Page 29 of Knowing Amelia

I return to the dining room, my eyes grazing anxiously over the floorboards. Logan simply pulled the carpet up while I had attempted to butcher the poor thing.

With the shrill ring of an old phone, I start, my breath coming quicker. That isn’t my phone… nope, mine is in a trash bin. Amelia must have a landline.

I follow the ring into the kitchen. Somehow, I missed the old green rotary sitting on the counter until this minute.

My hand hovers over the receiver, contemplating who might be on the other end. “Hello?”

“Livy? What’s wrong with your cell?”

“Ben?” Of course. “Hi, Benjamin.”

“Hi? That’s it. I’ve been worried.” I can’t imagine him fretting too much when he has Benson and Clyde at his fingertips.

“I’m sorry.” I puff out my cheeks. “My phone… must be dead.” Which is half true. It probably is dead by now.

“I understand you’re staying. So, I will come get you this weekend, when my schedule allows it. Saturday, maybe Sunday.”

“I can find my own way⁠—”

Ben huffs. “You’re falling behind at work, you know.”

“I know. I just need—” I pause. I haven’t told anyone about Amelia’s secret box. I’m not about to start now. “You don’t need to leave work to come get me. I’ll take the bus.”

“Honey,” he says, his tone suddenly sugary. “I’d love to come get you. Besides, I need to see your little place there.”

“Really?” He wants to visit Amelia’s house? Maybe he is worried. I never give him enough credit.

“Yes, really.”

I lean over the counter, eyeing Amelia’s hardwoods, while twirling my fingers through the green phone cord. “I’d like that.” With a promise from Ben to talk later, we hang up. It’s already Thursday night. I’m hoping for time with Amelia’s secret box before Benjamin arrives. So, I better get busy.

Back in the dining area, I stand over the dirty, dusty, uncovered floorboards. How should I go about this? I can’t rely on Logan this time. With my phone in the trash, I don’t even have Google to help me.

On my knees, I push down on the ends of each floorboard revealed, hoping one might pop up out of place on its own. No luck.

I pause before going for the butcher knife again, but I need a lever—something I can wedge into the small crack between the floorboards and attempt to pry up.

Starting against the far wall, I poke my trusty knife into every crack I can, prying at each board. It takes a lot of poking, a lot of prying—but finally one wiggles. Yes! The board will move and Amelia’s secrets will be waiting for me. They have to be. My heart won’t be able to take it if there’s nothing there.

I force the knife farther into the wiggly board and push, then pry. As certain as I’d been that it would come up, I fall over backward in surprise when it does.

Heart thumping, hands shaking, I pull at the adjoining board. And then another. They slide out easily. My breath echoes in my ears. The air beneath the floor is cold and dark, even with the dining room light on. I’m blind to what’s inside. And I don’t have the patience to search for a flashlight. With my fingers trembling, I reach into the black hole. The air inside the ground sends a chill over my entire body. But I keep going. I pat the ground, searching with my fingers. My hand creeps in a circular motion over dirt, dust, and pebbles, stopping when, all at once, it hits something solid and hard. Holding my breath, my fingers shift over the rectangular object. Lying on my side and gasping, I slide my other hand into the hole and draw out what I’ve found.

A brown wooden box.

“Amelia,” I whisper. “I’ve found you.”

I honestly can’t remember if this is the box I saw all those years ago. But how can it not be? I brush sand and filth from the top. Then, leaving the dining room in disarray, box in hand, I head back up to my room. I change into sweats, keeping one eye on the box atop my bed as if it might disappear on me.

What if my eleven-year-old memory made something out of nothing? What if I open the box and it explains nothing? Or worse, it’s empty?

I have a million hopes and expectations, and they all depend on that box.

Sitting crosslegged on top of my bed, next to the box, I peer down at it. My hands tremble as I lift the lid. Hinges at the back edge keep the lid upright and in place, while dark crimson velvet lines the inside. The first thing I see, of course, is the book. The tattered leather bulges with its aged and worn pages. I pull it out gently, as if it might fall apart in my hands. My mouth goes dry as I set it aside and go in for more.

A small stack of photos sits where the book had just been. I pick up all three and study the first, a black-and-white photo of a small group of people around my age. It must have been taken fifty or sixty years ago. There’s a sharp crease in the photograph where it’s been purposely bent, separating the group. I flip to the second picture, a man alone, broad and fair, in casual clothes. I don’t know his face, but then it’s unlikely we’ve met. The style of clothing, the old car in the background—this photo must have been taken at least fifty years ago, maybe more. The last photo is just as aged, but this one has the same man from before and a pretty, young woman at his side. The strangers have big smiles on their faces. I set the photos next to the journal and pick up a thin gold band from inside the box. I twirl it between my fingers. It isn’t anything special or expensive, but my grandmother kept it safe in this box. Last, a letter, still in its unsealed envelope, with Amelia’s name scripted on the front. I leave the note inside, unsure how I feel about reading it yet.

Filing through the pictures once more, I set them back inside, then lift the book, eager. I open the cover and read her name. Amelia Wall. Her maiden name. I bite my thumbnail under a grin—a journal. This is Amelia’s journal.