“So? I am my own person too. Is that all there is to talk about? Where Stu is?”
Janie sticks her head out the window to catch the breeze on her face and hopes for no dreamers. “Are you guys fighting or something?”
“No,” Carrie says.
“Okay. So . . . when does school start for you?”
Carrie brightens. “Right after Labor Day. And it’s going to be a blast. Finally! I get to learn about something I actually want to learn about.”
“You’ll be the best in your class, Carrie. You got mad hair skillz.”
“I do, don’t I,” she says. “Thank you.” She turns her eyes from the road for a moment to look at Janie. They glimmer just a little. Maybe they’re just watery from the wind. Or not.
Janie smiles, reaches her arm around Carrie’s neck and gives her friend a little half-hug. Forgets that Carrie doesn’t get a whole lot more encouragement at home than Janie gets.
Carrie pulls Ethel into the bumpy driveway. Ethel protests in squeaks and groans, but Carrie presses onward. “Why the heck does he live all the way out here in freaking . . . freaking Saskatchewan?” Carrie says, giggling.
Janie doesn’t bother to point out that the nearest Canadian province is actually Ontario. Nor that they were going south.
Outside of the car, Janie goes immediately to the house as Carrie takes it all in—the overgrown bushes, the tiny, run-down cabin, the door left unlocked. “What, he doesn’t lock it?”
“He didn’t—at least not the last time he left.”
“Well, yeah, I can see that. It’s not like he lives in the ’hood, yadamean? Who comes way out here? It’d be a real crapshoot. People out here’d either pull a gun on you or invite you for pot roast.”
Carrie yammers on.
Janie ignores.
It’s all good.
3:23 p.m.
Janie goes directly to the computer. Carrie bumbles around the kitchen, snacking on raspberries from the refrigerator, but Janie doesn’t pay any attention. The computer, still on since she left in such a hurry earlier, takes forever to wake back up, and another forever to get online with the dial-up access.
The dialing noise makes Carrie look over at Janie. “What are you doing on his computer, Janers? That’s kinda, like, wrong, isn’t it?” Carrie stands in the kitchen, hands on cupboard doors, picking up things and setting them down again.
“Nah,” Janie lies. “He’s my father. I’m allowed.”
Carrie shrugs and moves on to the next cabinet.
Janie puzzles over Henry’s shop name. “Hey, Carrie, ‘Dottie’ is a nickname for ‘Dorothea,’ isn’t it?”
“How would I know?” Carrie says. And then, “Yeah, it sounds like it could be. And a hell of a lot easier to say than that mouthful.”
“Yeah,” Janie says, and then opens up a new window and Googles it. “Yep, it sure is.”
“What?” Carrie yells, now apparently sitting on the kitchen floor. Pans rattle.
“Nothing,” Janie says absently. “Just stop—whatever you’re doing. You’re making me nervous.”
“What?” Carrie yells again.
Janie sighs. Her finger hovers over the mouse, deciding. Finally, she drops it, opening Henry’s e-mail client.
Really feels like she’s snooping, now.
But just can’t help it.
Janie smiles, reading his kindly correspondence with his customers, trying to imagine him. Wishes she could have talked to him about all of this.
About his life.
But then a loud crash in the kitchen startles her again and she jumps up, frustrated. “Carrie, what the hell? Seriously, let’s just go, okay? Jesus Christ, I can’t take you anywhere!” Janie just wants to concentrate, to be able to savor these words. The interruptions are driving her crazy.
Carrie stands on the kitchen counter facing open cupboards, hanging on to a door. She peers over her shoulder looking sheepish as Janie stomps to the kitchen to survey the mess. “I love it when you call me Jesus Christ.”
Janie pinches her lips together, still mad, trying not to smile.
The crash wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Mostly just empty tins.
“Look what I found,” Carrie says, pulling a shoe box from the shelf. She hops to the floor. “Notes and stuff! Like a box full of memories.”
“Stop! This is so not cool.” Janie glances nervously out the window, as if the crash of tins in this quiet setting would bring sirens and squealing tires. “We should get out of here, anyway.”
“But—” Carrie says. “Dude, you’ve got to check this stuff out. It’s a bunch of clues to your past. The story of your dad. Aren’t you totally curious?” She stares at Janie. “Come on, Janers! What kind of detective are you, anyway? You should care about this. There’s some little pins and some coins and stuff, and a ring! But there’s also letters. . . .”
Janie’s eyes flash, but she glances at the shoe box. “No. This is too invasive. It’s not . . .” her voice falters.
“Come on, Janers,” whispers Carrie, her eyes shining.
Janie leans over and peeks into the box, gently moving a few things around. “No.” She straightens abruptly. “And I want you to stop snooping around.”
“Ugh! How boring.”
“Yeah, well, we’re sort of breaking the law here.”
“I thought you said—”