Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later
The stairs to the basement corridor were narrow and steep, built for children going to Sunday school seventy years ago. The basement stairs always had a draft that smelled of wet coal and the winter potatoes they stored in the back pantry. The steps were worn down in the center, hollowed out by decades of heavy boots. I found Lucille standing near the iron water fountain at the bottom, her hands tucked into the folds of her lavender dress. She was twenty, her face still carrying the sharp look she used when she was five and someone took her favorite toy.
“You’re late,” Lucille said, looking at the floor.
“The clock says fifteen minutes to four,” I said.
“The bridesmaids are already lined up upstairs,” she said, crossing her arms. “Piper is checking her watch every thirty seconds, and Shannon looks like she might throw up in the flower basket.”
“She won’t throw up,” I said. “Where is the box?”
Lucille pointed to the green bench by the boiler room door. The white cardboard box sat there, its edges worn grey from years of being pushed behind winter blankets in the closet. The black marker on the side that said tax papers had faded to a dull purple.
“I want you to take it,” I said.
“To the reception?” Lucille asked, looking up at me.
“Yes,” I said. “Take it to the Oakwood Inn right now, before the ceremony starts. Put it on the gift table, right next to the glass bowl for the cards.”
Lucille didn’t reach for the box immediately. She touched the silver necklace she wore, her fingers hooking into the thin chain.
“What if Maya sees it before the toast?” she asked.
“That’s the risk,” I said.
“She told Harry we were the ones who refused the money,” Lucille said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She told him you were rich and didn’t want her help.”
“I know what she told him,” I said.
“If she tries to take the box down, I’ll stop her,” Lucille said. “I don’t care who is watching.”
