Wake the Hollow Page 10

  The keyboard and mouse make soft clicking noises. “Let me just see something…” His fingers fly over the keyboard. He stops typing. “Yes, she had a safe deposit box here. And you’re…Micaela?”

  “Yes.” My heartbeat picks up speed.

  He swivels his chair to face me. “Good. Because your name’s there, too.” He smiles. All I can do is stare at him. “Are you all right, Miss Burgos?”

  My chest feels like it’s lifting, expanding. My name is on the account? So she did love me enough to trust me with something. “You said my name is there?”

  “She just added you recently but couldn’t get your signature. It says here you were unavailable.”

  Lela, please come home.

  “I…I live in Florida, but I don’t understand; she knew where to find me.” Each time I checked the mailbox the week Mami’s letter came to Emily’s, it had already been emptied. Were they keeping my mail?

  No... Lies...

  I can’t listen now. I rub my temples and try to mute the voice.

  Mr. Hertz looks at me funny. “I’m instructed to call a William Riley for the probate docs. Was that her lawyer?”

  “I…I think so.” Though I remember Betty Anne saying that Mami no longer trusted him.

  “Give me a minute.” Mr. Hertz gets up and holds out his hand. “I’ll need two forms of ID.”

  I pull out my Florida driver’s license and social security card then hand them both to Mr. Hertz, praying it’ll be good enough. He glances at my license. “Nice photo. Oh, and you’re going to need the password, so think about that while I’m gone. Be right back.”

  The lighthearted feeling I had a moment ago deflates. Password? What could that even be? Outside, a silver car pulls into a disabled parking space. A moment later, a pair of thick legs clambers out of the driver’s seat along with a walking stick. My brain leaps to attention when I see the familiar bearded face. Immediately, I text Bram:

  Doc T to your left.

  He uses the same bank as my mother forty minutes away? First, someone arrived at my mother’s basement before I got there. Now, someone’s at her safe deposit bank when I’m at her safe deposit bank. Am I being followed? I want to cower, as if he can see me through the bright reflection outside the bank window. I watch him pull a black leather book from the backseat. Slowly, he heads for the front door.

  My phone chimes. Bram texts back:

  Dude, wtf???

  IDK!!

  I start to reply, but then Mr. Hertz is back, flustered. “Okay, I’m going to need you to sign this, so we can fax it to Mr. Riley. Then he can send a power of attorney, which you’ll also need to sign, and we can get this all taken care of. Usually, this takes a while, but he seemed to be in a rush.” He waits, fingers poised on the fax, as a document comes through. He takes it and places two papers in front of me, indicating where to sign.

  I swipe his pen and sign my name, hoping to get through this without any further red tape. He takes them back and enters them one at a time through the fax. “We needed your signature to assign you as a co-applicant, but now it should be quick and easy.”

  “Sorry about all this.” I try to smile.

  “Not at all.” Mr. Hertz reaches into a drawer and pulls out a set of keys. “Would you follow me, please?” I trail behind him down a brown and beige hallway lit with pretty, antique-looking lamps. He uses a card key in another door and lets me through. My phone buzzes again.

  Went back to his car…think he

  forgot something

  If he comes back, stall him please.

  It makes no sense, but I feel the need to buy time. Mr. Hertz makes small talk along the way, stuff about his daughter getting braces today, but I cannot focus on a single thing this man is saying. We reach a wooden cabinet where he opens a drawer and begins searching. Then he pulls out a key identical to mine and moves a tablet with an electronic pen over to me. “Sign here.”

  I force another scrawl out of the pen.

  “This way.” He leads me straight to the middle of the left wall where the boxes are slightly bigger than the ones to the right. “She rented out a medium-sized safe,” he explains then stops in front of the box marked 512 with a little keypad next to it. “Four to six letters or numbers. But Miss Burgos”—his expression changes—“if it doesn’t open, I can’t help you anymore.”

  “How many chances do I get?”

  “Let’s say three,” he says then politely turns away.

