Girl Finds Mother’s Old Journal, Contents Change Everything, she hoped, looking at the book’s cover. Then she flipped the journal open.
The handwriting was painfully familiar, the same untidy scrawl Emma remembered from childhood birthday cards and from the note Becky had left for her at the diner just a few weeks earlier.
At first, the journal’s entries were neat and tidy, dated even down to the time of day:
Today I woke up at five and could not sleep any more so I climbed out the window and went to Denny’s. Mom and Dad panicked and thought I had run away when I did not come down to the table and when they saw my shoes were missing. Can’t a person enjoy her Grand Slam breakfast in peace around here?
A few days later:
I got $200 for the cheesy diamond studs Mom got me for “sweet sixteen” last year. Part of me thinks I should feel bad for selling them but I’m not sweet at all and she should know that. Between that & the $150 I’ve saved babysitting for the Gandins, I almost have enough to get out of here.
Emma looked up from the book, a strange ache piercing her chest. She felt as if she was spying on her mother, never mind that almost twenty years had passed. But spying or not, this was her only lead. She turned another page.
The entries went on and on, one every few days. Sketches filled some pages, mostly elaborate abstract designs or flowering vines. An Emily Dickinson poem filled a sheet, with colored-pencil illustrations all around the text. Becky complained about school and her parents. She broke up with one boyfriend and hooked up with another one. She cheated on a third. She was always lonely, even when she was surrounded by people. She sounded surprisingly, almost disappointingly normal—creative and sullen and rebellious, but not crazy.
But about halfway through the composition book the entries started to change. The language became disjointed, the thoughts scattered. Dog next door keeps barking and if he doesn’t stop soon I may snap, she’d written one day. This town is poison. Even the clothes on my back hurt my skin. And then, one day, just the words Mama, I’m so sorry. The writing ran sideways in some places or curled around in weird spirals of text.
Emma turned another page. Her breath caught in her throat. Printed across two facing pages, in enormous block letters, was Emma.
On the next page it was repeated in long lines across the paper—Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma—in different sizes and scripts, ornate calligraphy and cartoon block letters and colorful sketches sprinkled with stars. She flipped through the pages, faster and faster. The rest of the book was filled with nothing but that one word, EMMA, scrawled wilder and wilder, in Sharpie, in pencil, sometimes written so hard the letters tore through the paper.
The book fell out of her trembling hands and hit the floor in a cloud of dust. The attic spun around her like a strange, shadowy carousel. She knew Becky was sick, but this … this was obsession.
I was afraid, too. What was going through our mother’s mind? Had she written this before or after we were born?
The garage door rattled open, and Emma jumped. She quickly slid the journal into her pocket and stood up. As quietly as she could, she went down the ladder, closing the hatch door after her.
The house was silent again when she reached the hall. She frowned and padded down the stairs to the entryway. “Hello?” she called. No one answered. She opened the front door and looked out on the lawn.
She had to blink her eyes several times to clear her vision. For a moment it looked as if an enormous agave plant was wobbling around the Mercers’ yard on uncertain human legs. After the quiet, dim attic, her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.
A moment later the walking plant was replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered boy carrying a giant succulent. She peeked around the plant’s prickly leaves. Thayer.
I swooned. What’s hotter than watching a gorgeous boy carry heavy things? At that moment I would have given anything for hands, just so I could run them over his shoulders and up into his damp, tousled hair.
“What’re you doing here?” Emma asked.
Thayer stopped and grinned at her, balancing on his good leg. “Laurel said your dad’s bummed out that he got hurt in the middle of landscaping the yard,” he explained. “I figured that since it’s partly my fault he got hurt, I should come and help him finish. Besides, I know all about knee injuries,” he said, nodding down at his own bad leg.
A flush of pleasure swept over Emma’s cheeks. She understood what Sutton saw in Thayer. He had so much more depth, and warmth, than she’d realized at first. “Here, let me help you,” she said, grabbing one side of the heavy plant. Together they wrestled it out of the plastic and into the hole Mr. Mercer had dug.
“Careful with the spines, they can hurt pretty bad,” Thayer warned.
“I’m used to cactus spines,” Emma answered. She laughed when they stood up in a shower of dirt. Their arms, even their faces, were covered with it. “It’s really nice of you to help my dad out,” she added, walking toward the willow tree to get out of the hot sun.
Thayer shrugged. “I’m just trying to put things right. As much as I can, anyway.” He glanced at Emma, then blinked, as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Is everything okay? You look kind of pale.”
Emma looked down, thinking about what she’d just found in the attic. “I saw my mom again two nights ago,” she admitted.
Thayer’s long-lashed hazel eyes opened wide with concern. “Where?”