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For years, school was all I had going for me. Because of that, I had put the time and effort into being good at that one thing. My dad was so proud when I’d received my acceptance letter to Strickland University. I remember the smile on his face and the glow in his eyes as if it were yesterday. Somehow, I feel as though I have failed him and failed myself for messing with the order in this house so close to graduation.
Shawn was worth it. From the start, one night was all I had ever wanted from him. But he has given me so much more. I have to find an escape from this bedroom. Despite its renovations, the attic is freezing and much colder than the other rooms in this ancient house. Bundled up in the few blankets I found in the closet, I curl up on the bed and listen to my teeth chatter.
Once a day, Clarissa opens the door a crack and slides a tray of food across the floor, before slamming it behind her. Feeding time has come and gone, and yet what I assume is oatmeal remains untouched on the floor. At first, I tried not to eat just to spite her. But, after I’d accepted this might be my permanent home, I gave in and practically licked the plates clean.
This is stupid.
Sitting here rolled into a ball isn’t going to get me out of here. Untangling myself from the blankets, I leave them in a pile on the bed and drag my sore and tired body to the closet to find something to wear. One nice thing about the renovation is that my parents had a bathroom with just enough room for a sink, toilet, and tiny stall shower installed. At least I don’t have to be a complete dirtball while trapped inside my cage.
After I find another set of navy-and-white pinstripe pajamas that had belonged to my dad, I set the clothes on the toilet seat and turn on the shower, soaking in the warmth from the water on my hand. I undress and slip inside the stall, but it takes several minutes before my body temperature returns to normal.
I do this every time the cold is too much for me to bear. I curse Clarissa as I stand under the water, soaking in its warmth as it rushes over my head and runs down my face.
How can Clarissa hate me this much? Was there ever any love inside her heart? Did she ever care for me father?
Of course, she’d wanted his money, but so did every available woman in town once they had found out Connor Fitzgerald was a widower and the Mainline’s most eligible bachelor. My mother was the only woman who saw him for the sweet, loving man he was and could have cared less about the money. She favored necessity over luxury.
Dad loved her because of her pure heart and the love she showed to others. Before he died, my father told me I was just like her, pure of heart and full of love. Maybe that’s how Finch and I ended up together. Maybe that’s why I put up with Clarissa and her daughters for all these years. But I am done being nice. Kindness can only get you so far, and in my case, it has gotten me nowhere but sentenced to a life of servitude in this miserable house.
As I dress, I consider all my options and weigh the good against the bad. I have nothing to use to pick the lock on the door, and even if I did, how would I get through the second or third lock? What kind of person installs three locks on an unused attic door?
Clarissa would do something this ridiculous. But why? She never does anything without a purpose, which tells me she’s hiding something. But what? What could be so important for her to keep this room sealed up for all these years? My father built this room. What if he had kept it sealed up?
On the surface, the room has the appearance of any other in the house. There is nothing special or at all unique about it—except for its contents. The first few days, I dug through the closets and drawers, hoping to find not only something warmer to wear but also a key or some way out of here. But all I discovered were my father’s belongings. His old sweaters—even the ugly ones he wore for Christmas to get my mother to laugh—were some of the few items I’d gone through, along with shoes, dress shirts, and other clothes he’d wear to work.
Clarissa sold everything my father had owned and yet she stashed his personal belongings in the attic. That doesn’t add up. Why would she do that? She must have cared for my father more than she led me to believe. Has she taken her sorrow out on me? Am I the reminder of the husband she lost? Why would she treat me this way if she had ever cared about him, knowing this form of treatment would have broken his heart?
I had never met someone as cruel as Clarissa, someone with such darkness inside her until my father was gone. Was it all for show? Was she always this vile? A small part of me always believed she was involved in his death, or at the very least, he died from a broken heart. Losing my mother was hard on both of us.
One more time, I go through the closet, wondering if I could make something strong enough to hold me, as I shimmy down the back of the house. While Clarissa had thought to lock the door, she forgot the window. I guess Clarissa hadn’t thought I would get desperate enough to consider scaling the side of the house as if I’m Spider-Man on a mission.
What other options do I have?
I’m not about to rot inside this attic and wither away to nothing while the man I love worries sick about me. Shawn must be beside himself by now an
d wondering if I’d made it inside the house that night. If not for me, then I have to do this for Shawn.
Combing through the closet, I throw every piece of clothing or fabric onto the floor behind me. While this is not one of my finer ideas, I think of Rapunzel and how she used her hair. So, why not clothes?
Once I strip every hanger and empty all the drawers, I spot something I hadn’t noticed before. My father’s old footlocker from the Marines is hidden in the corner of the closet beneath shoes wrapped in long plastic bags. It still amazes me that Clarissa had kept these things. All this time I held onto the charm necklace, thinking it was all I had left of my father.
Being around his things once more fills me with so much happiness that my stomach hurts from dwelling on every memory we had shared. But this trunk holds a much different meaning. In fact, it’s the reason my parents met. Careful not to make too much noise, I drag the chest across the floor and plop down in front of it.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, causing my heart to pound from the nervous anticipation, as I flip open the lid. My dad was a neat freak, and true to form, everything inside has a certain order that only he must’ve understood. I’m shocked Clarissa didn’t bother to go through it. Why waste the time to drag it up here along with his clothes and not even peek at its contents?
If she had opened the trunk, the papers, journals, and personal items would be in complete disarray. But they are in perfect condition. Taking my time, I sort through family photos. So many memories are on these pages that I hold each album against my chest and try not to think too long about everything I have lost. I have to focus on what I need to do now.
The journals contain what appear to be financial records and notarized papers for my father’s company. Held together by rubber bands are a few stacks of handwritten love letters my dad had sent to my mom while they were dating. I would not want my children reading personal notes I’d sent to their father. I skip over those.
After I empty the contents on the floor, I fold one leg over the other and stare at the stacks scattered around me, wondering how this is everything my dad had left behind. He was a man of few words as well as possessions.
I’m about to load it back up when I notice something white sticking up from a tear in the corner of the trunk. The lining is slightly worn, though most of it is in good condition, except for this one spot.
Peeling back the fabric, I discover a small white envelope. My father had scrawled my name on the front in his meticulous handwriting. I slide my index finger beneath the seal to tear open the envelope and remove a few sheets of paper folded into squares.
As I read the note from my dad, tears well up in my bottom lids and spill down my cheeks.
Ella,
