in.
“Maggie?” I call out from the foyer. I walk through the house, checking the kitchen and the living room for signs of her, but there’s nothing. She might be in her bedroom, but I’m not about to check there, so I head straight for mine.
My new posters are up on one wall and Anna’s photograph of our beach in La Paz hangs above the bed. I drop my backpack on the chair by the door and head for the closet.
My new T-shirts are folded and stacked on a shelf and the new dress shirt Anna helped me pick out hangs in front. Smashed in the back of the closet are all of the winter clothes I bought during my first visit here. It’s hard to imagine that next month I’ll need those wool button-ups and long-sleeved T-shirts again.
My backpack is full of stuff I need but can’t buy here: more cash, even though the hidden compartment is still sufficiently stocked. The fake State of Illinois driver’s license I paid some guy to make for me, perfectly mimicking the photocopy I gave him of Maggie’s, but with my photo and my birthday stated as March 6, 1978, rather than March 6, 1995. I open the top drawer to stick everything inside and spot a note:
Go look inside the cabinet.
Love,
Anna
I cover my mouth with my hand, hiding the smile that spreads across my face when I see the boom box. Resting against the handle is a postcard with a shot of downtown Evanston. I pick it up and flip it over:
Welcome back. I thought you might want to play those CDs you bought last time you were here.
I have to help Emma set up. I’ll see you at her house at 7:00.
The boom box is heavier than I expected it to be. I set it on top of the desk and sit down so I can study the vintage buttons and knobs, check out the dual tape deck and the radio dial, and press the button marked with the words “Mega Bass.” When I press one of the buttons on top, a door slowly opens. Inside, I find one of the CDs we bought last time I was here.
I barely stifled a laugh when Justin pushed this CD into my hands. I already considered The Bends a classic, but around here they refer to it as the second album from a new band called Radiohead. I press play and the room fills with music—a steady guitar lick and soft drums, then voices and melodies—and I close my eyes, taking it in, feeling a smile spread across my face. I look around the room at the posters, realizing why they helped but felt a little insufficient. Music. That’s what this room needed.
When I’m dressed and ready to go, I head to the kitchen to find something to eat. As I walk down the stairs I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched by photos of my mother, now in reverse-chronological order starting with her wedding at the top and ending with her kindergarten photo near the foyer at the bottom.
Maggie still doesn’t seem to be home. On the desk in the hallway, there’s a stack of bills underneath a Post-it cube, and I sit down and write three notes telling Maggie I’m here. I leave one on the kitchen table, another on the end table where she always sets her tea, and I stick the last one on the end of the banister, just in case she makes it to the stairs without spotting the other two.
I’m still a good six or seven houses away from the Atkinses’ when I hear the music drifting through the neighborhood, but it’s not until I’m standing in front of the house that I begin to understand what Anna meant when she described Emma’s birthday party as “over the top.”
A long line of alternating dark-pink and white balloons line the driveway, creating a colorful path from the sidewalk to the side entrance of the enormous brick Tudor-style mansion. I look around. I think I’m supposed to walk through it.
At the end, I see a woman with short blond hair wearing a bright pink dress. She’s standing next to a small table under a comically large balloon arch.
“Welcome!” she says, beaming. I’m not sure who she is until she asks, “Can I start you off with something to
“Maggie?” I call out from the foyer. I walk through the house, checking the kitchen and the living room for signs of her, but there’s nothing. She might be in her bedroom, but I’m not about to check there, so I head straight for mine.
My new posters are up on one wall and Anna’s photograph of our beach in La Paz hangs above the bed. I drop my backpack on the chair by the door and head for the closet.
My new T-shirts are folded and stacked on a shelf and the new dress shirt Anna helped me pick out hangs in front. Smashed in the back of the closet are all of the winter clothes I bought during my first visit here. It’s hard to imagine that next month I’ll need those wool button-ups and long-sleeved T-shirts again.
My backpack is full of stuff I need but can’t buy here: more cash, even though the hidden compartment is still sufficiently stocked. The fake State of Illinois driver’s license I paid some guy to make for me, perfectly mimicking the photocopy I gave him of Maggie’s, but with my photo and my birthday stated as March 6, 1978, rather than March 6, 1995. I open the top drawer to stick everything inside and spot a note:
Go look inside the cabinet.
Love,
Anna
I cover my mouth with my hand, hiding the smile that spreads across my face when I see the boom box. Resting against the handle is a postcard with a shot of downtown Evanston. I pick it up and flip it over:
Welcome back. I thought you might want to play those CDs you bought last time you were here.
I have to help Emma set up. I’ll see you at her house at 7:00.
The boom box is heavier than I expected it to be. I set it on top of the desk and sit down so I can study the vintage buttons and knobs, check out the dual tape deck and the radio dial, and press the button marked with the words “Mega Bass.” When I press one of the buttons on top, a door slowly opens. Inside, I find one of the CDs we bought last time I was here.
I barely stifled a laugh when Justin pushed this CD into my hands. I already considered The Bends a classic, but around here they refer to it as the second album from a new band called Radiohead. I press play and the room fills with music—a steady guitar lick and soft drums, then voices and melodies—and I close my eyes, taking it in, feeling a smile spread across my face. I look around the room at the posters, realizing why they helped but felt a little insufficient. Music. That’s what this room needed.
When I’m dressed and ready to go, I head to the kitchen to find something to eat. As I walk down the stairs I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched by photos of my mother, now in reverse-chronological order starting with her wedding at the top and ending with her kindergarten photo near the foyer at the bottom.
Maggie still doesn’t seem to be home. On the desk in the hallway, there’s a stack of bills underneath a Post-it cube, and I sit down and write three notes telling Maggie I’m here. I leave one on the kitchen table, another on the end table where she always sets her tea, and I stick the last one on the end of the banister, just in case she makes it to the stairs without spotting the other two.
I’m still a good six or seven houses away from the Atkinses’ when I hear the music drifting through the neighborhood, but it’s not until I’m standing in front of the house that I begin to understand what Anna meant when she described Emma’s birthday party as “over the top.”
A long line of alternating dark-pink and white balloons line the driveway, creating a colorful path from the sidewalk to the side entrance of the enormous brick Tudor-style mansion. I look around. I think I’m supposed to walk through it.
At the end, I see a woman with short blond hair wearing a bright pink dress. She’s standing next to a small table under a comically large balloon arch.
“Welcome!” she says, beaming. I’m not sure who she is until she asks, “Can I start you off with something to
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