Chapter 6 - The Letter He Read
I had imagined finding a hidden letter that proved Anthony had been kept in the dark. I had imagined the satisfaction of placing it in his hand and watching him understand. What I had not imagined was hearing him admit that he had read my mother's words and deliberately shut the door.
"Say that again," I told him.
He did.
"Maria sent a letter for your second birthday. There was a photograph of you holding a stuffed rabbit. She asked if I wanted to visit. I read it. I told my assistant to return any more envelopes from her."
I looked down at the uncashed check lying on my table. For the girl. A thousand dollars, offered like a closing payment.
"Did you tell your assistant why?"
"I said it would be better for everyone."
"Better for whom?"
"Me," he said.
I cried then, not prettily, not quietly. I put the phone on the table and let him hear me because I was tired of protecting people from what they had done.
"My mother worked three jobs some years," I said when I could speak. "She told me not to worry when she skipped dinner. You bought yourself the right not to think about us for a thousand dollars."
"I know the amount was insulting."
"It wasn't the amount. She didn't cash it because you called me 'the girl.' I had a name."
"Gina—"
"Don't say it now just because I'm making you."
I ended the call and put the check away.
The next morning was Mom's memorial. I nearly missed it because I sat beside her empty bed until nine, trying to remember her voice saying something ordinary. She used to complain about the neighbor's terrible trumpet practice. She called me "little moon" when I was sick. She never learned to use the grocery store's self-checkout without arguing with the machine. All I could hear that morning was her younger voice on the cassette: I want Gina to know that I tried.
A woman from the community pantry told me Mom checked every food parcel twice to make sure families with children had cereal. A retired school custodian said Mom used to fix their spreadsheets after midnight without charging them. I was struck by how many versions of her existed beyond the exhausted woman who came home and asked whether I'd finished my homework.
I saw Anthony through the open doors during the second hymn. He stood beneath a maple tree near the church parking lot, his dark overcoat damp with rain. He hadn't brought security or a photographer. He didn't come inside.
After the service, Elaine gave me the little box that held Mom's letters. "You decide," she said. "There is no deadline on whether you want to hand them over."
I walked to the maple tree with the box under my arm. Anthony straightened when he saw me, but he didn't move closer.
"She used to sit in the third pew," I said. "On the aisle, so she could help if somebody needed to leave early."
He looked toward the church. "I remember her always being ready before anyone asked."
"That's what people say when they used it."
He accepted that too.
"I read your mother's letter again in the copy you sent me," he said. "She described your first steps. She wrote that you liked the sound of the kitchen drawer closing because you could make a rhythm."
"She wrote about me. Not to you. She was giving you a chance to know me."
"I understand."
"No," I said. "You understand what a letter says. I lived the part after you stopped reading."
He looked at the wet grass. "You're right."
I opened the box and handed him one envelope. It was dated the year I turned seven, the one with the gap-toothed picture. The company had returned it without opening it. I watched his thumb trace my mother's handwriting.
"I'm not giving you these so you'll feel less guilty," I said. "I'm giving you one because Mom wanted you to know there was a person on the other side of your decision."
"May I write to you?"
"You can. I might not answer."
"That's fair."
"Nothing about this is fair. It's just what I can offer."
"Anthony," I said, "will you agree to a proper DNA test if I ask?"
"Yes. Whenever you want."
"And will you sign a statement correcting what your company said about her, even if your board doesn't want you to?"
"I'll have it reviewed so it's accurate. Then I'll sign what I can stand behind."
His answer wasn't the dramatic promise I had wanted. It was better than an empty one.
I started toward the door, then turned back.
"The letter you read when I was two," I said. "Do you still have it?"
He hesitated.
"No. I destroyed it."
I nodded, though the words stung.
"Then the copy Mom kept is the only one left. Maybe that's why she kept everything."
May you like
I walked inside. Through the doorway, I could still see him standing by the maple tree with the seven-year-old photograph in his hands.
And I wondered whether I was ready to find out what sharing his blood would actually mean.
