Page 45 of Finding Mr. July

W ith how often you get stuck in things, it’s almost as if Washington is demanding you stay put,” Jude says when I tell him about my awkward run-in with Jonathan.

Jude is doing pull-ups on a bar in the doorway to the garage. “There’ll be a lot more sunny days in Austin,” was his explanation when he installed it this past weekend.

I, on the other hand, am devouring a slice of the pizza I picked up on the way home. I’m seated on the floor of the hallway, my back against the wall. The floor vent on my right spews a musty warm breeze into the air. Not sure Jude got the furnace cleaned this year.

“Ha! More like the universe is leaving nothing to chance in driving home how trapped I am.”

Jude lets go of the bar and stretches his shoulders. “Hey now. I’ve never known you to be a defeatist. You’ve been unemployed before. And how about in college when you weren’t sure what you were going to major in?”

“This is different,” I mumble around a glob of cheese. “I’m not twenty-two anymore. There are only so many times you can start over.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Oh yeah? Says the starting over expert?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out. “Sorry, that was a low blow.”

He jumps to get a hold of the bar again. “I’ll let it slide, but only because you’re a mess. And also not completely wrong.”

“But you have a plan,” I whine.

“… five, six, seven…” He counts his chin-ups and then drops back to the ground. “You could, too. Mom and Dad would love it if you came with us. And not all law firms are greedy world destroyers—you know, in case the nonprofit scene doesn’t work out.”

My stomach roils in revolt at the very idea, but I still nod, not wanting to get into it.

“And while you noodle on that, I know the perfect thing you can do.”

“Oh?” I follow him into the kitchen.

He smiles and hands me a box of oversized garbage bags. “Attic sorting time. Anything you think we should donate—kids’ clothing, toys, Grandma’s old tableware, linens, whatever—goes in these bags. Here’s a marker for labeling.”

I snatch it from him and attempt an unamused glare.

He waltzes on upstairs unaffected.

“What if I have questions?” I call after him.

“Label a bag ‘questions.’ I’m going to take a shower.”

Smartass. But maybe this is what I need—something mindless to focus my restless energy on.

I dig out the attic hatch key from the catch-all kitchen drawer, and then I get to work.

No one could have prepared me for the amount of stuff a family of two can collect over the course of fifteen-plus years.

I’ve peered into Jude’s attic before on the hunt for Christmas garlands and ornaments, but actually stepping off the ladder onto the boards that make up the walkway from one end of the space to the other? Terrifying.

There’s a window at each gable, but at this hour, they are merely gray squares, so I’m forced to rely on the three bare lightbulbs spaced overhead and a small flashlight.

The air smells like damp cardboard and lumber with faint whiffs of detergent from the winter clothes Jude always cleans before storing when the season is over.

Looking around, I decide I’m going to have to start away from the ladder and work my way back. Most of the donations will likely be among the boxes that no one has touched since they were brought up here anyway.

As carefully as I can, I tiptoe along the boards to where Ava’s disassembled crib has found its resting place.

On top of the slatted sides are several boxes marked “Baby,” which I drag toward me before I sit crisscross on the walkway.

I have one garbage bag open and ready, but one quick riffling through the first box, and I determine that the whole thing can go.

It’s nothing but old baby toys, many barely used.

I push it to the hatch and return to my post. One box down, a million to go.

I’ve made it through five more boxes of baby and toddler stuff when I come across a tub labeled with Mom’s handwriting.

I didn’t realize Jude was storing things for them, but it makes sense, as their current house is much smaller than the one they sold.

I open it, thinking it’ll be home decor and serving platters, but instead I find two shoeboxes labeled “Holly” and “Jude.”

I stare at the cursive letters for a moment.

Then I rest the flashlight on the seat of a red tricycle and pull out the box with my name.

At first, the items look random and jumbled, but then I recognize the envelopes with my high school report cards, the certificates of placement from my skiing days, and a bow-and-arrow key chain that used to be attached to my backpack.

There’s a jewelry box that holds the team charm from my last skiing race senior year, a macrame bracelet I made in art class for Mother’s Day one year, a bottle cozy with my middle school’s mascot, my driver’s permit card, and a headband with tulle flowers that I vaguely remember went with my first-grade ballet recital dress.

Below everything else is a plastic sandwich bag with a stack of printed photos.

I pull that out and set the box down next to me.

Some of the photos I’ve seen before—their duplicates are in the albums downstairs—but several are new to me.

There’s one of Jude entertaining me and my friends with a Michael Jackson impression, one of me in an all-yellow getup, posing theatrically with a hula hoop and a red ball, and a whole slew of me and my teenage crew just lounging.

On blankets on the lawn, at the neighborhood pool, in front of the TV, piled into a car.

Leena moved back to Finland junior year, and Cat went to college on the East Coast, so I’m not in touch with either of these girls anymore, but for a while, we were tight.

