Future Memories

My hands slide under the faded floral couch cushions behind Future Memories Thrift Store. I find three hair ties, a now-gray piece of gum, and enough cat hair to create a new tabby. Sweat trickles down my back. My phone dings. I yank the shop-vac hose harder than necessary and flip the switch.

“Ava.”

The vacuum makes a whistling sound every time it runs over the creases in the stained hide-a-bed mattress, and focusing on that is better than thinking about the mountains I’m missing in Glacier.

“Ava.”

I switch the vacuum off. Aunt Deb hands me a sweaty glass of lemonade.

“Your dad called. He says you’re not answering his texts.”

As if on cue, my phone dings. When I don’t reach for it, Aunt Deb gives me a look. “You can’t ignore him all summer.”

“I can,” I say, “because he’s in New York, and I’m here. If he wanted to spend the summer with me, he could have.”

Aunt Deb fans herself with an old playbill. “He wants to, Ave.”

I take a long drink of lemonade. “Then he shouldn’t have taken the job at NYU.”

Aunt Deb gives me a small smile that says, I hear you, but you’re wrong. “Just think about calling him. I’m tired of taking messages.” She takes my empty glass. “And try a little stain remover on that cushion.”

I’m not mad at Dad for taking his dream job. I’m not mad that I’ll be spending my summer working in Aunt Deb’s thrift shop. I’m mad because this summer, the last summer before I graduate, was supposed to be our summer. Mine and Dad’s. The one summer he didn’t teach summer classes. The summer we were going to visit all the national parks we’ve talked about since I did a project on them in the third grade.

I’m not mad at Dad for taking his dream job. I’m not mad that I’ll be spending my summer working in Aunt Deb’s thrift shop. I’m mad because this summer, the last summer before I graduate, was supposed to be our summer. Mine and Dad’s.

I slouch into a dusky blue wingback chair and check my phone. Fifteen unread texts, two missed calls. From Dad.

I shove my phone back into the pocket of my overalls—courtesy of Future Memories Thrift—and heave myself out of the chair. I pull the cushion off the seat and stick my hands down the sides, hoping I don’t find anything too disgusting.

My fingers hit something, but after I flinch, I realize it’s only paper. Probably an old magazine. I’m about to throw it into the trash when I see it’s an envelope. I don’t recognize the stamp and the postmark has faded, so it has to be old. I pull out the folded letter and smooth it against the cushion. A short note in spidery script stares back at me.

Dear Hattie,

It’s time we gave up this nonsense, don’t you think? Meet me at the Garden on Friday, June 15th, at 5:00 pm. I miss you.

With love, and regret,

Nell

That last line feels like a bruise, tender with pain. Why regret? I refold the letter and tuck it into its envelope. It is addressed to Miss Hattie Reynolds at an address here in Council Grove, Kansas. Tomorrow is July 15th, a bunch of years later. It feels like fate. The letter goes into one of my many pockets. I wonder if Hattie “gave up this nonsense” and met Nell at the Garden. I guess I’ll never know.

***

We need to talk.

Please pick up the phone, Ave.

I don’t like how we left things.

I turn my phone on vibrate. Aunt Deb gives me another look, but she doesn’t say anything as we watch the sunset from her porch and slurp spaghetti off our forks.

“Have you heard of a Hattie Reynolds?” I say, wiping sauce onto my napkin. Council Grove is not a big town, and it seems like Aunt Deb knows everyone.

“The name isn’t familiar. There was a Reynolds family here, oh, fifty years ago, but Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds have long been buried.” Her gaze swings to me. “Why?”

“I found that name on something at the shop,” I say. I don’t mention that it’s still in my pocket.

***

Dad calls me three times while I’m unpacking donated boxes along the shady back wall of Future Memories Thrift. The back storeroom is sweltering and too full of Aunt Deb, who keeps giving me meaningful glances every time the phone rings.

I set a collection of glass pill bottles in a space I’ve labeled “to keep.” It’s amazing what kinds of junk people will buy. I throw away a pair of ancient slippers with a hole in the toe. The same goes for a couple half-used notebooks. My fingers are scraping the cardboard bottom of the box when they close over a bundle the size of a deck of cards, held together with a rotting rubber band. Based on the other things in this box, probably outdated coupons.

It’s not. It’s a bundle of wallet-sized photos, black and white. Aunt Deb doesn’t keep donated photos. She says only creeps would want to buy someone else’s old family portraits. I don’t disagree. But I can’t help looking through them anyway.

