remember no more than she had before, but for the first time in her life she was fixated on those missing years from her childhood. It felt as if her present self was crumbling and she would discover why only if she could find out what she had forgotten.
It took her some time, but she finally spotted the box she was looking for hidden under a pile of suitcases, wedged in the eaves. The suitcases were filled with sheets and old clothes and were heavy when she shifted them, but she managed to restack them and free the box beneath. Despite the weight that had been stacked above it, the cardboard box had kept its shape because it was packed tight.
She carried it to a space underneath the bare lightbulb thathung from the eaves, then sat down on a crate of bedding as she lifted the lid. The box was filled with yellowing newspaper articles, some of which had been carefully cut out, while others had been roughly torn. The box smelled of old books: intimate as skin. She riffled through the papers quickly and saw that there were also several sheets of typed paper and envelopes stuffed with photographs.
She had to work out some way to get the box to the car without anyone seeing what she was taking. She didnât want to discuss it with Ben or her father. It was a box that her mother had always kept private, but Margaret had known that it was somehow related to her.
She touched the rough, yellowed pages at the top of the box. Memories: clean, unearthed as a bone from the ground, came to her, but they did not make any sense on their own.
Margaret picked up the newspaper clipping that sat on top of the pile and read the headline: YOUNG GIRL ABDUCTED BY SUSPECTED PEDOPHILE .
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
The suitcase tower she had created on the far side of the loft toppled and fell suddenly, making her gasp.
âAre you all right up there?â her father called from below.
CHAPTER 8
Kathleen Henderson
Wednesday, October 2, 1985
K ATHLEEN HUMMED A SONG AS SHE STOOD BEFORE THE hall mirror and pinned up her hair. She put on some pale pink lipstick, then went into the kitchen and leaned over the counter to write her list. She had messages to get eggs, cheese and bananas, steak for dinner; the beds needed changing, and she was meeting a friend for lunch.
She skipped up two flights of stairs and stripped the beds, then carried the sheets downstairs and put in a wash. She moved quickly: not rushed but with energy. The radio was on and she sang along in places as she washed the breakfast dishes.
The day was changeable, at once sunny and brightâwarm shafts of sunshine catching the soap bubbles in the sinkâbut then the light would vanish and Kathleen would feel a chill and look up to watch the wind shaking the leaves of the oak tree, as if to remind her that it was autumn after all.
She dried the dishes and put them away, opening cupboards that were covered in Mollâs artwork: macaroni collages, self-portraits, still lifes, and family paintings. Kathleenâs favoritewas a large colorful picture that was Blu-tacked to the fridge. It was a painting of a house with a smoking chimney and green hills in the background and in the foreground were John and Kathleen, with Moll in the middle, holding hands. They all had circle faces and rectangle bodies and stick arms and hands, and Moll was the largest figure. Her mother was smaller than she was, and John smaller still, which Kathleen found interesting, as he was such a tall, thin man. Below the picture, Moll had painted the words my family , choosing a different color of paint for each letter.
Moll had always been bright. Kathleen had been criticized by the school for it, but she had taught her daughter to read and write before she started primary. Her teachers had worried that she would be bored and cause trouble, but Moll had never needed attention like that. Even at home, she was content to play by herself. She liked to take Johnâs thick
It took her some time, but she finally spotted the box she was looking for hidden under a pile of suitcases, wedged in the eaves. The suitcases were filled with sheets and old clothes and were heavy when she shifted them, but she managed to restack them and free the box beneath. Despite the weight that had been stacked above it, the cardboard box had kept its shape because it was packed tight.
She carried it to a space underneath the bare lightbulb thathung from the eaves, then sat down on a crate of bedding as she lifted the lid. The box was filled with yellowing newspaper articles, some of which had been carefully cut out, while others had been roughly torn. The box smelled of old books: intimate as skin. She riffled through the papers quickly and saw that there were also several sheets of typed paper and envelopes stuffed with photographs.
She had to work out some way to get the box to the car without anyone seeing what she was taking. She didnât want to discuss it with Ben or her father. It was a box that her mother had always kept private, but Margaret had known that it was somehow related to her.
She touched the rough, yellowed pages at the top of the box. Memories: clean, unearthed as a bone from the ground, came to her, but they did not make any sense on their own.
Margaret picked up the newspaper clipping that sat on top of the pile and read the headline: YOUNG GIRL ABDUCTED BY SUSPECTED PEDOPHILE .
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
The suitcase tower she had created on the far side of the loft toppled and fell suddenly, making her gasp.
âAre you all right up there?â her father called from below.
CHAPTER 8
Kathleen Henderson
Wednesday, October 2, 1985
K ATHLEEN HUMMED A SONG AS SHE STOOD BEFORE THE hall mirror and pinned up her hair. She put on some pale pink lipstick, then went into the kitchen and leaned over the counter to write her list. She had messages to get eggs, cheese and bananas, steak for dinner; the beds needed changing, and she was meeting a friend for lunch.
She skipped up two flights of stairs and stripped the beds, then carried the sheets downstairs and put in a wash. She moved quickly: not rushed but with energy. The radio was on and she sang along in places as she washed the breakfast dishes.
The day was changeable, at once sunny and brightâwarm shafts of sunshine catching the soap bubbles in the sinkâbut then the light would vanish and Kathleen would feel a chill and look up to watch the wind shaking the leaves of the oak tree, as if to remind her that it was autumn after all.
She dried the dishes and put them away, opening cupboards that were covered in Mollâs artwork: macaroni collages, self-portraits, still lifes, and family paintings. Kathleenâs favoritewas a large colorful picture that was Blu-tacked to the fridge. It was a painting of a house with a smoking chimney and green hills in the background and in the foreground were John and Kathleen, with Moll in the middle, holding hands. They all had circle faces and rectangle bodies and stick arms and hands, and Moll was the largest figure. Her mother was smaller than she was, and John smaller still, which Kathleen found interesting, as he was such a tall, thin man. Below the picture, Moll had painted the words my family , choosing a different color of paint for each letter.
Moll had always been bright. Kathleen had been criticized by the school for it, but she had taught her daughter to read and write before she started primary. Her teachers had worried that she would be bored and cause trouble, but Moll had never needed attention like that. Even at home, she was content to play by herself. She liked to take Johnâs thick
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