The Girl Who Would Be King(124)

“She did. I have them inside,” he says. I’m startled by the ease at which I’m answered, as if I expect to negotiate a maze and defeat a Minotaur in order to receive my prize.

“Can I see it, or them, whatever?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Jasper says, stepping inside the house and motioning for me to follow. “Come in, Bonnie.” It’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name in almost thirteen years. It sounds unimaginably lovely. I choke out a pathetic response.

“Okay.” It’s funny to be eighteen years old and have superpowers and still wish that your older brother would pick you up and hold you and protect you forever. He’s just as I remember him: still strong, but vulnerable, with kindness pooling in his eyes. He’s always been, and is now, an eccentric blend of both my mother and my father, while I remain so singularly my mother’s, that it’s painful to me. I’ve come to accept this, but I ache to have something of my father in me as well – like the things I can see in Jasper, the way he moves and clears his throat, his eyes and skin – all my father. It’s like some kind of schizophrenia to stand next to both of these men I loved tied up into one person, and yet feel emotionally as if Jasper and I are still miles apart, forever separated by that horrible day on the road.

I survey his living room. It’s nice and comfortable, but somewhat Spartan, a trait I suspect we share more from growing up in group homes and less because of our shared blood. Jasper walks me into a small home office of sorts and moves a box out of a deep closet. Behind the box is an old trunk I recognize instantly. He drags it out along with several dozen actual bunny-sized dust bunnies.

I remember the trunk. It had lived in my parents’ bedroom at the foot of the bed, though I’d never seen it open, or even unlocked. Jasper pulls a silver chain out from under his t-shirt with some keys on it. I recognize the chain as one my mother had worn all her life, including the day she died. I finger the ID bracelet in my pocket and take it out to show it to him. Jasper raises his eyebrows at me. “I’d forgotten about that bracelet. I’m glad you’ve had it,” he says, bending down toward the trunk with one of the keys from the chain around his neck.

“You keep that on you always?” I ask. Jasper nods.

“Ever since I looked inside the trunk,” he says. I swallow hard. He’s looked inside. I can’t help but wonder now what he knows, about me, about our mother. I envy him the knowledge. Jasper looks away from me. He hesitates when putting the key in the lock. “I, I’m sorry I didn’t come get you, especially after looking in the trunk, but I…” he pauses, uncomfortable. “I had a few bad years. It took me awhile to get myself together, and by then I couldn’t find you. You were like a ghost – your trail vanishing the day you left the home. Eventually, I had to just believe that you’d find me, and here you are.” He looks up at me, and my eyes are threatening to spill over with tears but I blink them back. He clears his throat and starts again. “I barely understand a fraction of what’s in here, but I hope it makes more sense to you.” He turns the key and opens the lid. I realize I’ve been holding my breath, unsure what to expect. Some part of me seems to expect my mother’s ghost to materialize out of the ancient trunk smell. Instead, the first thing I see is a big leather-bound book, at least twelve inches by twenty inches and massively thick. I kneel down and touch it to make sure it won’t vanish. Laying on top of the book are several pieces of old jewelry and next to the book, the knee-high leather boots that my mother had always worn. I finger the old, coffee-colored leather of the boots. “You remember them?” Jasper asks. I look up, my eyes wet.

“She wore them always, or at least that’s what I remember.” Jasper nods in agreement.

“She did. All the time,” he says, rolling his eyes like an embarrassed teenager. I pull them out of the trunk and onto my feet. Despite their age they’re in excellent shape, and fit as if they’ve been made for me. I stand up in them, feeling taller and stronger already. Jasper’s breath catches in his throat. “Jesus. You look so much like her,” he says. I smile.

“Thanks,” I say. Jasper stands up.

“Okay, well, I’ll um, leave you alone. Just let me know if you need anything.” Despite my desperation to be near him, to understand him, and to have him understand me, I’m grateful to be alone with the trunk, with my trunk. My mother’s giant silver and red ring sits on top of the book, and I put it on the middle finger of my left hand, where she had always worn it. I clutch my fingers together into a fist and feel the power coursing through my whole being. There’s nothing magical about the ring, except that it was hers. There’s a necklace too, a long silver chain with a charm. I put it in my pocket along with other jewelry I don’t recognize: two more rings one with a blue stone – much older and likely more valuable than the red one, and a simple silver band. There’s a small stack of pictures tied with a pink ribbon, and a stack of letters addressed to my mother tied with a black ribbon, and it’s all so delicious and inviting – but the book is the thing. I can love the boots desperately, and yearn to spend days poring over pictures and letters, but I still know the book is the thing. I feel pulled to it, not unlike how I feel about the stone, which is practically humming in my pocket right now. As I reach for the book I see that there’s something else in the trunk.