Fireweed

Saturday, May 25

Renée

The front door banged. Mom’s voice floated up the stairs and through my open bedroom door.

“Renée, come see what I found at Bruins’ yard sale.”

I frowned and pushed away from my computer. Eleven o’clock. Already, I’d wasted four hours of this sunny spring morning doing homework. This better be good, I thought.

I leaned over the stairs. Mom stood in the hall below me, only her face visible above the three grimy cardboard boxes she was holding. Tiny wisps of hair had escaped her dark blonde ponytail and curled around her smiling face. Her figure trim and petite, she looked like a child delighted with her first Christmas gift.

“Look, Renée – three cases of jars for our chocolate sauce. Can you believe it? Three cases, and they’re brand new. Cindy Bruin gave them to me for a dollar – just a dollar for the whole lot. We’ve enough for gifts for everyone.”

At fifteen, I was interested in clothes, boys and, at this particular moment, my school history project. Jars were not exciting.

Mom shifted the boxes from one hip to the other. “We won’t need them till December. Please carry them up to the attic for me. Your legs are younger and longer than mine.”

You brought those dirty things home. Do it yourself, I thought. I’ve been up since seven this morning working on this impossible project. Who cares about your old jars anyway?

Before the ugly words came spilling out, a familiar voice in my head spoke up. “You don’t have to spoil her happiness. Besides, you love the chocolate sauce, too.” I was glad my long hair falling across my face hid my expression. I grit my teeth and forced a smile.

“Sure Mom, three dozen jars. Yum, I can smell the sauce already.” I ran down the stairs, took the boxes, turned, and headed back up again.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea,” Mom said to my retreating back.

Right, I thought. That’ll take another half hour. Will I ever get this project finished? I wish I had brothers and sisters. At least, then, Mom wouldn’t depend on me so much.

On the second floor, I juggled the boxes to free a few fingers to open the door to the attic steps. My mind slipped back to when I was eight. The attic was a strange and mysterious place then. I remembered carefully placing my feet on those steep narrow stairs, as close to the wall as possible, hoping to avoid all the creaks. I believed that fairies and friendly dragons lived among the boxes and dust in the attic. I wanted to surprise them. Always one of the steps creaked, and I found the attic deserted.

Downstairs, the telephone rang, jolting me back to the present. Gripping the boxes firmly, I marched up the steps and pulled on the attic door. It was stuck. I set the boxes down on the landing and yanked hard. It opened with a jolt. Hot, musty air poured out over me.

“Yuck!” I kicked the boxes through the doorway and slammed the door closed.

When I entered the kitchen, Mom was singing along with the radio. She filled a plate with my favorite cookies, peanut butter kisses, and poured the water onto the tea.

“Mom, I’d love to sit and chat with you, but I just can’t. My history project is due on Monday.”

Mom smiled and reached into the cupboard. “Okay, Hon. Put your tea and cookies on a tray and take them up to your room.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Upstairs again, I paused to look out my bedroom window. Mom’s tulips, planted in bunches along the back drive, nodded their colourful heads in the breeze. The leaves on our big catalpa tree were beginning to unfurl. The creek, rushing past our property on its way through town, seemed to be calling to me and my canoe. Tomorrow, I’ll make time for a canoe ride to the covered bridge before Susie’s pool party. I love living in Catalpa Creek in our century old house, I thought. With my swimming, yoga, friends and school, my life is good.

I set the tray by the computer and settled back into the desk chair. Sipping tea and munching cookies, I reread the first few paragraphs of my project.

“I’ll finish this today even if I’m up all night,” I said out loud through a mouthful of cookie.

At 10:30 that evening, I clicked, “save.”

“Done,” I shouted into my music filled room, stood up and headed for the door. As I passed my dresser mirror, I winced. Looking at me was a tired, disheveled girl, limp black hair askew, shapeless wrinkled sweatshirt billowing out over long spidery legs, encased in skin-tight jeans. A praying mantis – that’s what I am, I thought. Who cares… the project’s finished, and I’m hungry.

“Mom, Mom!” I called as I bounced down the stairs.

Dad’s muffled voice came from his study, “…visiting John and Theresa Kilby… ” Dad appeared in the study doorway, just as I reached the bottom step. His long, lean frame dressed in jeans and a red plaid shirt, rather than his usual suit and tie, made him look more like a lumberjack than an accountant. “It’s nearly 11:00. Your mom should be home any minute… Think I’ll try her cell phone.” He turned back to his desk.

I shrugged and headed for the kitchen. Our doorbell rang while I was chug-a-lugging a glass of milk. Mom must have forgotten her key, I thought. No one would visit at this hour.

“I’ll get it,” I yelled and ran for the door.

I checked the peep hole and frowned. That’s not Mom standing there looking goofy because she forgot her key. It’s Rev. Linda and… a police officer. I pulled the door open wide.

The police officer spoke, his tone flat, professional, “I’m Constable Filmore of Catalpa Creek Regional Police. Is your father home?”

I nodded.

“May we come in?” Rev. Linda asked.

I nodded again and stepped back from the doorway. Rev. Linda looks . . . wilted. Her eyes are sad. She’s here with a police officer. What’s wrong?

“Dad…Dad!” I called. My heart began to thump; my palms to sweat. I clenched my hands to gain control.

Dad materialized beside me. “What’s…”

Constable Filmore took a step forward. “Mr. Grenville?”

Dad nodded.

“Filmore, Catalpa Creek Regional Police. Is Serena Louise Rushton your wife?”

“Yes,” Dad answered. I could see by his face that he was worried, too.

“Five foot two, dark blonde hair?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wife’s been in a serious accident. I’m sorry, Sir. She died instantly. She didn't have a chance.”

“No! No!” I screamed. “It's not true!” I grabbed Dad’s arm. “Tell them. Tell them they’re wrong. Not Mom, please God, not Mom!” Dad wrapped his arms around me as the blackness descended.