Felicia loves the closet.  

     She likes to crawl in behind the smart cotton dresses that her mother favors, feeling their softness brush against her skin in the warm blackness. The faint scent of White Diamonds lingers on the cloth, and she strains to catch that comforting fragrance in the gloom.  When she was younger she would play with her dolls here.  She is too old for them now, but it’s hard for her to give up her secret place.  So she comes here to think about important things, twelve-year-old type things. 

     Today she is bold.  She wants to explore the small part of the closet that her stepfather has wrested for himself.  The crisp, dark suits stand their ground, crowded into the corner by silk blouses wrapped in protective plastic.  It has only been a few months since they invaded.  She leans forward to stroke the fabric in her hands; her fingers run over the rough, scratchy wool.  Delicately, she sniffs the sleeve of a jacket and wrinkles her nose in disgust at the reek of cheap cigars.  
 She ducks underneath the jacket to get to her old, favorite spot in the corner, but her path is blocked.  She unfurls probing fingers and they scurry over the obstruction, pulling it to her.  

     It’s a box, her hands whisper.  

     Curious, she stands on tiptoe and flails one arm in the air.  It hits the string and Felicia yanks it, drowning the closet in light.  She squints and opens her eyes slowly, one at a time. 

     They focus on the box in the center of the floor.  

     The box is sturdy, covered with soft black leather.  It stinks of shoe polish; the lovingly buffed surface gleams even in the dim light.  She sits down in front of it and tries to lift the lid, but the box is locked.  Picking it up, she shakes it by her ear and hears nothing.  She shakes it harder but it slips out of her tiny hands and lands upside-down on the floor, like an overturned turtle.  A turtle with a key duct-taped to its belly.  Delighted, she carefully frees the key and it turns in the lock, clicking into place. 

     She lifts the lid to reveal two unsealed envelopes, cradled in the blue velvet lining.  The first envelope is slightly yellow, and crisp with age - this she opens first, delving inside to fish out an old photograph.  
 

The girl sat on the hood of a dirty white Cadillac, parked in the driveway of a huge Victorian house with peeling paint.  Her knees were drawn up, painfully thin arms wrapped around bare legs.  Her T-shirt hung low over soiled shorts.  Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent; it glowed unhealthily in the harsh sunlight.  The scene was bleached.  The only splashes of color were her shiny red boots and the striking red of her long hair, tumbling gently around her in the breeze.  Her nose rested on the tops of her knees - fine eyebrows arched over liquid brown eyes. 

     Megan sighed and yelled out, “Fine Mom, I’m coming.”   
     She hopped off the car and began walking up the driveway.  Placing each foot carefully in front of the other, she counted her steps under her breath.  It took twenty-three of her little feet – plus two big toes worth – to get to the door.  She pulled it open stepped into the darkness of the front hall, rubbing away the goosebumps that erupted on her arms. Wandering into the kitchen, Megan sat down at the table and started picking at the scab on her elbow.  Her mother was making a salad.