I packed my remaining clothing in my big red suitcase and snapped the clasps shut. This was going to be my last night as a resident of the big white-and-blue house on Sycamore Street.
Tomorrow Mom and Dad and Chris and I would pile into the car and drive to my new apartment in Manhattan. My new job started on Monday.
I started to go through my drawers and closet, to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything important. Beatrice, our beautiful tortoiseshell cat, enticed by the noise, peeked her head in my door and, finding interesting happenings, proceeded to jump on my bed and rub the side of her head against my suitcase.
"Beatrice," I said, standing up straight and stretching my back, "everything in the house is already yours. WHY do you feel the need to mark my suitcase?" She looked at me with big, round, innocent eyes. Because it's mine and I say so, I could imagine her saying.
I turned back to my work. Old sweatpants...ick. Copies of 3-2-1 Contact and ancient Seventeen magazines were interspersed with Natural History Magazine and Reader's Digest. Mom might recycle all of these. The 3-2-1 Contacts alone were already far outdated. I smiled at a picture of Richard Dean Anderson on the cover of one choice issue. Jeez.
In the back of my closet I happened upon the box. I had almost succeeded in forgetting it existed...
I pulled the box out and sat on the floor with it, my back against my bed. Did I really want to look in it? I hadn't in years. I couldn't take it with me, but I knew Mom would keep it safe. Oh, what the hell.
I opened the box. A musty smell arose from it, that of old cardboard and dust.
This box held most of the possessions I had carried with me the day I arrived at this house, fifteen years ago. Several striped shirts, shorts, tiny pairs of jeans. A few children's books. A small, empty box that for many years had held a silver pentagram on a chain, before I had moved it to my jewelry box.
And buried at the bottom was a spiral-bound, pink book with the words "My Diary" printed across the front. I had buried it under all these clothes so long ago.
I opened it to the first page. My large childish printing, unevenly scrawled along the double-dotted lines, was not so far a cry from my writing now...
September 7,1979
Dear Diary,Mommy got me this diary for my first day of first grade. I had Captain Crunch for breakfast and then I went to school. My teacher is Mrs. Clyde. She is nice. We read The Cat in the Hat. Then Mommy and I came home and had dinner with Aunt Julia. Now I am writing in my diary. I have to go to bed at 8:30.
There were several other entries along these lines, then a gap of a few weeks.
December 12, 1979
Dear Diary,
I woke up at 7:00 and had breakfast and watched cartoons with Kayla. We played with blocks. Aunt Julia took us to the movies. We had fun. Mommy made macaroni and cheese for dinner. She didn't make a plate for Kayla. Kayla said that Mom couldn't see her, only I could. So I didn't get mad. I heard Mommy say Kayla is pretend.
Kayla, I thought. Oh, yes. I'd had a host of imaginary friends. I'd probably named her after a girl in a book or something. What did she look like again? Red haired and freckled--I'd always wanted red hair and freckles--and fun or quiet as needed. My mother didn't approve of such things, I remembered. She thought it meant I wasn't happy. Julia didn't mind, though, and would often humor me by including my imaginary playmate in our outings.
As if an echo had sounded, my mother's voice whispered across the years...
"Julia, you shouldn't encourage her like that," chided the brown-haired, blue eyed woman gently.
"There are some things," said Aunt Julia mysteriously, "that children can see but we can't. I'm not about to discount Dagny's 'imaginary friend' in favor of grown-up reality."
"More things in heaven and earth, huh?" Her soft eyes turned on me, I could tell, although I was playing with blocks.
"I suppose it's just a phase. Well, she should be child for as long as she can, I guess. God knows being an adult is no picnic."
I sighed, recalling those words. Even long before I'd found playing with real children interesting, grief over my mother's death and put an end to my childish imagination. So much for my mother's wishes.
December 21, 1979
Dear Diary,Today is my birthday! I am six years old. It's Kayla's birthday too. I drew her a picture. I drew a picture of her. I showed it to Mommy and Aunt Julia. They said it was pretty. Mommy gave me a teddy bear. Her name is Penelope.
I stopped reading then, and looked up at my pillow. A tattered, cream-colored teddy bear with a pot belly and a blue ribbon around its neck sat there, smiling her yarn smile. I still slept with Penelope every night--or at least the nights Beatrice wasn't able to hoist the bear out of the bed and take her place.
Mommy helped me spell her name. Aunt Julia gave me a book called Charlotte's Web. It was a nice day. I am glad to be six.
I paged through the remainder of winter of that year. School plays, spelling bees, and then...
March 23, 1980
Dear Diary,Mommy died yesterday. She was in a car accident. Aunt Julia is taking care of me. I didn't play with Kayla today because I am so sad. Kayla said it was OK. I miss Mommy. Aunt Julia says that she's an angel now.
I wished I could remember writing that entry. I did, however, remember Aunt Julia encouraging me to write in my diary. She said it would make me feel better.
March 26, 1980
Dear Diary,I went to Mommy's funeral today. I cried a lot. So did Aunt Julia. I miss Mommy, even if she is an angel. Aunt Julia says Mommy will watch over me to make sure I am OK. I wish Mommy could come back.
April 3, 1980
Dear Diary,I don't like Kayla anymore. She keeps wanting to play. I am too sad to play with Kayla. I told her to go away so she did. Aunt Julia told me that a lady from the city was going to take me to live with another family because the city said she couldn't keep me. She said that she fought with the lady but they still said no. Aunt Julia says she is worried about me. I don't want to eat or play anymore. I am sad and mad that Mommy is gone. I don't know why I am mad. I just feel that way. Penelope is sad too.
Another gap, and then--
April 10, 1980
Dear Diary,Aunt Julia says the lady is coming tomorrow to take me away from her. We had to pack all of my clothes and my books. I wish Mommy hadn't died. I want to stay with Aunt Julia and I want Mommy here so we can be together. I love my Mommy and I miss her. I know she is in heaven with the angels, but I wish she were still here on Earth.
There the diary ended. There were many, many blank pages. I had given it up once I entered foster care, and once I came to live with the Thorsonnes they had insisted--and probably rightly so--on a fresh start for me. Cathryn and Matthew had gotten me new clothes, new books, and a new diary. I had written in that diary about the second grade before it finally trailed off into nonexistence. Cathryn had that one stored away somewhere along with Jenna's diaries.
I touched the pink-and-white shirt I had worn, and lifted up the other clothes so I could replace the diary. No, I didn't want to take this box with me.
Mom poked her head in the door. Seeing me with the box, she said gently, "Dagny? You all right, honey?"
"Yeah, Mom, I'm okay."
Apparently that didn't convince her, because she came over and sat on the floor next to me.
"Your first-grade diary is in there, you know."
"I know."
I guess she sensed I didn't want to talk about it, because she stood up and lifted Beatrice off the bed (who had been quietly napping during my reverie).
"Come here, naughty girl. You know beds aren't for cats."
Beatrice blinked and stretched in Mom's arms.
"You should get some sleep now, Dagny. Early start tomorrow."
"Okay."
"Night."
I put the box back in the closet and finished my last search of my room. Everything was accounted for. I was ready for whatever lay ahead in New York and the rest of the world.
I hoped...