The first photo is of a house with what must be a blossoming fruit tree in the front. It’s a little blurry, but it’s possible there are a couple faces looking out the front window. The next photo is a portrait of a smiling girl who looks to be about my age. She’s pretty in a 1950s sort of way, and her smile carries hints of mischief. The third photo is another portrait. This girl has the same eyes, but her mouth looks like it hasn’t spent as much time laughing. There’s a fourth photo, and this one is of two little girls sitting on wooden steps, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. They have matching eyes.

The last item in the bundle is a small envelope that rattles when I pick it up. Inside, there are what look like mouse droppings. Or seeds, maybe. I don’t get too close. But I can’t quite throw it away, either. Someone saved this with these photos for a reason.

I look at the backs of the photos. The dates are written in slanting numbers. 1942. 1949. 1949. 1936, Hattie and Nell.

Hattie. The name on the letter. Nell. The letter’s writer.

It would be a shame to throw these photos away. I hope that if a picture of me ever ends up in a thrift shop, someone will care. Someone will wonder who I was. What I cared about. A hard ask when my own dad isn’t interested.

I set my jaw. I’m not throwing these photos away until I know something about Hattie and Nell.

“I’m taking a break,” I shout through the back door. Aunt Deb looks up from the tagging gun she’s holding, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She nods, then gives a meaningful glance at the phone. I leave before she can say anything.

It doesn’t take long for me to plug the address from the letter into my phone. The map indicates it will be a ten minute walk from Aunt Deb’s store. I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting from this house where Hattie Reynolds lived. I don’t imagine she still lives there, if her things ended up at Future Memories. If the dates on the pictures are correct, Hattie probably isn’t even alive.

I’m covered in sweat by the time I reach Hattie’s address. I stop on the sidewalk, surprised to see it’s the same house from the photo. The yard is overgrown with yellowed grass, and an enormous nectarine tree stands in the middle of it, loaded with fruit. The porch sags and strips of faded paint hang from the walls. A green minivan sits in the driveway.

My phone buzzes. Dad again. I stuff my phone back in my pocket and ring the doorbell. A young woman with a handkerchief tied around her curly hair answers the door. A young man hovers in the hallway.

“Do you live here,” I say stupidly.

The woman smiles. “We will soon. Just bought it. Our first house.”

I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect Hattie to be here. “You don’t know a Hattie Reynolds, do you?”

The man steps forward. “We bought the house from her.”

“So she’s not…” I’m not sure how to ask if Hattie is dead. “She moved somewhere else?”

The woman shrugs. “How do you know Hattie?”

“I don’t.” I pull out the letter and photos. “I found these. I thought she might like them back.”

The woman takes the photos and looks at them, reads the inscriptions on the backs. “We didn’t meet Hattie,” she says. “But her realtor said something about a nursing home.” She hands the pictures back. “I hope you’re able to find her.” She hesitates. “I think I’ve seen these names somewhere in the house.” She looks at the ceiling for a moment, thinking.

“On the mirror,” the man says. “The one upstairs.”

The woman snaps her fingers. “That’s right. Come take a look.”

I find myself in a tiny bedroom on the second floor of what was once Hattie Reynold’s house. The woman directs me to an oval mirror hanging on a water-stained wall. She pulls it off its nail and turns it over. “See?”

My phone buzzes again.

The back of the mirror is covered in brown paper, and there’s a penciled note on it.

When you look in this mirror, I’ll look back. Sisters forever.

Nell

“Sweet, isn’t it?” the woman says.

The man raises his brows. “Kind of creepy.”

I think about the girls in the photos, their matching eyes. One looking at the mirror, and seeing her sister’s eyes. It makes sense, in an inside joke kind of way. I now know one thing about Hattie and Nell: they were close. Sisters, best friends. I wonder why the letter mentioned regret.

I think about the girls in the photos, their matching eyes. One looking at the mirror, and seeing her sister’s eyes. It makes sense, in an inside joke kind of way. I now know one thing about Hattie and Nell: they were close. Sisters, best friends. I wonder why the letter mentioned regret.

I thank the couple and head back to the thrift shop. Aunt Deb sits behind the front counter and holds out a piece of paper when I walk in.

“Plane ticket,” she says. “Your dad sent it.” She doesn’t let go of it, like she’s worried I’m going to rip it up.