  My heart pumps blood faster and faster through my body, adrenaline spiking. What if I get it wrong? What if my three chances get me nothing? I insert the key and a little red light blinks. What is it? God, help me, what is it…

  Sunnyside? No, too long. Coconut? Seven digits. No. Wait…Coco?

  Slowly, I enter 2-6-2-6, but the red light remains fixed. Damn it. What else mattered to my mother? Sleepy Hollow? Irving? Yes, of course. Irving, Irving—the Earth, Sun, and Moon all revolved around Irving. “Please, please…” My fingertip presses 4-7-8-4-6-4. I cover my eyes then slowly peek between my fingers. The light remains red.

  “No.” Tears threaten to spill right here in front of Mr. Hertz. God! Where are the voices when I actually need them? What mattered most to my mother? Maple Street? The Hollow? Yes, it has to be.

  My finger lightly touches the pad without pressing down. Something doesn’t feel right. No, that’s not it. Mr. Hertz leans against the wall of boxes, allowing me room to breathe. I press my forehead against the cool metal.

  My brain screams a million thoughts.

  Inhaling deeply, I reach as far back into my mind as I can for the happiest time I could ever remember. It was Christmas. I was little, in bed with the blankets up to my chin. My new doll, so pretty and perfect, tucked under my arm. My mother had finally made one for me—a special doll that even looked like me with blond hair and hazel eyes. Mami sat on the edge of the bed, her pretty face aglow from the little ballerina lamp on my nightstand.

  “Isn’t she pretty, Lela? You like Sofia?”

  “Yes, Mami, I love her!”

  My eyes fly open, and swiftly, I punch in the password, like I’ve known it my whole life. If it’s HOLLOW, may you forgive me, Mami. 7-6-3-4-2—SOFIA. The green light switches on. I cover my face, and the tears flow freely.

  Mr. Hertz moves in to open the second lock with the guard key, and then steps aside. “Lucky guess, I take it?”

  Wiping my eyes, I peer into the safe deposit box. There’s a large folded manila envelope stuffed with papers, a thick rubber band wrapped around it. I reach in and pull it out. The box could easily hold more stuff. A yellow note is tucked under the rubber band. My mother’s handwriting no longer seems weak or maniacal, as I originally suspected. It looks…

  Lela, I should’ve

  told you while

  you were still here.

  Take it and run.

  …as if she’d been in a hurry.

  Mami’s words slice through layers of ether, like a knight’s sword through tangles of thorn-infested vines from another dimension. I slam the empty box shut, turn on my heels, and for once in my life, do exactly as my mother tells me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound.”

  Down the corridor and past file-carrying bank employees, I run. Through the lobby, slowing down once to shove Bram’s arm holding up his head. “Let’s go.” In the parking lot, I hear the shouts of “Miss, come back, you have to sign out!” Bram opens the driver’s side door then reaches across to open mine for a speedy departure.

  “I hope you have a good reason for this,” he says, the old Accord ripping into action. “Just tell me you didn’t kill anybody.”

  “I did not kill anybody.” I get in and slam the door shut.

  Bram backs out of the space, then rockets out of the parking lot, tires screeching against the asphalt. I check for any followers. “Then why are we running? What did you steal?” He readj
usts his rearview mirror.

  “Nothing.” I stare at the windshield. “But I think someone might be after this stuff.”

  Bram speeds through three yellow lights and a red one at an empty intersection. I check the side mirrors, even though I haven’t done anything wrong except not sign out. The box was in my name, the password was Sofia… My mother couldn’t have left me stolen property, could she?

  “I take it the key worked.” Bram eyes the package. “You gonna open that?”

  “As soon as we get back. I have to be alone.”

  He opens his mouth to speak.

  “No questions. Just drive.”

  Once we’re back on Route 9 with no traffic lights to slow us down, I breathe a little easier. Sundown’s light creates deep shadows on the roadside trees. Bram glances at my mother’s hastily written note. I should’ve told you while you were still here.

  What does that mean?

  Questions whirl in my mind. None turn into solid answers. My mother left this package, yet barely talked to me? Fresh tears rise into my eyes. Was Dad really keeping us apart?

