Harley hesitates—he wants to return to the stars. But when he sees me staring at him in concern, he changes his mind.
“Okay,” he says, even as he glances toward the hallway leading to the hatch. There is something in the empty hollow of Harley’s eyes, a greedy sort of longing, that makes me worry about him. It’s the same sort of obsession he fell into last time.
“I’m done here,” Amy says from behind me.
“Are you sure?” I ask. She nods.
“But. . . don’t you want to get your trunk?” I ask her, glancing at the floppy.
“My trunk?”
“The one you packed before you were frozen? It’s recorded here that you and your parents each have a trunk. ”
37
AMY
MY HEART THUDS AS HARLEY AND I FOLLOW ELDER PAST the rows of little metal doors to a wall lined with lockers.
I never packed anything for this. Mom and Daddy never told me that I could take anything with me.
Elder pulls open a locker; a stack of ten suitcase-size trunks lines the inside.
“Here you are,” he says, pulling out three trunks.
Harley and Elder stand over me as I push the button on the first trunk. The lid opens with an audible pop—the airlock preservation seal breaks.
This one must be Mom’s trunk. Her perfume wafts up as soon as the lid opens. I breathe deeply, eyes closed, remembering how her clothes smelled of this same perfume when I played dress up so many years ago. I breathe again and realize that all I can smell is the bitter preservation gas they must have filled the trunk with, and Mom’s perfume is nothing but memory.
I pick up the clear preservation bag filled with pictures.
“What’s that?” Harley asks.
“The ocean. ”
He stares at it, open-mouthed.
“And that?” Elder asks.
“This was our family trip to the Grand Canyon. ”
Elder takes the picture I hand to him. He traces the stone carved by the Colorado River with his finger. He looks incredulous, as if he doesn’t quite believe that the canyon behind my parents and me is real.
“This is all water?” Harley asks, pointing at the picture of me making a sand castle on the beach when I was seven.
I laugh. “All water! It’s salty, which is gross, but the waves are always going up and down, in and out. My daddy and I used to jump in the waves, see how far out we could go, and then ride them back to the shoreline. ”
“All water,” Harley mutters. “All water. ”
The other pictures aren’t as exciting. They are mostly of me. Me as a baby. Me as a toddler, in my grandparents’ garden, among the pumpkin vines. First day of school. Me at prom in my black slinky dress, standing next to Jason, accepting his cornflower corsage.
I root around deeper in the trunk. There’s something I know Mom wouldn’t have left on Earth. When my fingers close on something small and hard, my heart gives a little lurch. I withdraw the round-topped velvet box from the trunk and hold it in my palm.
“What’s that?” Elder asks. Harley is still staring at the ocean.
Inside the box is a gold cross necklace. My grandmother’s cross.
Elder laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re one of the ones who believed in those fairy tales!”