Her favorite dress is on top, a soft cotton shift with a flattering silhouette and big flowers the color of ripe nectarines. She doesn’t wear it often, but she loves it and glows when she does. What in the world is it doing in here? I carefully lift the folded clothes and finger through a couple pairs of jeans, a bunch of shirts, and her well-worn cream-colored cardigan. The mesh pocket sewn into the top flap is stuffed with underwear and socks rolled neatly together, a bra in black and another in blush. Tucked in the side are a pair of canvas tennis shoes and brown leather sandals that I’ve never seen her wear before. There are enough clothes in here for a week away at least.
But Mom’s not going on vacation.
I try to yank the zipper closed, but the clothes have shifted from my probing and it won’t go. Cramming everything in, I press on the top of the suitcase to try to make the zippers line up. Something crinkles in the flat exterior pocket. I know I shouldn’t—I’m already buzzing with the fear of being caught, of having unintentionally discovered something that’s much bigger and scarier than I could have imagined—but I’ve already come this far. I unzip the outer pocket and stick my hand inside. It’s an envelope. It’s the envelope. The one with the letters from my birth dad.
All the air leaves me in a whoosh, and I’m left breathless and gasping with my head in the trunk. I try to blink the darkness away, but my vision swims anyway and I feel faint. I can’t even begin to imagine what this is all about. Why my mother has a packed suitcase hidden in the trunk of her car—the car that Law never drives, never even touches. When they go places, they take his truck, and I can’t recall a single time that I have ever seen him behind the wheel of her practical little sedan. It strikes me that if Reb was trying to hide something from him, this would be the perfect place to do it. And she’s clearly hiding things. The envelope is undeniable proof.
My hands are shaking when I finally return the envelope to its original location and force the zipper closed. I pull the blanket back over the suitcase and tuck everything in tightly, doing a better job than Mom did, so that if someone does happen to open the trunk, they can easily dismiss the lump that is her faded car blanket. I’m not sure why I’m protecting her, but I feel strongly that she needs protection, and I’m desperate to offer it.
I shut the trunk quietly, afraid to slam it and draw attention to what I’m doing. I don’t want to arouse Law’s suspicions and I don’t want Mom to know what I’ve seen. But I’m not quick or stealthy enough, because after I double-check that it’s latched and turn around, I see Law walking toward me across the yard.
“What are you doing?” he calls. No “Good morning.” No “Happy birthday.”
I swallow hard and force a smile. “Thought I’d grab the picnic quilt, but I changed my mind.” It’s the honest-to-God truth, but my palms sweat as I say it.
Law grunts, then gives me a strained, crooked smile and takes a few awkward steps toward me. “Happy birthday, June,” he says, and gives me a gruff hug.
He’s not much of a hugger, and I’m so stunned by his embrace that my arms are pinned to my sides and I can’t reciprocate. It doesn’t much matter. The hug is over in an instant, and Law seems embarrassed that he attempted it at all. “Is your mother making breakfast?” he asks, breezing past the almost-paternal moment.
“Crepes,” I tell him unnecessarily. “They should be ready by now.”
I follow him into the house, heart heavy with knowledge that feels like an anchor. I know things that I shouldn’t know and don’t understand, and the pieces of this particular puzzle do not—cannot—form into a happy whole. At least, not one that I can imagine.
But it’s my birthday, and I have no choice but to shove my suspicions aside and play the part of a happy, newly minted nineteen-year-old. Jonathan has emerged from his room, and when I walk into the kitchen he pecks me on the cheek and hands me a small, carefully wrapped package. “Later,” he whispers, so I tuck it into the deep pocket of my dress.
“Everything’s ready!” Mom says in a singsong voice. We find our spots at the table, and Mom sets my plate before me with a flourish, just like she’s done since I was little. It used to thrill me, the three fat rolls of fresh crepes dotted with ruby-red strawberries from the Murphys’ field and dusted with confectioners’ sugar. As per tradition, she’s put a single striped candle in the middle crepe on my plate. When she lights it with a match, the three of them sing “Happy Birthday” badly. Only Mom can manage to stay on key.