums wearing this shirt as he coaxed a stray cat from a dumpster, and the image conjured a smile.
The final shirt at the bottom of the box, in the same green, boasted “Hornet Dad.” My chest tightened. Reggie. In my quest to understand Ida and my birth father, I’d all but forgotten my grandfather. Ida had showed me an old pair of Reggie’s fatigues. I could probably take a square or two from those as well.
Who knew Ida had been such a packrat?
She’d provided me with all the things I needed to repurpose the past. Each of these fabrics could be incorporated into my quilt. To be displayed, rather than locked away in old boxes. Warmth swelled in my middle and tingled down my veins. I tossed the Zeppelin, Harley, and two school shirts onto the bed with Ida’s blouses.
I hefted the box and angled it to go back on the shelf. Wait. What was that? I placed the box on Ida’s nightstand and leaned down to look at the back of the center shelf. A bit of some kind of fabric had been wadded up behind the box. I pulled it out.
My grip tightened. Winnie the Pooh and his friends danced across a cheery yellow cotton. Why would Ida have this? I rubbed it between my fingers. Had she bought it to make something for a child? Saved it for her first grandchild? Did she—?
“Casey?”
I yelped and stumbled back, nearly dropping the fabric. I covered my fluttering heart with a shaking hand. “Ryan! You scared the daylights out of me.”
He stood in the doorway, faded green shirt covered in bits of sawdust. His deep brown eyes swept an assessing gaze over the shirts on the bed, darted to the open closet, and settled on the fabric in my hand.
I shifted my feet but held his gaze. Even from here, I could smell the sawdust and a faint hint of rain.
He lifted one eyebrow, then a smile pulled up the side of his mouth. “How’s the quilt going?”
I lowered the mysterious fabric to my side and shrugged. “She said to find material that means something.”
His eyes lit with approval, and the sudden flutter in my stomach made me blink. What was it about this guy that made me want to please him? And not in that pathetic kind of way that yearned to swindle people into liking me. Something about him brimmed with sincerity and goodness. An inner light that drew me closer. I squelched the startling thought. I couldn’t end up like a mosquito drawn to the zapper.
Not that Ryan was a zapper, just that I’d end up hurt and—
“That’s awesome. I won’t keep you.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I wanted to ask what you wanted to do with the wood we cut up. Do you want us to stack it for firewood or…?”
What would Ida do? I rubbed the Pooh fabric between my fingers. “Give it to elderly people in the church. You know, ones that could use the wood in the winter but maybe wouldn’t be able to cut any on their own?” I shrugged, feeling stupid. Did people even do things like that anymore? This wasn’t the 1800s.
Ryan rocked back on his heels and flashed me a proud smile. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll tell Brother Lawrence.”
“Brother Lawrence?”
He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “The pastor at First Baptist.”
Oh. Right. Seemed the pastor had as much say-so in this town as any elected official. “What about your mom? Could she use any?”
Ryan nodded. “I’ll split a load for her and take it out there. We’ll get some of the other guys helping with the cleanup to do the same for our older members. Lots of limbs and junk all over town, but you’re the only one with a hearty oak.”
“Lucky me.”
“God has a purpose for—” His surprised gaze darted to his feet. “Hello there.”
Kitty wrapped herself around Ryan’s dusty jeans and smeared her whiskered face on his leg.
“I got a cat.”
He tilted his head. “So I see.” His questioning eyes searched mine. “Stray?”
He probably thought I’d commandeered one of his neighbor’s pets. I jutted my chin. “I went to the shelter.”
Ryan’s easy nod contradicted my assumed suspicion. “What’s his name?”
“Her.” I shrugged. “I call her Kitty.”
Knowing eyes slammed into mine, and I glanced away, feeling exposed. “What?”