On the shelf at eye level. Right in front of me. Set apart from the others.
One jar.
Smaller than the rest. Dark purple. Almost black.
Jam.
There was a label on it.
A piece of masking tape. Handwritten. In blue ink. Faded.
PLUM.
And underneath, in smaller letters, a name.
Laurie Bird’s.
My hands started shaking so hard I almost dropped the burning stick.
Laurie Bird.
That was my mother’s childhood name.
Nobody called her that. Not my father. Not Sandra. Not her teacher friends.
Only her mother. My grandmother. Who died when I was four.
And my mother herself. In stories. When she tucked me in at night.
When I was a little girl, Grandma called me Laurie Bird. Because I never stopped singing. And because I always wanted to fly away.
I picked up the jar.
I held it.
The glass was cold.
I put it back.
Carefully. Exactly where it was.
At the far end of the stone room, against the back wall, there were three more things.
A metal box. Gray. The size of a shoebox. Like a tackle box. With a latch.
A strongbox. Iron. Heavy. Black. With a combination lock. Four numbers.
And a bundle of letters.
Envelopes. Old. Tied with twine.
I didn’t touch the strongbox.
I didn’t touch the letters.
I picked up the metal box.
I climbed back up the ladder.
Dutch was standing at the edge of the hole. Whining. Wagging his tail.
I put the metal box on the table.
I lit a candle from the cellar.
I opened the latch.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Folded in half.
On the outside, in blue ink, in handwriting I’d know anywhere:
For Wren.
My mother’s handwriting.
I unfolded it.
The first line made me read it twice.
If you’re reading this, then they finally brought you here.
I sat at the wooden table in the cabin on Whitfield Ridge.
With a candle.
With Dutch’s head on my knee.
And I read my dead mother’s letter.
Wren,
If you’re reading this, then they finally brought you here.
I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.
I prayed every night that it would never happen. That your father would wake up. That he’d be the man I married. That he’d never let anybody put you out in the cold.
But I’ve been sick for two years now. And I’ve watched him. And I know him.
He’s a good man, Wren. He is. But he’s not a strong one. When I’m gone, he’s going to fall apart. And somebody’s going to come along and pick up the pieces. And whoever it is, he’ll let them do whatever they want.
Because he won’t be able to do it alone.
I don’t know who she’ll be. I hope she’s kind. I hope she loves you.
But if she doesn’t. If someday she decides you’re in the way. If your father lets her drive you up this mountain and leave you here with nothing.
I want you to know I saw it coming.
And I got ready.
This cabin was my grandmother’s. Your great-grandmother. Hazel Whitfield. She built the root cellar with her own hands in 1946. After her husband died. With a pick and a shovel and stones she hauled from the creek. She said a woman alone on a mountain needs two things. A place to hide, and enough to eat.
I spent every summer up here when I was a girl. Grandma Hazel taught me to can tomatoes. To make plum jam. To split wood. To read the weather. To be alone and not be afraid.
She called me Laurie Bird.
I’m leaving the cabin to you. Not to your father. To you. The land too. All forty acres. The whole ridge. It’s in a trust. My lawyer has the papers. Her name is Margaret Fenn. She has an office on Main Street in Tamarack Falls, above the hardware store. She knows everything.
Your father doesn’t know about the trust. He thinks the cabin’s just an old shack that’s worth nothing. That’s what I told him. I wanted him to think that.
Because if he knew it was worth something, she’d want it.
There’s a man who lives three miles down the ridge. Harlan Pike. He was Grandma Hazel’s neighbor for forty years. He taught me to shoot a rifle when I was ten. He’s the closest thing to a grandfather I ever had.
I asked him to stock the cellar. Every fall. Every October. Fresh supplies. As long as he lives.
Just in case you ever need it.
He promised me.
He’s a man who keeps his promises.
The strongbox is yours. The combination is your birthday. Month and day. Four numbers.
The letters are yours too. There’s one for every birthday you’ll have without me. From ten to nineteen. I wrote them all this winter. While I still could.
Read them in order, baby. One at a time. Don’t rush.
And Wren.
I made plum jam the summer before I got sick. From Grandma Hazel’s tree. The one in front of the cabin. It’s still there. You’ll see it in the spring.
I saved one jar. For you.
It’s on the shelf. At eye level. Where you’ll see it first.
When you’re scared. When you’re cold. When you think nobody in the world remembers you exist.
Open it.
It tastes like summer. It tastes like being nine.
It tastes like me.
I love you more than all the stars over this ridge.
You are not forgotten.
You were never forgotten.
— Mom
(Laurie Bird)
I sat at the table for a long time.
The candle burned down.
I didn’t cry.
Then I did.
I cried for the first time since I was nine years old.
Since the morning of the funeral. When I stood in my mother’s yellow kitchen and watched the sun come through her little glass bird and throw a blue light on the counter.
And she wasn’t there to tell me it meant the day would be good.
I cried until Dutch got up and put his paws on my lap and licked my face.
Then I went back down into the cellar.
