Read Online Tuesday Night Miracles by Kris Radish - Free Book Online Page A

pointing to her old wooden jewelry box. Kit was desperate to understand what her mother wanted. Finally, she grabbed the box and walked it across the room to her mother’s bed.
    “This? You want this?” she asked, straining to decipher what her now voiceless mother wanted.
    Her mother nodded.
    “You want me to open this now?”
    Her mother shook her head back and forth, as if to say no.
    “You want me to have this?”
    Yes, her mother nodded.
    “Now? Should I open it now?”
    There was a long pause, and Kit saw tears pooling in her mother’s eyes that finally spilled over. Kit set the box down and rushed to her mother, wiping the tears. But her mother kept pointing at the box. It was her small treasure chest. Kit knew this. It was her mother’s private stash, the one place she could keep whatever treasures she might have accumulated in her lifetime. In spite of what her brothers might think, Kit respected her mother’s privacy and had never looked inside the small wooden lacquered box. But how she had wondered.
    Kit could clearly see her mother mouth the word no .
    “Later? I should take it and open it later?”
    Her mother nodded again, and the tiniest smile crossed her face. It was the last time the two of them had anything close to a conversation.
    Kit is standing by the foot of the stairs when she thinks about the jewelry box. She set it in the closet behind her boxes of old summer clothes and has yet to open it. What’s the point now? Her mother is gone. All the conversations she wanted to have will never happen. All the questions she had will never be answered. All the chances to empty her heart have been abolished. Or have they?
    She shakes her head, turns, and stands for a moment by the front door. When she turns, there is no way to avoid the photographs of her daughter hanging in the entry hall.
    My baby .
    Kit starts with the first photos, raises her left hand to them, and runs her fingers on the glass that is covering her daughter’s face. Beautiful Sarah. Another name of a saint, but a lovely name that wouldn’t get her harassed on the playground. Grade-school photos. Soccer-team photos. High school. Graduation. Sarah with her Kit-like dark hair trimmed to her shoulders after years of letting it grow to her waist. The gallery goes all the way down the hall, and she follows the photos as if she were dancing, touching each one, closing her eyes to remember the moment Sarah caught the ball, got an award. The house was full of life and laughter and, especially, love.
    Gone now.
    Sarah is on some island off the coast of Canada. Is it because of me that you’re so far away? Kit thinks. Why does everyone leave? Should I have kept my anger in the bedroom like my mother did? Was I too protective? Too quick to make sure you were okay and whole and centered and safe?
    “I miss you so much,” she whispers, as she lays her forehead on the last photo.
    She closes her eyes, and just then her cellphone vibrates in her pocket. She prays that it’s Sarah, but it isn’t. Kit takes a deep breath and answers the phone moments before it goes into her voice mail.
    “This is Kit. Can I help you?” she says in the sweetest possible voice.
    “Yes, Kit. It’s Michael Corrigan. I took care of your mother’s estate. You might remember me from when your father died. We are set to do a reading of the will but …”
    He hesitates, and Kit’s stomach rises right into her throat.
    “But what?” she asks, raising her voice and pushing herself away from the wall.
    “There is one small complication.”
    “How small?”
    The bright and respected Michael Corrigan hesitates yet again.
    “What?” Kit asks, impatience flooding her voice. “Man up here, Mr. Corrigan. I assure you I can take it.”
    “Your brothers have asked that you not attend.”
    Kit remains poised. She takes a breath, turns around to face the last photograph of her daughter, and then glances up the stairs leading to her bedroom closet and the as yet