Sharing dreams and secrets. As successful career women, we were going to buy houses next to each other and our husbands would become best friends.

I chuckle at the naivete of it all. Although who’s to say Leena and Cat didn’t do exactly that? I might be the only one who’s screwed up the dream.

Before I can fall down that rabbit hole again, I dig out a clipped-together bunch of papers from the bottom of the box with a rudimentary drawing of a girl on the front. The title reads “Who is…” and then my name in stilted red crayon, “HollY.”

“No way,” I whisper. I’d completely forgotten about this.

It was a project the teachers at my elementary school did with the students.

Every year they’d have us draw pictures of our lives and answer questions about our likes, dislikes, goals, and aspirations, and for fifth-grade graduation, they presented us with this book.

I flip through it, stopping at certain pages.

I liked rain and watermelon, disliked green beans and chocolate.

“Weirdo,” I mutter. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”

I wanted to be a princess in kindergarten, but after that I had my priorities straight.

I was going to be a teacher (first grade), then a professor (second and third grade), and in fourth grade, I apparently found my calling.

The word lawyer is written in capital letters across the page along with a surprisingly good drawing of the scales of justice.

That must have been the year Dad took me to bring-your-kid-to-work day.

I stare at the page a long time. How old was I in fourth grade? Nine? Ten? And I’d already picked out the career I’d stick with for decades to come. I shake my head. So precocious. No wonder it didn’t last.

But then I flip to the fifth-grade page, and the harsh judgment of Little Me goes out the window. Because to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” fifth-grade Holly no longer responded with “lawyer.” Fifth-grade Holly simply wanted to one day be “happy.”

I suck in a breath and trace the heart surrounding the word with my finger.

Happy.

A memory of waking up next to Jonathan pops into my head. White sheets, soft light. He turns his head and smiles when he sees me there.

No.

I shrug off the image and set the boxes aside as I struggle to my feet in the cramped space. It’s getting late, and my back is killing me after sitting hunched over for so long.

But before I can get the donations down the ladder, my phone rings. It’s Rachel, and from the sounds of it, she’s driving.

“Figured I’d interrupt your deep dive into the job boards before you run out of oxygen,” she says.

I look down at my dusty jeans. “Jude beat you to it. I’m currently holding up my end of the modeling bargain by sorting through his attic.”

“Oooh, anything exciting?”

“That depends. Are you into old report cards and baby toys?”

“Sounds thrilling, but no. I wanted to see if you’d be up for a coordinated costume tomorrow?”

I straighten too fast and bonk my head on a rolled-up rug tucked in the rafters. It’s surprising more than it is painful. “What do you mean ‘costume’?”

“It’s Halloween weekend. Didn’t you see Manny’s email about making the event a monster bash?”

“No. And since when is Halloween considered a whole weekend? That seems excessive.”

She tuts. “Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun.”

Not sure about “fun,” but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to dress up as some sort of masked character. Then no one will know if I fail at presenting my gracious loser face. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Yay!”

I look down at the boxes at my feet. “Hey, Rach, what did you want to be when you were little?”

“Dolphin trainer, mechanic, or letter writer,” she says without hesitating. “I had at least ten pen pals I kept up with throughout middle school.”

“Does it bother you that you ended up doing something else?”

“Did I, though?” Someone honks in the background, and Rachel mutters a curse.

“Man, some people have no business being on the expressway.” She’s quiet for another few seconds, undoubtedly maneuvering away from the bad driver.

“Sorry, what was the question again? Oh right, work. So, today for example, I prepared a stakeholder release about projected earnings for the fourth quarter. Some would argue that’s not too far from writing a letter.

And this evening, I replaced the brakes on the Chevelle. ”

Ah, she’s driving home from the garage. “No dolphins, though.”

“Which is for the best considering my mediocre swimming skills.” I hear the click of her turn signal. She must be getting closer to home. “What’s this about?” she asks.

I tell her about the elementary booklet. “I guess I was hoping you’d tell me childhood aspirations are bullcrap. But clearly not.”

“Sounds like little Holly reached through the space-time continuum to grab you by the collar and rattle you up a bit. So now you’re wondering what will make you happy.”

“What? No. I’m wondering if I should go back to practicing law. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be. I feel like I tried my best, and I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

Rachel is quiet for a moment. “You’re giving up?”

“Or I’m coming to my senses.”

“Look, I’ve pulled into my garage and I’m starving, but don’t do anything rash, okay? If I were you, I’d spend some serious time thinking of your fifth-grade goals instead. Fifth-grade you was smart.”

We say goodbye and hang up, but later when I’m at my laptop, her words linger as I renew my nonprofit searches despite the seeming futility of the effort. Rachel thinks I’d be happier staying in this field, and she’s probably right.

I don’t sleep well. Ten-year-old me haunts my dreams all night, dancing frantically to Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” in a colorful courtroom.