The Heritage Paper

Chapter 2



“Maggie, c’mon, you’re going to be late,” Veronica Peterson shouted up the stairwell to her twelve-year-old daughter. She waited a moment, still no reply.

But there was no time to dwell on it. She swooped into the kitchen and caught nine-year-old Jamie about to douse his sister’s cereal with jalapeño sauce. She grabbed the jar out of his stunned hands on her way to the toaster.

“Haven’t you poisoned enough food this week?” she asked, while hastily buttering a piece of toast.

Jamie smiled his “can’t be mad at me” smile. Her husband used to say it was like Mariano Rivera’s cut-fastball—you knew it was coming, but it would still get you every time. She wasn’t a big baseball fan, but understood the power of Jamie’s smile. And it worried her.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I thought it was sugar. You know how Maggie likes sugar on her cereal … and with her project this morning …”

Yeah right.

The Maggie reference served as a reminder to check on her again. While Jamie was impossible to remain mad at, Maggie was quite the opposite. Veronica was convinced that she thrived on it—acceptance was the enemy.

Maggie had worked so hard on her Heritage Paper, trekking over to her Oma’s place a couple times a week to interview her about the family history, or at least Ellen’s version of it. Veronica was so proud of her effort, and thought she was finally starting to integrate into her new school, but on the day of the presentation she wouldn’t even get out of bed. She was such a mystery.

“Maggie—I’m not kidding,” Veronica yelled again up the stairs. “It would be a shame for you to put all this work in and then not show up.”

No response.

All she could hear was Jamie crunching his cereal.

“What did I tell you about closing your mouth when you eat?” she asked on another walk by.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Yeah right.

She hurried up the stairs to Maggie’s room. She stared at the unfamiliar door, plotting her next move. The house was a lot different from their apartment in the city. It wasn’t that Veronica disliked it; it’s just what it represented.

She wanted to knock down the door like in one of those TV cop shows, but with her luck she figured she’d end up breaking her foot. And on top of that, Maggie never responded to threats. She perpetuated a stubbornness that always made Veronica’s mother make snide comments about acorns falling near trees. There were rumors about Veronica having a similar stubborn streak during her youth.

She lightly knocked, then waited … nothing.

Maggie was likely playing her music too loudly through her headphones, in defiance of Veronica’s warnings about deafness.

Passion for music was another handed-down trait, although their tastes differed greatly. Maggie had recently converted from bubblegum pop to a mishmash of loud and angry, which corresponded with her latest personality twist. Veronica preferred the classics—if 1980s “glam metal” was considered to be classic.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something was wrong. She twisted the door handle—surprised to find it unlocked—and burst into the room.

Maggie was nowhere in sight.

Veronica performed a quick reconnaissance, her focus settling on an art easel in the center of the room. Maggie was a talented artist—better than Veronica ever was, even though she was no slouch with the brush. It seemed like a different lifetime when Veronica was the fresh-faced art history major at NYU, back before Carsten Peterson swallowed up her life. But now Carsten was dead, and she needed to find the old Veronica.

She checked Maggie’s latest masterpiece, which was as angry as her taste in music. A mother cradling a bloodied child as bombs burst around them. Was it concerning the loss of her father, the looming war, or maybe both?

Veronica snapped back to reality. She couldn’t believe with her daughter “missing,” she’d slipped into a momentary daze. As a single mother she had to think for the three of them, but sometimes wondered if she could even care for herself.

She noticed the cracked window—the same one she caught Maggie sneaking out once before, by shimmying down the gutter. She ran to it and felt immediate relief when she spotted her daughter. But what was she doing? Maggie, wearing her typical ponytail and Kingston for President T-shirt, was digging a hole in the backyard with a rusted shovel.

“What the …”

Veronica bounded down the stairs and through the kitchen. “Jamie, leave the cat alone.”

“Mom, I was just …”

Yeah right.

Veronica put on her down coat and stepped out into the chilly November air. She then headed toward the likely confrontation that would spoil the morning. “Maggie, what are you doing?”

“I’m almost done,” she said, without looking up.

“What did I tell you about burying bodies in the backyard?” she asked, forcing a disarming smile.

“Jamie’s class will be so excited that he’s bringing his comedian mother for Career Day.”

The twenty hours of labor, the late night feedings, the trips to the emergency room for the asthma attacks … for this?

“Now that I’ve humored you, maybe you can tell me why you’re digging up the backyard?”

Maggie let out an angst-filled sigh. “It’s part of the Heritage Paper project. We have to bury a time-capsule that can’t be dug up for thirty years. Oma and I put it together.”

“My Bon Jovi shirt isn’t in there, is it?” Veronica asked. She checked her watch—they were getting late.

“That shirt is a dark family secret that should remain buried.”

Veronica tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t hold it. Neither could Maggie, who began to laugh at her own wittiness. It was one of those rare moments that made all the negotiations and mental gymnastics worth it. There hadn’t been a lot of laughs since Carsten died, but then again, there wasn’t a whole lot of sunshine at the end of his life either.

Veronica took off her coat and draped it over Maggie’s shoulders. “Your brother and I will be inside eating breakfast when you finish.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

A cease-fire. Things were looking up for Veronica, but she knew with two kids it could start going the other way at any moment.