  “Are you okay?” Bram asks.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t understand why my mom barely called me, and then this.”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t trying?”

  I look at him. “You think she did everything she could to reach me, don’t you?” Same as Betty Anne.

  He shrugs. “If she’d been able to, you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in now.”

  “Which is?” I eye him sharply.

  He turns to me, lips slightly apart. “Mica, look at you, getting weird notes and keys from your mom, important things from safe deposit boxes. I mean, I know you love your dad, but you realize everyone knows he’s had you living in a bubble, right?” His voice takes on a crazed undertone.

  “How would you know how I’ve been living?” I snap.

  He’s quiet, staring at the road ahead.

  If my dad has me living in a bubble, would he have let me come back to Sleepy Hollow despite his hating it? “My dad,” I say carefully, “would’ve told me if my mom had called or mailed me anything. He had no reason to keep us apart.”

  But…even as I say it, I don’t believe it.

  Bram cocks his head uncomfortably. “Unless he didn’t want you to be involved.”

  “Ugh.” I drop my head into my hands. God, I didn’t want to think that. “Just stop.”

  “Maybe your mom was dealing with forces outside her control. Maybe your dad doesn’t want you in the middle, maybe he has his own private shit going on, you know, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I said stop! This is not happening…” Have I really been this blind?

  “Or maybe…” He shrugs. “I’m full of shit. It’s just a feeling based on the way things ended for her, Mica. All alone, you know. Hopefully, whatever’s in that envelope will explain it. I’ll shut up now. Your place or mine with that stuff?” he asks, resigned.

  “Mine.” I don’t want my personal things anywhere near Jonathan Enger.

  He nods and takes my hand. I let him. I need calm and peace. As we re-enter Tarrytown, I revel in these last few minutes of normalcy, knowing that whatever my mother left inside this package will probably change my life forever.

  ...

  Inside the townhouse, I lock the front door quietly. Bram stands there, holding my backpack.

  “Wait here a minute,” I instruct and go knock on Nina’s door. The light is on in the space between the door’s bottom edge and the floor.

  “Open,” she mutters. I crack the door to find her shoving her things into a bag. Her eyes are pink and puffy. “Have you talked to your father today? He’s not answering my calls.”

  “He’s in Bogotá, remember?”

  “I know where he is,” she snaps. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Whoa. “No, I haven’t talked to him.”

  Her shoulders slide downward. “Mica, I’m going to visit my sister in Brooklyn for a couple of days. Do you think you’ll be all right?”

  “I guess so. Is everything okay?”

  She shakes her head angrily at a shirt in her clutches. “I just need some time. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Pressing a ratty, crumpled tissue to her nose, she sniffs.

  “Is it me? I know I haven’t been around as much as I should. There’s a lot going on. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s not you. I’ll be back, okay? Three days, tops.”

  “Sure.”

  Her face is so red from crying. I stand back with a sinking feeling as Nina moves past me and quietly lays her key on the foyer table, looking at me one more time before shutting the front door.

  ...

  In the living room, I unwind my scarf from my neck, toss it onto the couch, and plop my tired ass down. The silence between Bram and me is deafening. I pluck off the rubber band from around the folded envelope. This better be worth it. Bram leans against the doorframe to my room, running a hand through his hair, looking unsure what to do. I stare at him, not about to browse anything until he makes himself scarce. I appreciate him taking me and everything, but I need to do this alone.

  He takes the hint and turns in to my bedroom. “I’ll be in…this room…if you need me.”

  The bed’s springs creak under his weight, and I know it’s safe to open the envelope. I unclasp and remove a massive block of papers, some white, some yellowed with age, the corners of old photos poking out the sides.

  “What should you have told me while I was still here, Mami?” I whisper.

  At the top of the thick pile is a visitor’s pass to Historic Hudson Library, rare collections by appointment, where everything requires supervision. Last I remember, Jonathan’s grandfather, Benjamin Enger, has been head librarian there. I stare at my mother’s photo ID lanyard. Amazing how much I look like her. There’s another lanyard to some place called NDCC.

