The Charm Bracelet by Viola Shipman Read Free Book Online Page B

hibernation—came alive, and it was that essence of life that permeated the state, like Mother Nature’s perfume.
    I’m alive, it screamed, in every petal, leaf, reed! I’m green!
    As Arden came to the porch, she suddenly realized she had no key, but then remembered: Her mother never locked a door in her life. She gave the screen door a tug. It was unlocked.
    She swung the creaking door open and dropped the luggage. The smell of wood and smoke—from decades of fires in the old stone fireplace—greeted her. Nothing had changed: Same old barn red glider, rocking softly in the breeze, same quilt over the white wicker couch, an odd array of jigsaw puzzles—shellacked, yellowed, and poorly framed—lined the walls, patchwork rugs and painted floor coverings—of pines, ferns, trillium—scattered across the slatted wood floor of the porch.
    It’s nice to be home again, Arden thought, even with so much on my mind.
    Some of the screens were in need of repair. A couple had come loose from the frame, a couple had tiny holes.
    The makeshift coffee tables on the screened porch—old milk crates, blueberry boxes, and shelves from neighbors’ bee houses—were stacked with magazines.
    Arden kicked off her sandals, instantly feeling sand on her feet just like she had as a girl, and walked toward the stacks.
    Growing up, her mother had read National Geographic , Life , and Newsweek religiously. When Arden had told her mother she had gotten a job at Paparazzi , Lolly had stated, “I never knew celebrities interested you. I hope you’re also writing about something that is deeply meaningful to you.”
    Arden picked up a copy and did a double take. She stooped with some effort and began rifling through the issues.
    These aren’t just any magazines, these are my magazines. Paparazzi . Seemingly every issue. Even though I don’t have a byline on any of the articles.
    Arden’s lip quivered, and she clutched the magazines to her as if they were her mom.
    A breeze through the screen door ruffled Arden’s hair, and she heard a fluttering. She tilted her head, trying to determine the noise.
    She walked into the cabin and that’s when she noticed a myriad of Post-its fluttering in the wind. They were stuck to nearly every surface, almost like a Yellow Brick Road: The log walls, the refrigerator, the microwave, the pantry, the phone, even the floors. Arden followed the trail, plucking and reading the jagged handwriting aloud: “Eat breakfast!” “Get milk!” “Do laundry!” “Pay the phone company!” “Vacuum!” “Make dinner!” “Be at work by noon!” “Always put keys in basket by fridge!”
    Arden drew her arms around herself.
    She turned and walked into her mother’s bedroom, a little log-filled nook that overlooked the lake, the long shadow of a pine falling across the middle of the worn mattress. More Post-its were stuck to the mirrors over the dresser and the bathroom sink.
    â€œTake medicine!” “Take a bath!” “Brush wigs!”
    Arden took a seat on her mother’s bed and turned to face the window looking out at Lost Land Lake. The glass was cracked open, and the smell of water and pine filled the air. In the distance, kids screamed as they jumped into the still-cold lake. A dragonfly flitted onto the old wood windowsill.
    Arden grabbed a pillow from her mother’s bed and began to hug it.
    Another scent overwhelmed her: Her mother’s perfume.
    Shalimar.
    Arden noticed Lauren standing in the doorframe. In the shafts of light splaying off the lake and through the pines, her daughter looked so young.
    â€œMom?” Lauren asked, walking over to take a seat on the bed. “Are you okay? What’s going on with all the Post-its?”
    â€œNo, I’m not okay,” Arden said, her voice shaky. “And I don’t know.”
    Suddenly, the screen door banged