I shut the lid. Although I gleaned a bit more insight into her life and her unconditional love of Penny, this box held no clue as to where she might be.
I hauled out the two unopened boxes from the floor of her closet and scoured them for clues. Yet, hours later, I sat back in defeat. They contained various personal items: school projects, report cards, pieces of bric-a-brac, a few family pictures, and mementos from her teenage years. They were memories that would mean a great deal to her but meant nothing to me, nothing to guide me to her whereabouts.
I repacked the boxes and stood up, weary, but determined. I glanced around the room, then did a sweep of the drawers, shelves, bookcase, and bathroom. I pored over the pictures on the shelves, looked over the small knickknacks, and ran my finger over the book spines. I doubted her choice of literature would give me any clues.
I flicked off the light and went downstairs. I poured a scotch, surprised to see how late it was. I looked around the kitchen but had no appetite to eat. I grabbed an apple, chewing it while sitting at the counter. Thoughts of her in the kitchen, cooking a great meal, floated through my head. I remembered her laughter and how she teased me when I growled about dinner taking too long.
“Patience, Richard. All good things come to those who wait,” she said with a chuckle.
I shut my eyes. I couldn’t be patient when it came to finding Katharine.
I tossed away the half-eaten apple. In the den, I fired up the computer to check for an email from her, not surprised when there wasn’t one. I sipped my scotch, staring around the room. I always liked it when she would come in and sit across from me. I would show her what I was working on, and her comments were always positive and helpful.
How had I not noticed how deeply she’d become embedded into my life? When our arrangement first started, the lines were clearly drawn. Bit by bit, they disappeared until they were non-existent. It all became as natural as breathing—me watching her cook, her chatting with me over the desk, sitting beside her while she watched TV, or even the quick kiss she would drop on my head on her way up to bed. It was simply a part of my daily life, just as making sure my door was open so she could hear me snore was something I did without thinking.
I had fallen in love with her by building one small, new positive habit at a time. She had slowly replaced the bad ones, until they were gone, by simply being her.
With a groan, I let my head hit the back of my chair.
I needed her back.Early the next morning, after another restless night, I carried the boxes from the home up to Katharine’s room. I had put them in the storage room, knowing she wasn’t ready to deal with the contents so soon after Penny’s death. All of her paintings, drawings, and other pieces of artwork were also stored there and would remain so until Katharine decided what to do with them.
The first box contained a lot of knickknacks and mementos that had been scattered around Penny’s room. I carefully repacked it and set the box aside. The next box was all pictures and photo albums. I spent some time poring over the albums, where I saw Penny’s life laid out in black and white images that slowly bled into colored pictures. The last book I opened began when Katharine came into her life—a thin, frightened teenager, whose eyes looked far too old for her face. As I turned the pages, she changed—growing up, filling in, and discovering life once more. I puzzled over the many pictures of them sitting in restaurants, huge tables of smiling faces with them. I grinned at the pictures taken on a beach, Katharine staring off into the sunset as the waves hit the sand, or digging in the sand for clams, a bucket partially full beside her. The album ended two years ago, and I assumed it was when Penny became ill. I recalled some photo albums in the bookcase and resolved to look through those, as well.
Finally, I opened the third box, digging through some well-read books and a few other items. At the bottom was a pile of black books, the pages dog-eared, and the spines well-worn. The front of the books contained only a label with a set of dates written in Penny’s spidery hand. I opened one, scanning the first few pages until I figured out what I was reading.
Penny’s journals. There were ten of them, all documenting different spans of her life. I found the one that corresponded with the year she found Katharine and I started to read.