True North

Chapter 65

"Gawd, it's like an episode of 'Hoarders' up here!" Stormy grumbled under her breath as she heaved another box onto the current pile she was erecting against the back wall. She paused, retying her knot of hair as she surveyed the work yet to be done. Judging by the labels on the boxes—Christmas decorations, dishes, quilting fabric, etc.—most of these things had belonged to her grandmother, and Stormy found it sad that an entire lifetime had been taped up, shuttered away, and forgotten. Making a mental note to rectify that situation in the near future, she blew out a long rush of air and forced herself back to work, hoping to have the majority of the clutter contained before her father and Brian returned with the shingles.

Another thirty minutes brought additional progress as the sawdust was swept up and more cartons were stacked along the perimeter of the room, grouped according to their labels in a loose—yet much improved—system of organization. All that was left now was to haul in the multitude of boxes that were stacked on the stairs.

Stormy stepped out onto the landing and groaned as she sized up the task ahead. Had there been this many boxes here when she'd come up the stairs? Figuring it would be easier to start at the top, she stooped down and muckled onto the nearest carton, a large, unwieldy thing that was more awkward than it was heavy. She wrestled with it for a few seconds but managed to get it under control, bracing the box against the front of her body. Her arms were stretched to their full length on either side, and the bottom edge of the box dug into her pelvis, but it wasn't as if she had far to go, right? Once she was sure she had a good hold, Stormy gave the box a final hitch and started to turn, just as the bottom gave way. A torrent of papers rushed out, spilling like a river onto her feet and down over the stairs. Stormy pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, holding back the vulgar eruption that threatened to spew from her lips. She took a deep breath and let it out, opening her eyes just as the last unsettled papers fluttered to rest on the concrete floor below. With a roll of her eyes, Stormy tossed the useless box over the railing and sank to her knees, grumbling to herself as she heedlessly gathered up the mess. She sat slapping the papers into a pile on the floor beside her, not much concerned with neatness or organization, when something caught her eye. She took a closer look, and recognized a painting she had done at school in... second grade? She rifled through the pile she had made, and found more of her childhood handiwork—drawings, handwriting sheets, spelling tests, report cards, and more, spanning what appeared to be her entire educational career. Crawling gingerly over the mess, Stormy studied each item carefully, mementos of a long-forgotten era of her life. She inched down the stairs on her bottom, gathering things as she went. On the third step down, she found a slim book bound in navy blue leather. Setting the papers aside, she laid the book on her lap and opened to the first page of her high school yearbook.

Stormy flipped through the pages, smiling and sometimes laughing out loud as she relived the memories of that time. She pored over the section of senior class pictures, cringing at the sight of her own overly-teased hair and heavy black eyeliner. She lingered over the faces of her classmates and read the words they had inscribed beside their pictures: Inside jokes and trite wishes and empty promises to stay in touch. Stormy traced her finger over the empty space surrounding Brian's picture, wondering if he had purposely chosen not to sign her book, or if she had simply neglected to ask. Had she bothered to sign his? Stormy closed the book and brushed her palm over the cover.

God, we were all so...young! she thought as she set the book aside.

She took more care as she gathered up the papers and books—her papers and books—and set them off to the side for a more detailed inspection later. She was stunned that her father had saved these mementos from her childhood, and she turned her gaze to the remaining boxes, curious as to what else he had held on to.