Free Bull's Eye by Sarah N. Harvey Page A

mess or another. She’s just come back from her final trip. She brought Donna’s ashes back in a Baggie. Apparently the plan is to scatter them over English Bay. That’ll be fun.
    I didn’t really know Aunt Donna. She came to Victoria to see us once when I wasabout six. Since I never went to Toronto with my mom, I have no idea what my aunt was like. Other than messed up, I mean. It sounded to me like Donna’s death was the most organized thing she ever did.
    I get so bored waiting for Mom to come back that I consider opening the package. I could have a peek inside and seal it up again before she gets home. In the end, I’m too lazy to get up and find the box cutter. Besides, I’m my mother’s daughter: neat, hardworking, well-organized, thoughtful. When she finally comes back from the store, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space, chewing on a hangnail.
    â€œFeeling better, honey?” she says. “Ready for some sorbet?” She places the back of her hand against my forehead for a moment. She smiles. “Temperature’s down. That’s good.”
    â€œA package came for you. It’s in the living room,” I say.
    â€œA package?”
    â€œYeah. You know, like a box. Maybesomeone forgot to file his taxes for, like, ten years.”
    Usually my mom laughs at my feeble accountant jokes. Not this time. She puts the sorbet on the counter and walks into the living room without a word. When she comes back to the kitchen, she’s carrying the box and her hands are shaking. She puts the box on the table in front of me and backs away from it. Maybe it really is a bomb.
    â€œOpen it, Emily,” she says. “It’s for you.” Her voice is shaking too, and her normally rosy cheeks are ashen. Beads of sweat form along her upper lip. When she has a hot flash, her face gets really red, so this is something else.
    â€œBut it’s addressed to you,” I say.
    â€œI know,” she replies. “But it’s for you. From Donna. In her note...”
    She swipes at her tears and continues.
    â€œThe note Donna left—her suicide note—she wanted you to have this. I addressed it to myself so you wouldn’t open it without me.”
    â€œOkay,” I say. It feels all kinds of creepy, but let’s face it: Aunt Donna had been a bitof a wack job. “Can I have a knife—and some sorbet? Before it melts? My throat’s killing me.”
    Mom hands me the box cutter from the junk drawer. While she scoops sorbet into my favorite blue bowl, I slit the tape on the box. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find—vintage clothes, cool shoes, funky jewelry? No such luck. The first thing I see is a high school annual from the school Mom and Donna went to in Vancouver. I set it aside and dig a little deeper. Underneath the annual are three large brown envelopes. The first has my mom’s name written on it in green felt pen. The second is decorated with a curly letter
K.
The third says
Emily
. Emily? That’s so weird. My heart flutter-kicks. Maybe Aunt Donna has left me a bunch of money. I break the seal on the envelope with my name on it and dump the contents on the table. It’s not money. It’s letters. A lot of letters.
    I move on to the envelope marked
Sandra.
More letters. I hand them to mymom, but she shakes her head and says, “They’re for you.” In the envelope marked
K
are even more letters. I dig a little further. In the bottom of the box is a small, pink, crocheted blanket. As I pull it out and hang it over the back of a chair, I hear my mom inhale sharply, but she says nothing.
    I pick up one of the letters from the
Emily
envelope and start reading. It’s a birthday card.
Now you are Two
! There are sixteen others, all from Aunt Donna, all telling me how wonderful I am and how much she misses me. I wonder why she never sent any of them, but that was Aunt Donna. Letters unsent.