Page 62 of Unbound

But for the first time ever, I don’t feel bad about it. Don’t feel like I’m pretending my mother never existed. Don’t feel like she’d think I loved her less because I can’t put her at the front of my brain.

Because Sybil can. And she understands why I’m not able to be there and doesn’t judge me for it. She gets why it’s so hard for me to remember her, even if she doesn’t have the same struggle.

So, instead of sitting here freaking out the way I thought I’d be doing, I get to work. Do what I can do.

I grab my work gloves from the back of my side-by-side and start pulling the weeds that have sprung up in the flower beds surrounding the stone monument. I catalog any repairs that need to be done and make note of spots on the shelter that need sanded and stained. I sweep out the debris that blew in over the winter and consider ways I might be able to add to the place.

Running electric all the way out here would be a pain in the ass, but mounting solar panels on the roof is a possibility. Hook them to a battery system that holds enough power to run a few lights. Maybe a speaker or two.

And there’s plenty of room to add a fireplace at one end of the shelter. Make it a little easier to visit in cold weather.

By the time I’m finally driving back home, I feel good. Not about the past—never that. But maybe about the future. About what’s to come.

About finally finding a little peace for myself and maybe even living a life that’s not entirely focused on all I’ve lost.

20

Sybil

Idon’t know if I can do this. It feels wrong. Invasive. Like I’m touching artifacts. Relics of a sacred moment in time. But if I don’t do it, Walker has to, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen after he struggled just being down here.

Taking a deep breath, I open the first box, cringing as the aging cardboard cracks and splits. “Sorry.”

I don’t know who I’m apologizing to. Walker, the box, or his mother. Possibly all three.

Not that any of them hear it.

I lean forward to peer inside. It’s filled with dishes, each piece perfectly wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. Reaching down, I gently give one of the air-filled cushions a poke with my finger. The plastic is surprisingly firm and still serving its purpose.

“Huh.” I pull out my phone and Google how long bubble wrap lasts. Then I lean in to count how many layers encase each piece.

Seems like whoever packed this up knew what they were doing.

Since I don’t expect dishes to offer me much in the way of clues, I carefully close the box and move on to the next one. This one is filled with small appliances. They’re not bubble wrapped, but they are arranged between layers of cardboard and brown paper, keeping everything organized and stable.

This area appears to be mostly kitchen stuff, so I move to the other side of the pile, selecting the first box in line and opening it up. Thanks to more careful packaging, I can’t tell what I’m looking at, so I choose the paper-wrapped item on top, carefully unwrapping it to reveal what’s inside.

And when I see what it is, my heart aches.

It’s a photograph in a pretty frame. Two women smile at the camera, each of them holding a chubby little boy in their arms. One—most likely Titus, considering the boys’ ages—is a little smaller, with dark hair and a gummy smile. The other has almost white hair and the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on a kid.

I sort of assumed Walker’s temperament was a result of loss and grief. But maybe the scowly, grumpy, stern man was born that way.

The possibility makes me smile, because I can totally imagine him as a teenager, shooting everyone glares and getting annoyed with his cousins when they acted like dumbasses.

I set the picture of Deidre and Walker’s mom holding their sons to one side, unable to bring myself to pack it back up when it’s so freaking adorable. The next item is another picture, this one of a couple on their wedding day. I can tell it’s not recent by the quality of the image and the style of their clothing. I’m guessing it’s probably Walker’s grandparents.

I continue through the box, finding a few photographs of little Bradshaw brothers and tons of Walker. Baby pictures. Toddler snapshots. School photographs. He’s making his normal face in every single one of them, and I freaking love it. Knowing this is how he’s always been makes me feel a little lighter as I move to the next box.

And that’s when the bottom drops out.

From the second I lift the flaps, I know this one is going to be a struggle. A deep, floral scent drifts up from the contents, making it easy to guess who they belonged to.

Swallowing hard, I rescue the first item from its hiding place. This one isn’t wrapped. It really doesn’t need to be. The hard plastic sides aren’t delicate or overly breakable, even though they do show signs of wear and tear.

There’s no reason for me to open the makeup box, but I do it anyway, driven by curiosity and the need to understand a woman I will never meet. The compacts inside are all well-used, making it obvious Walker’s mom wore makeup way more than I do.

And she liked her shit sparkly.