Magnolia

"How are you doing, Magnolia, dear?" My attention snaps to the small woman before me, the haze clearing from my vision as I take in her worried expression; deep creases lining her eyes as she squints at me through smudged glasses. It's no doubt obvious to everyone but her that the lenses are no longer suited to her failing vision, but I won't be the one to say so.

The corners of my mouth curve up into a dismal smile, but it's the best I can manage given the circumstance. I've already endured what feels like a hundred of these halfhearted interactions, but I can't seem to muster the will to sneak away with the preachers scrutinizing eyes on me. If I'd known there would be this many hands to shake, I wouldn't have had a reception at all. But for a gypsy, my mother has a surprising amount of friends… Or at least, she did.

"As well as can be expected," I say, letting the woman take my hand in her icy, reed-thin fingers. I refrain for correcting her address, smothering my cringe; only my mother ever called my Magnolia. "I didn't expect so many people to come?"

She glances over her shoulder at the sea of black suits and vailed bonnets, grouped in small clusters of hushed conversation, before patting my hand. "Indeed," She agrees, turning back to me; her small smile matching my own. "Grace was an exceptional soul, this is only the proof of it, dear."

I nod, letting my hand slip from hers; I couldn't disagree even if I wanted to. My mother was exceptional—exceptionally wayward. Her life as a journalist kept us constantly in motion, never staying put for more than a couple months at a time. This room is indeed proof of a miraculous life of adventure, but no ones bothered to ask me about it. I think deep down, they know what I would say.

Grace Langmore was an exceptional journalist… Not so much a parent.

"She certainly knew how to throw a party," I chuckle wistfully, noting the decorations around the room, more suited to a new year's party than a funeral. "The adventure really does never end with her." Being the person she was, I wasn't surprised to find that her will included instructions for her memorial. For a wandered, she was unusually organized, but I suppose that came with the territory. The calendar book she kept was a mess of colored tabs and chicken scratch notes, but we never missed an appointment.

Yes, we, because what better way to raise a child than practically shoving them in a suitcase and dragging them around the world? Okay, I wasn't literally in her suitcase, but it felt like it most days.

I've always described my childhood as a series of highlights. As in, mostly exhausting and terrible, sprinkled with amazing days that should have made up for it but didn't.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, the woman reaches up and pats my cheeks. "I know things didn't turn out as you'd hoped, dear. But you should know, to Grace, you were her greatest adventure. She never had a mother of her own, you know, and I think, she was afraid that you would miss out on all the world had to offer. She loved you very much, Maggie."

"I loved her too," I say, and smile more genuinely. That, at least, is the truth.

She pats my cheek again before turning to let the next stranger tell me about a mother I'm beginning to feel as though I never really knew, but stops abruptly. "Oh my, I nearly forgot, she left something for you." Rummaging through a small carpetbag, that I'm sure is several decades old, the flora pattern faded and threads poking from loose seams, she hands me a little black notebook. "Grace gave this to me for safe keeping, to give to you should anything happen to her." She smiles to herself, a fond gleam in her distant eyes as she strokes the binding before adding, "I do hope it brings you some comfort." Then she wanders away with a lingering smile, and moments later is swallowed by the crowd.

I trance the binding of my mother's tressure, noting the stained canvas cover and yellowed pages. It's barely larger than my cell phone, and I'm surprised I don't recognize it, given how few possessions we had when I was young. But before I can discover its mysteries, the next stranger has come to greet me. It's nearly nine before the house is emptied of guests, and I'm left with the ghosts of my mother.

I wander about the tiny place, the moon glinting off calm waves beyond the tall windows overlooking the cliff coastline. For the first time since the news of Grace's passing, I get a good look at the place my mother called home. Beneath the glitter and black tables clothes and under the assortment of cards scribbled with condolences, I can almost picture her life here.

Dark green curtains hang at the windows, while a cream, faux fur rug covers most of the living room floor. Along the pale grey walls, mismatched frames hang from nails and dulled twine. To anyone else, the edgy décor is a jumble of random tastes and colors, but not to me. Despite the mismatched look of the place, each piece reflects the theme of somewhere we'd been before.

There's an antique corner cabinet from Sweden, refurbished with a dark lacquer coat just barely lighter than the floorboards. The emerald sofa reminds me of the country house in southern France we stayed in one summer. In the kitchen at the back of the space, a set of olive wood bowls with hand-painted edges occupy the open shelving: a momentum from our safari when I was thirteen.