“Why?” The ticket is for next Monday, to New York.

“Call him.” Aunt Deb slides off her stool and goes into the storeroom, shutting the door behind her.

I turn my phone over in my sweaty hands for several minutes before I unlock it, another minute before I choose Dad’s name from my contacts.

His phone doesn’t even ring before I hear, “Ava.” Dad’s voice is breathless.

I don’t bother with small talk. “Why did you send a plane ticket?”

“I want to see you. To spend time with you. There’s lots to do in New York. We’ll have a great week.”

Dad wants to make up for a whole summer of adventure with a week of waiting for him to finish work every day.

“Ava? What do you say—you, me, New York?”

“This isn’t about New York.”

Dad sighs. “I know, Ave. This is about spending time together. That’s what the plane ticket is for.”

“I’m not coming.”

Dad is quiet for so long that I check to see if the call was dropped. “Let me know if you change your mind.” Another pause. “I miss you, Ave.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I hang up. I don’t mention that he wouldn’t have to miss me if he hadn’t gone to New York. We could be watching Bison in Yellowstone together, right now.

Aunt Deb pokes her head out of the storeroom. “Everything okay?”

Something on my face must say it’s not, because she comes around the counter and gives me a hug.

I take the rest of the day off.

***

Twin Firs is painted sunflower yellow, and a sign above the reception desk tells me to “Grab a seat. We’ve got stories to tell.” None of the people slumped in corduroy armchairs around the lobby look like they could be Hattie.

“I’m here to see Hattie Reynolds,” I tell the nurse behind the desk. I hold my breath. I don’t even know if Hattie is here. And I’m not sure why I am.

The nurse’s face brightens. “You’re her first visitor.”

I let out my breath and let this information roll around my mind. She’s here. And I’m going to meet her, talk to her. Nell hasn’t come to visit Hattie. I take a steadying breath. “Wonderful,” I say.

Hattie Reynolds sits by the window in her room, but the blinds are closed, and so are her eyes. She looks fragile, like the air whooshing from the air conditioning unit might blow her away.

“Visitor for you, Miss Reynolds,” the nurse says.

Hattie’s blue eyes open, drinking me in. She looks the same as in her picture, but shriveled, sunken. She doesn’t smile.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” the nurse says and breezes out of the room.

I suddenly have nothing to say. Why did I come? I clear my throat.

“Wrong room,” Hattie Reynolds says.

“Y-you’re Hattie Reynolds, aren’t you?”

She nods.

“I found a couple things that I think are yours.” I hold out the photos and the letter from Nell.

Hattie’s eyes drift over them, then snap back to me. “Wrong room,” she says.

“But- Miss Reynolds, I’m sure this is a photo of you.” I hold out her portrait. “And this letter has your name on it. I also found these seeds.” My voice drifts away. She’s not looking.

“Hellebore,” she says.

I can’t tell if she’s calling me a name. “I’ll leave these here for you,” I say, depositing everything on her empty bedside table. I back toward the door.

“Christmas rose.”

I stop. “What?”

“The seeds.” She waves a gnarled finger at them. “Hellebore. Christmas rose. Nell and me, we used to plant them, end of summer. It took a couple years, but they made winter a little brighter. Bloomed around Christmas.” She looks toward the window.

The room is dim, and the air conditioner rattles. The walls are blank.

“Would you like me to open the blinds?”

Hattie doesn’t say anything, so I do. The sunshine highlights the frayed bedspread and faded carpet, but at least the rose bushes outside her window are blooming. I wait, uncertainly, while Hattie looks out. I clear my throat.

Hattie squints at me, like she’s just now remembering I’m in the room. “Who did you say you were?”

“I’m Ava.” I hold out my hand, and she takes it in her papery one. “I work at Future Memories Thrift.”

Hattie releases me. “Take a seat.”

I drag a straight-backed chair from the corner and perch on the edge of it. “I should probably head back soon.”

“I never told Nell I liked gardening.” Hattie is staring out the window again, but somehow I know she wants me to listen. “I used to complain every time she shoved a trowel into my hand. I never told her, but I talked to our flowers. They were my friends.” She waves a hand as though to brush the memory away. “So you found these at the thrift shop?”

I nod.

She grunts. “I thought I’d gotten rid of these.”

“I can take them back, if you want.” My throat is dry.

“No, no. I mean I thought I got rid of them after Nell left.” She picks up the photos and looks through them slowly.

