41. Nicole

I slam on the brakes; the tires skid across the wet concrete as I throw my mom's station wagon into Park in front of U.S. Bank. Well, technically, it's my station wagon now. I don't remember the drive here. I don't remember seeing a road or other cars or street signs. It was like I was underwater the whole time, my senses drowned out. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror. Blood vessels have ruptured around my eyes, leaving a spattering of tiny purple and red dots. It could have been from holding in a scream until it felt like my head was going to explode. My mascara is smeared and streaked down my cheeks. I wipe it away and try to compose myself, smoothing out my hair and dabbing my eyes.

The rain drums against the windshield. I unclench my hand, revealing a small silver key surrounded by a palm of bloody gouges. The air stings my skin that's been frayed from squeezing it so tightly. I take a couple of deep breaths. The lockbox Mom left for Beth is in this bank, and I'm sure it must contain some money or at least something of value I can sell. My hands shake and my collapsed vein almost seems to bounce at the mere thought of a high. The little prick of the skin, the red cloud, the rush. The feeling of a full body massage from the inside out. All of my problems gone in an instant. And Mom's words forgotten. It's exactly what I need.

I put on a pair of sunglasses and step out of the vehicle, racing for the door to escape the rain. Inside the bank, I'm greeted by an older woman wearing a name tag that says Mel. Her eyes skim over me, tightening and relaxing like she's made her judgment. She asks how she can help and purses her thin lips.

I retrieve a piece of paper from my bag and slide it under the glass window that separates me from her. "I'd like to access a safe-deposit box."

The woman brings the paper to her line of sight and examines it. "And you're Laura Thomas."

"No, I'm her daughter. She passed away this week."

Mel tilts her head and delivers a sympathetic look. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," I say.

"Do you have a death certificate?"

I shake my head.

The bank teller glances at the paper again before typing on her computer. "Let me see what I can do." Her eyes scan left to right on her screen. "It says here that Elizabeth Thomas is authorized to access the lockbox. I assume that's you."

"That's right." I nod.

"All right, I'll just need to see an ID." She delivers a faint smile.

I start to dig through my bag, pretending to look for something I know I don't have. My hands shake as I flip through notebooks and journals.

"I must have forgotten it at the house," I say, slumping my shoulders.

Mel pulls her chin in. "I'm very sorry. I can't do anything without proper ID."

"Please," I beg.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

I pull my sunglasses off for only a moment to wipe the tears away. The woman offers an even more sympathetic look. It's clear she feels bad. Loss is a shared experience, and it's why we give to others when they are going through it. Casseroles, money, flowers, even a break. She looks over her shoulder toward an open door at the other end of the bank. Voices murmur inside the room. Her eyes dart to me.

"Do you have the lockbox key?"

I pull it from my pocket and hold it up.

"Okay. If anyone asks, you showed ID," she says with a small smile.

I nod.

Mel escorts me through the back, her heels clicking along the tile floor. It leads to a large vault door which requires several keys and a code to open. Behind it is a room lined with metal boxes, stacked floor to ceiling. She walks to one labeled 1407 and inserts a key.

Looking over her shoulder, she says, "Yours goes here."

I slide mine into the keyhole and we turn them at the same time.

A little door pops open. Mel pulls out a long metal box and places it on the table in the center of the room. "I'll give you a moment," she says.

I thank her, and she exits, leaving me alone with the items my mother left behind... ones that will help set me free.

I pause, letting out a deep breath before opening the safe-deposit box. There are no stacks of money, no rare pieces of jewelry, no valuables I could pawn off. There's just a sealed manila envelope with the words The Truth scrawled across it in my mother's handwriting. I pick it up, running my fingers over it. There's more than a letter in here. It's bumpy in some areas. Undoing the metal clip, I open the flap and dump the contents of the envelope back into the box. A small ring with a black gemstone set in the center clatters against the metal tin. I pick it up, running my fingertip over the oval-shaped stone. The color changes from black to blue. It's a mood ring, a relic from the '90s. I set it down and shake the envelope again. An old receipt and a piece of torn clothing fall to the table. Not everything spills out, so I reach inside, removing a First Place blue ribbon and place it next to the ring. For some reason, I feel like they go together.

I examine the receipt first. It's for a money order for five thousand dollars. I recognize the name it was made out to, and my father's signature at the bottom of it. My fingers go to the frayed, ripped fabric. It looks like it used to be black but has faded to dark gray. I turn it over and stitched to the other side is a name. I recognize that name too. My hand dips back into the envelope, retrieving a letter.

Carefully, I unfold it, already knowing the words inside are going to separate my life in two: before I knew the truth, and the aftermath.

I read the letter, gasping at every startling admission. It's unbelievable, so much so, it feels like I'm reading a work of fiction but it's not. It's the truth... an ugly one at that.

I reach the final line:

I've taken these secrets to the grave, but that's as far as I can take them.

Laura Thomas