“Okay,” Mom says. She gives the okay sign. We all tend to use that sign, the thumb and pointer finger together making a circle, instead of the thumbs-up. It’s a leftover habit from learning some signs when we were getting scuba certified. In scuba-speak, a thumbs-up means Heading to the surface right NOW, we need to end the dive! Not exactly the same as okay. Mom says, “I’m just going to go over the calendar one more time.”

Mom is super good at planning trips like this. She’s brilliant at seeing all the little puzzle pieces and logistics and fitting it all together and taking care of all the details. We’re going over the plan again, though, because she’s also a worrier. I think I get that from her.

Here’s the plan:

Ruth and I will be driving from our home here in Knoxville to San Diego in Ellie and Eddie’s RV. Mom’s giving a lecture about women in the Tang dynasty at a summer conference at the university, Dad will present his graphic designs to a new client for their website, and then in about a week they will fly out and meet us in San Diego, where we will all visit familiar places and explore pirate ships.

And Ruth and I will find our secret box.

And I will reveal my secret pictures, our old and new memories.

And Ruth will have real treasure again.

I’ve tried to remember what we put in that box. I can remember most of it. At the time, my favorite possession was an old Polaroid camera, the kind of camera that printed out the pictures right as you took them, and you waved the photo in the air until the image appeared. Like magic. When I could get film, that’s the camera I used on our Treasure Hunts. Pretty sure there’s half a dozen Polar-oids of a random smattering of purple things in that treasure box. I’m excited to compare those to my more recent photos to see how much my photographic composition skills have improved in the last few years.

I put in lots of other pictures too, some from the Polaroid, some printed from other cameras. Pictures of our boxer dog, Ramses. Pictures of Mom and Dad working at the kitchen table. Pictures of Ruth riding her bike, holding her old stuffed animal, listening to music, or wearing the baggy old white T-shirt she used to pretend was her pirate blouse. I remember those pictures. I remember her being happy in those pictures.

“You guys really going to be okay?” Mom says.

“You can call us every night,” Dad says.

I spread my arms out wide at my sides. “It’s gonna be incredible!”

I watch Ruth trace a finger across the wood grain of the table, and I wonder what’s going on behind her tired eyes. I know there have got to be happy memories in there. The Ruth from those pictures is in there somewhere. My plan for the next week—my plan for this trip—will be to remind her. And tomorrow, the plan begins.