I shift on the edge of my chair. “Where did Nell go?” I say.

Hattie doesn’t respond at first, and the silence feels like I’ve yelled in a library. Hattie pulls her eyes from the photo of the girls on the porch.

“I don’t know.”

The words are simple, but they expand to fill the room. These words mean more to Hattie than they do to me. I wait for her to explain. At first, I don’t think she’s going to. Then she strokes the photo with a trembling hand.

“She got married,” she whispers. “I didn’t go to the wedding. I was jealous, you see.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Not because she got married. I never cared about that. Nell and me, we were more than sisters.” She swallows, closes her eyes. “We were best friends.”

“She got married,” she whispers. “I didn’t go to the wedding. I was jealous, you see.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Not because she got married. I never cared about that. Nell and me, we were more than sisters.” She swallows, closes her eyes. “We were best friends.”

Hattie draws a shaky breath. “It sounds silly now. But when Nell got married,” she lowers her voice, “I felt abandoned. She had a whole new life. So I cut her out of my life before she could cut me out of hers.”

I reach out and hold Hattie’s hand. She squeezes it like I’m her only anchor to the present.

“I never saw her again,” Hattie whispers. “Nell wrote to me every year, asking the same thing. To meet in the Garden on July 15th. I never went. She stopped writing three years ago.”

“The Garden?”

Hattie smiles. “It was an empty plot of land near our house. Full of wildflowers. It was our special place.” She stares at the picture again. “It’s a cafe now.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but Hattie doesn’t seem to hear. “Why didn’t you go?”

Hattie takes a while to answer, and my phone vibrates again. “It was easier not to.”

***

This apartment is awfully lonely without you.

I understand why you don’t want to come.

Dad is trying too hard. Trying to pretend this is not his fault. I picture him sitting by his dark, cold window, alone. I’m not sure if I’m thinking of him or Hattie. Or me.

What’s going on with me and Dad is nothing like Hattie and Nell. But Hattie’s words haunt me. It was easier not to. Is it easier for me to stay here with Aunt Deb than to face Dad’s new life in New York? A life he wants to include me in?

I slam my phone into my pocket and check the street signs. Hattie said the Garden was on what’s now Willow Avenue. I know life doesn’t work this way, doesn’t have a neat and tidy ending like it does in books and tv shows. It’s too much to hope that Nell is sitting in a cafe, hands wrapped around a latte, waiting for Hattie. But today is July 15th, and I’m going to the Garden.

The cafe on Willow Avenue looks nothing like a garden. It’s modern industrial with old brick and big windows. The warm smell of coffee wafts over the sidewalk. I step inside and approach the barista.

“This might sound like a strange question, but have you noticed an old woman who comes here every year on July 15th?

The barista gives me a strange look. “I haven’t worked here long,” she says, “but a woman used to leave notes on napkins here, every year, July 15th. She died a few years ago, I think.”

I have trouble swallowing around the lump in my throat.

“We kept the notes. They’re cute.” The barista takes me to the office, where a series of napkins are taped to the wall. They’re covered in flower doodles and say things like “I will always love you,” and “Sisters Forever.” In the corner of each is a very tiny “Nell.”

I run my fingers over the words, and I have no doubt each of these notes was for Hattie. I take a picture of them and head to the hardware store.

***

Hattie is quiet as she looks at the photos on my phone. When she finishes, her lips are quivering. “I was waiting for her to admit she was wrong,” she says.

“The barista said you could have the napkins if you wanted them.”

Hattie nods, and I know they will transform this barren room. “I kept thinking I would have time,” she says, balling her hands into fists, “time to admit I was wrong too.”

“You still have time to plant the Hellebore,” I say, pulling the planter and bag of soil out of my enormous canvas tote. I hesitate. “Maybe, somehow, Nell will understand.”

Hattie’s eyes fill with tears and she reaches for the trowel. My phone, for once, is silent. I feel empty without its constant, annoying buzz.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, and step into the hall. I lean against the wall and pull out my phone. I take a deep breath.

“Dad?”

“It’s me, Ave.”

“I don’t want to spend a week in your stuffy office while you’re working.”

“I know, Ave. I know.”

I sigh. The next part isn’t easy to say. “But I do want to spend time with you. Even in New York.”

There’s a wheeze on the other end of the line, like Dad has let out a breath he’s been holding since the summer started. “Really?”

I nod, though he can’t see it. “Really.”