Page 11 of Knowing Amelia

“Livy?” Dad waves a hand in front of my eyes. “What’s with you?”

“Sorry.” I wobble my head and blink back into the present day.

He trudges his way outside, pausing only a second to toss Amelia’s shoebox into the nearby garbage can.

“Dad!” I dive in to the black can for the box, saving it and a banana peel from the trash. This isn’t the real him—this cold, uncaring person he turns into with any mention of his family. He never acts like this with us kids. If anything, he cares too much.

“Olivia, do you know what’s in that box?”

“No.” I fling the banana peel back into the trash and hug Amelia’s shoe box to my chest. “But it was hers. We came here to collect her things, not toss her things. Ms. Lemonade could have done that.”

“She could have, but she wouldn’t have. I’ll tell you what’s in there: an RHS mug and some #2 pencils.” Huffing, he flings open the driver’s door of our rental. “What is this sudden fixation you have with your grandmother?”

“I’m not fixating.” I glare at him, my heart pounding. “I just think someone should care about her things. And her life.”

He stares at me as if I’ve spoken a foreign language. After two minutes of silence, he climbs into our rental car and I follow. His face wrinkles in annoyance while I still cling to Amelia’s box of nothing.

Six

The streets of downtown Cody are lined with interesting shops—places so different than my modern California home. The beauty of the aged brick and old-fashioned architecture of each building has me staring.

We pull into a parking space in front of a large building. I crane my neck to take in the place. Faded brown brick, double doors, and an old sign that reads: Irma Hotel.

“Hotel?” I say, peeking up at the white picket fence running along the rooftop.

“The grill is around the corner.” Dad points to the right.

My stomach roars with glee. “And her attorney will be here?”

“We’ve got about fifteen minutes before he shows up.” Giving me a once-over, Dad scratches his head. “Maybe you should change.”

Already reaching for my bag in the back seat, I fly from the car.

“This way.” Dad waves me on, and I follow after him as he pushes through the door of the restaurant.

“Irma,” I say, trying the name out loud.

“Irma Louise, Buffalo Bill’s daughter.” Dad stops in front of an old-fashioned cash register and a wait to be seated sign.

“Huh.” That doesn’t seem like the kind of random trivia Dad would know. Why does he know anything about Buffalo Bill?

I don’t have time to ask though. I’m down to thirteen minutes. Seeing large letters at the back of the room that read restroom, I take off, hurrying past the wooden bar and vintage cash register with digits like old typewriter keys to the women’s bathroom. Thankful for its vacancy, I lock the door behind me and unzip my backpack, my options minimal.

What does one wear when meeting their deceased, estranged, country grandmother’s lawyer?

Deciding on jeans and my turquoise blouse with the ruffles down the front, I strip down in the single stall bathroom. I tug the rubber band from my hair and run a brush through my red-blonde tangles. But the ponytail bump will not relent. I brush and swoop my hair until it’s up once more, only this time a much cleaner-looking updo.

Teeth brushed, fresh deodorant on, and clothes changed, I emerge from the bathroom a new woman.

I peer around the large room with a tiled ceiling, carpeted floors, and tables with red-covered seats to find Dad seated with two other men.

“Liv,” Dad says, waving to me.

I hurry over, examining the pair Dad sits with. The heavy, balding man to Dad’s left may not look a whole lot like my father, except for their noses—exact replica—but I recognize my uncle Earl from photos and the last time we met, when I was just a child. The stranger next to him fumbles with the collar of his western shirt. He runs his fingers through his wild salt and pepper hair. Amelia’s lawyer.

With a curt wave, Dad motions for me to sit. “Mr. Marx, this is my daughter, Olivia Benson.”

“I see.” Mr. Marx pushes his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Glad you could make it, Miss Benson.”