  Next are faded photos of my mom as a little girl, plus older black and white ones from Cuba. Her parents fled Castro’s regime in the 1960s, which makes me side with the locals sometimes—why would Mami say we’re related to Irving? Did she just love this town so much, she wanted nothing other than to fit in? Is that what she wants to confess? That we’re really just children of political refugees with no relation whatsoever?

  It’d be disappointing, but at least it’d be the truth.

  I pause to admire a lovely sepia-toned photo of a man dressed in a white suit seated with a small guitar. Smooth and shiny black hair, thick mustache, surrounded by three children, two in dresses, one in a linen suit. The two girls are identical twins with curly blond hair. Next to him sits an even older gentleman, also in a white suit. On the back, the year 1911—Enrique Salazar Vasquez and Pablo Vasquez Medina. A sticky note with my mother’s handwriting reads:

  Your great-great-grandfather—

  Enrique, Pepe’s dad, (Pepe was Pablo, my grandfather)

  In his eyes, I detect the same mixed expression my mother always wore—obsessed, pained, never happy about anything, yet patient, meticulous, and loving. Yes, loving. She may not have been the sweetest woman on Earth, but it wasn’t because she lacked affection. Life had just hardened her.

  The next paper is folded, thin, yellow, and brownish in spots with cracked edges split in places. Another sticky note is attached, and I silently thank my mom for having thought to label everything for this posthumous tutorial:

  This managed to leave Cuba safely.

  DO NOT lose it, whatever you do. It’s very old and now, very yours.

  Very mine?

  Carefully, I unfold the decaying sheet until it’s spread open wide in front of me. It’s a family tree composed of different handwriting over the years, outlining a complicated web of lines and circles. Hundreds of dates and names cover the page, beginning in the late 1700s on one end and spanning across two centuries in every direction. Family members born in Spain, Portugal, Cuba, even the U.S.—the most recent.

  A recent entry belongs
to Patricio Vasquez Rodrigo, born in 1947. His daughter, Maria Pilar Vasquez Salazar, was born in 1971. In 1997, she married Omar Jaysen Burgos. My parents. My grandfather, Pablo, died when Mami was two years old. I remember a story about how he left Cuba with his wife, Ofelia, my grandmother, in the sixties.

  Related. Yeah, okay. My family was as Cuban as rum and cigars. The last entry, written in by Mami herself, is for me—Micaela Katerina Burgos.

  What’s so horrible about all this?

  I trace the long family names back in time all the way to the first documented ones in Spain. Madrid 1826, Juan Cristóbal de Medina, underlined twice. And in small faded print, so much so that I might have missed it if I wasn’t straining my brain to make sense of it all, the Spanish word adoptado. Next to it, two more names—Hernán Juan de Medina and María Teresa de la Cruz. Above that, instead of two parents—only one.

  I stare at it, my pulse quickening. Next to it, another of my mother’s sticky notes with nothing but a big bold arrow pointing to it.

  There is no way.

  The parchment shakes in my grip, and I set it flat on the table. I can’t touch it anymore. The handwriting is small, the ink faded. I would accuse my mother of writing it in herself, but it’s not her handwriting. I pluck off the note with the big arrow and gaze at the name—

  Washington Irving of New York, United States of America. 1783.

  “Holy shit.” My breath catches in my throat.

  But Irving never married, never had children of his own, only nephews and nieces back at Sunnyside. Maybe this is another Washington Irving, and my mom just assumed it was the author? Is this thing for real?

  I hear Bram’s voice from the other room. “Is it a big deal?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stare at the glaring, empty line in place of a mother’s name. If Irving had a Spanish baby born in Madrid in 1826, the mother could’ve been anybody. He was fascinated by Spain, the Spanish language, even lived there a while after London. He also served as U.S. Ambassador to Spain later on.

  A child.

  A Spanish child.

  I stare at the paper a long time. So I really am related? As a great-great-great-granddaughter? I rub my eyes and try to absorb it all. Why didn’t she show me this before? Was she trying to confirm it before she suddenly died?