Chapter One

It hadn’t rained for two months.

In Millicent, the pain of drought could be felt everywhere. The harvests were recorded at all-time lows. Fewer combines were needed for wheat; the gas stations didn’t make as much. No one was harvesting, plowing, or planting. Or, for that matter, doing any side projects. And that was where it affected them.

Her father owned the only hardware store in Millicent, which was both good and bad. On one hand, there was little competition. But he was also expected to have everything, which he didn’t. He was hardly selling anything under the circumstances. The only people who came in were farmers looking for an ear to complain to.

Eileen had spent the summer primarily at home. Her stepmother, Shari, had chronic bronchitis from her cigarettes and was on so many medications she was only about three-fourths of the way coherent. She was convinced she had some sort of mysterious mental illness, but her doctor had said if she was, there was absolutely no anatomical or medical reason for it. So he prescribed her sugar pills and aspirin, and had a grand time putting on his poker face whenever she came in for an appointment.

He told Eileen’s father, “Mr. Slaughterback, your wife is nothing more than an incredible hypochondriac,” and said that she should move on before too long. Until then, it was Eileen’s responsibility to take care of her. It didn’t other her much, save for on those rare occasions she did have time to sit down and read a few pages of her book, only to be interrupted by a scratchy, “EILEEN!”

Ah, well, she thought, I suppose it’s good practice.

On June 14th, Eileen’s birthday, her father woke her up at six, as usual, before he went to work.
“Happy Birthday, buckaroo,” he said as he messed her hair and grabbed his cap. Slaughterback Hardware. Generations ago, unsurprisingly, her family had been in the pork business.
“Thanks,” she said, “I love you.”
“You too!” he hollered back on his way out.
And she did, truly.

“Eileen!”
“Coming!”
“Where’s my coffee?”

Of course, she thought as she turned back to the kitchen. She got out a cup and put away the foil-wrapped square of coffee grounds. Then she poured the coffee, adding a packet of Benefiber and a tablespoon of milk.

Shari’s room was hot and smoky; she loved her cigarettes and never opened her vent. She was propped up on the pillows, greasy hair unbrushed, watching a taped episode of The Young and the Restless. There were three chip bags on the floor, and a mountain of dishes on the nightstand.

Eileen handed it to her, and she took a sip, scowling and setting it on the nightstand.
“You sure that’s Cain’s?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Hmph. We need more, it tastes old.”
“I’ll have Dad pick some up on his way home.”

She scooped up as many of the dishes as she could and carried them back to the kitchen, setting them up to soak in the sink. When she came back to get the chip bags, Shari said,
“I want eggs for breakfast.”

In the kitchen, chip bags put away, Eileen pulled out the skillet. In went two eggs, with the burner set on 5. She slid two pieces of toast into the toaster, pulled out the microwave bacon, and stuck a sheet of three strips into the microwave. Everything was done about the same time, and she laid it all out on a plate, salting and peppering the eggs. Both pieces of toast were smeared with butter before she poured a glad of orange juice and set it all on a tray.

As she had once learned the hard way, that was what Shari meant by ‘eggs.’

Eileen brought it in and set it across her lap.

“Has the mail come yet?”
“I’ll go check.”

Their mailbox was a catalog order from several years before. On it was a scene of three cardinals on a pine branch that had been stuck on using a kind of metal contact paper that was beginning to peel off around the opening. It squeaked when she touched it. The mail had come. It contained an Atwoods circular, a few bills, a credit card offer, and a missing persons card.

Underneath all of them was the pattern Grandma had ordered as her present. She told Eileen once that she was “timeless, and needed something timeless to wear.” The pattern was for a Titanic-looking tea gown, with lots of sheer layers of fabric and short sleeves like the blue and pink one Rose wore. Immediately she started to think about the clearance-labeled peach chiffon at the store.

Thrilled as she was that was pattern had arrived, nothing prepared her for what was sitting at the back, behind everything else.

It was a box.

A little box. A little dark blue velvet one; a jewelry store box. A little silver string was tied around it in a bow. Everything about it was little. On the back a piece of paper was taped to it so seamlessly, it must have been double-sided tape. And on the paper, in the kind of paradoxical handwriting that is an elegant man’s penmanship, was her name.

Her name. Her whole name. One she hadn’t used or heard since back when her mother was alive. When she was six years old, and they had lived in Arkansas. She closed her eyes and let herself try to remember for a moment the smells of that house, but a chirping bird started her from her reverie.

Princess Moss-Rose Kitty-Cat Butterfly Grapefruit Peach-Blossom Eileen Dawson. It was all there. She had to smile once. Before it occurred to her

There was no postage. Someone dropped it off on their own.

How anyone in Millicent could have known about those days was a puzzle, but she slipped the box into the pocket she wore under her dress just the same. It nestled down, a comforting, diminutive weight, straightening the rumpled pocket against my homemade bloomer-wearing leg.

Once inside, she tossed the pattern envelope onto her bed before going in to Shari’s room again. She was watching Today. She handed her the mail, waited for a second, and then left.

Back in her room, she reached into her pocket and pulled out The Box. Her thin fingers shook as she pulled apart the bow and set it on her bedside table. She sat down, carefully peeling off the paper on the underside. It unfolded on its own, and she could see more writing.

“These were your mother’s. I know she would have wanted you to have them.”

My mother’s. Who in the world would have something of my mother’s? She opened the box, eyes closed to prolong the surprise as long as possible. The contents slid out into her waiting hand. The first thing she noticed was the pair of scissors, the miniscule handles silvery and ornate, in a pattern that looked like rose vines wrapped around grapevine. With them was a pendant, in the form of a woven basket decorated with the same roses, into which they slid nicely.

She pulled the chain over her head and positioned it around her neck; she was going to sew that day anyway, and she wanted it close to her. She closed her eyes again as the smell of something familiar caught her attention, like basil and oranges and cloves. It was one of those frustrating moment where you just can’t quite recall something, even though you know the memory is there.

Her alarm clock beeped, and she sighed. It was time to start the laundry.