Watching Her Eyes

Prologue

Present Day

It was time.

Molly Evans-Henry hadn't confronted the attic since her mother had passed less than a year ago, but she could avoid it no longer. It wasn't that she was afraid of what was up there; she was nearly fifty years-old and was not scared of the dark anymore. Rather, she was scared of what emotions would be reawakened in her as she hauled out her mother's battered wooden hope chest. Auntie Freda had called earlier in the week asking after her mother's old photo album from their Liverpool days. Might she have kept it? Molly was certain that she had, for any memory that was deemed important to her mother was stored in her trunk for safekeeping. 

Molly had put off going up to the attic for five days and even now, as she wound the attic door's string taut around her fingers, considered going back downstairs. She had finally reached a tentative truce with her grief, hadn't cried in months; yet she was sure that what she would find in the attic today would disturb that peace. It would be easy to call Auntie Freda back and say that the album had been lost. The Evans family had moved around quite often while Molly was growing up, so it wasn't improbable that it could have gone missing. But she knew that Freda knew better.

And as Freda was her mother's closest friend that had stuck with the family for decades, Molly felt obligated to comply despite the deep heartache she knew was waiting for her. Closing her eyes, she pulled the door down to reveal the wooden ladder that led to the attic. She climbed despite her roiling stomach.

It was hot and dark up there. The dust clung to Molly's hands like springtime pollen as she fumbled for the light switch along the wall. The lone bulb affixed to the ceiling flickered for a moment before steadying itself, casting just enough light for Molly to find what she was looking for.

The old hope chest sat against the very back wall of the attic, near the water heater. Molly remembered the trunk well even though she'd never actually been inside it. She had seen it only during their family moves as it was swiftly taken up to its new home by either her father or another moving company. When asked about its contents, her mother always said it held her special belongings and gently instructed Molly to leave it be. 

For this reason, the trunk was the cornerstone of Molly's childhood curiosity. When money was tight in her early years, she could remember concocting elaborate fantasies that it was some kind of treasure chest whose contents would magically pay for her schoolbooks and new shoes. And when she was a teenager, she speculated that the trunk contained the information about her father that her mother withheld. Either way, Molly was always desperate to get inside that trunk, but she never imagined her lifelong desire would be met in this way. Now Molly hoped that the photo album was on the top of the pile so she could leave immediately.

She sat in front of the trunk and sighed heavily, the weight of what she was about to do suddenly palpable. In the months since her mother's passing, all Molly wanted to do was chat with her one last time. She longed for their weekly visits, where Molly would always be handed a a treat and a cup of tea upon arrival. She wanted to say 'I love you' and hear her mother say 'I love you most'. Hauling out her mother's memories would be like resurrecting her, and Molly wasn't sure she'd be able to pack her mother up again. Her whole body had begun to ache.

 Her tired eyes fell on the chest, and she felt as though she were really seeing it for the first time. The wood was scarred from decades of use, its light blue paint chipped in places. She ran her hand across its flat top, removing the layer of dust as she went, and uncovered her mother's name written in swirly white paint: Alice Duncan. Feeling the massive lump in her throat, Molly focused on wiping her dirty hand on the hem of her flannel shirt to distract herself from crying.