I remember I had asked to see Africa several times before then, but my mother had always laughed and said, "Maybe when you're a not bite-sized. Wouldn't want to tempt the big cats, now would we?" Back then, I thought it was only because she didn't have work that far south, but looking back, I doubt I would have been able to manage the trip any sooner.

The more I look around her house, the more I see snapshots of our adventures, and I hate the way it tightens my chest. I can't help but feel like being on the other side of our life together is the only reason I can see this house for what it is; the story of us. If my mother were sitting in this room now, would I still see the monument she built to me here or just the things she didn't give me? If I could go back, would I still choose the life I have now, in my small corner of the world? Then again, if she were here, maybe I wouldn't be able to see this place through her eyes at all.

At the thought, I spot the notebook from earlier, feeling my fingers drawn to it like a moth to the flame. Part of me knows that opening it means opening myself to more disappointment. But if I leave it be, the curiosity is sure to haunt me. And besides, once I leave here, whatever is left of my mother will stay locked in this house forever.

I take a seat on the sofa and open the pitch cover; a bright silver key stares back at me from the first page, held in place by a worn bit of tape. My eyes trail to my mother's chicken scratch writing beneath: If you dare to follow me on one more adventure, look below the balcony at our hotel in Atami, 2004.

Instantly, the memory dances through my mind. We'd gone to the Japanese town for the Plum festival. Grace had been thrilled to land a room in one of the inns overlooking to the garden itself. I'd been seven then, and so enchanted by the town, we'd stayed long enough to watch the plum blossoms fade. As if my eyes already knew what they're looking for, I spot a photo of the garden across the room.

Pulling from the wall and turn it over, opening the frame. On the pictures back, the numbers 071613 are written in my mother's hand: the date of my sixteenth birthday. I tap the picture against my palm, trying to summon the memory. For a moment, I barely remember anything outside of the massive fight we'd had over it.

I'd wanted to go back to Paris for my birthday, but Grace had always had a rule about travel. "If you always visit the same places, you'll never see anything new," she would say. So, we rarely traveled anywhere more than once unless the money was worth the trip, which as a freelancer was rare for mom. I'd begged and begged, but she'd taken me to Stirling Castle in Scotland instead. I'd been miserable until she'd presented me with a period costume at our hotel the day before. I'd felt—and looked— looked like a princess the entire day of the tour…

Then I'd gone back to being pissed.

I look for a photo first, but I return to consult the notebook when that yields no results. Turning to the second page, I read her next clue, which isn't a clue at all. Instead, my mother taunts, Giving up so soon? A snort escapes me, and I toss the book onto the counter as I head for her bedroom.

Like the rest of the miniature rambler, her bedroom is bedecked in mismatch furniture and assorted pictures. I feel my throat constrict when I notice the raggedy washcloth stuffed kitten laid out on her bed. Push on, I move on to the closet before the tears climb up my throat and start leaking. It's so like Grace to take one more shot at making me forgive her.

I find the dress in the back of the closet, pulling it from the rack to trail a finger over the maroon satin and white lace accents. I remember mother had complained that it wasn't as sixteenth-century accurate as she'd hoped, but I loved it all the same.

It isn't until I move to return it to the rack that I notice the safe door hidden on the back wall and rush back to the living room for another clue from the notebook. On the next page, there's yet another clue: The Black Crook. I smile, knowing I'm the only one who'd ever solve a clue like this, and head back to the safe. I punch in the numbers 1866; the year the play was first performed on Broadway.

It was considered the first proper Broadway performance; just one of the fun facts my mother drilled into my head during our New York tour when I was accepted to design school there. It was also the last trip we ever took together…

I feel hot tears spill down my cheeks when the safe door clicks open. "Damnit mom," I whisper under my breath, pulling out the manila folder and a sealed letter left inside. I open the letter, and read my mother's last word to me; the words I never knew I wanted to hear:

Dear Magnolia,

I spent my life chasing the world, but in the end, I had it all along. I love you. Mom.

Swiping the damp from my cheeks, I open the folder next, sucking a hissing breath through my teeth with a whopping twenty grand spills out onto the closet floor along with the deed to the house. I remember she was always squirrelling away any spare cash, but I'd never imagined she'd built a nest egg quite so big on a writer's income.

After all these years, she finally gave me a home, and after all this time I realize, she was home all along.