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“We can leave them a note,” she said. “That way they won’t wake you up when they get in. With Patrick gone, I could use the company. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes get scared on my own.”
“Okay.”
She let Shawn write two notes and he went off to brush his teeth while she taped one to the back window of the bus and slipped the second into the front bifold door. She settled him on the couch under a big puffy quilt and a spare pillow she told him he could keep. Then she sat in the den with her knitting, leaving the door open between the two rooms so the light would slant in.
At 9:00 he called, “Deborah?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you think my mom will get mad about what I ate?”
“I don’t see why she would. You had lettuce and tomato on a bun with a glass of ice water on the side. We won’t mention anything else, okay?”
“Okay.”
And after a few minutes, “Deborah?”
“Yes?”
“You know what?”
“What, Shawn?”
“This has been the best day of my life.”
“Mine, too, sweetheart,” she said. Her eyes filled and the knitting blurred in her lap. She had to put a finger on her lips to maintain silence while she blinked back tears.
22
I let myself into my studio at 7:00, the manila envelope full of letters tucked under one arm. I tossed the package on the desk and then went and poured myself a glass of wine. I confess I was looking to alcohol to bolster my courage. This might have been the first step on the road to a drunken downfall, but I doubted it. Twice I picked up the envelope and turned it over in my hand. I was reminded of that old question that comes up occasionally at a cocktail party: if you knew that in your top dresser drawer there was a piece of paper on which was written the date and time of your death, would you peek?
I’ve never known the right answer. There probably isn’t one, but the dilemma is whether you’d opt for total ignorance or for information that might affect the rest of your life (however short it might be). Since all of the letters had been returned, it was clear Aunt Gin had rejected Grand’s peace offering-if, indeed, that’s what it was. Maybe the messages were Grand’s berating of Aunt Gin for failings real and imagined, impossible to know unless I sat down and read them. I hesitated for the following reasons:
1. It was bedtime and I didn’t want to spend the next six hours stewing about the past. Once I climbed on my emotional carousel, especially in the dark of night, I’d circle for hours, up and down, around and around, often at speeds that threatened to make me sick.
2. Once I knew the content of the letters, I’d be stuck. In my current state of i
I went to bed and slept like a baby.
In the morning, I went through my normal routine-the run, the shower, clothes, a cup of coffee with a bowl of cereal. I picked up my shoulder bag and the packet of letters and drove to the office, where I made yet another pot of coffee and settled at my desk. This was an environment where I felt safe, the arena in which I experienced my competence. What better setting in which to risk personal peace?
Before launching myself into uncharted territory, I made one more quick evasive move. I called Deborah, asking if Rain would be willing to meet with me. She put Rain on the line and after a brief discussion, we agreed to get together Saturday morning at a coffee shop on Cabana Boulevard, in walking distance of my studio. The place was a favorite of hers and she’d been looking forward to having breakfast there while she was in town.
I made a note on my calendar. That done, I got down to business. I divided the letters into two piles. In the first I placed those addressed to Virginia Kinsey; in the second, those addressed to me. I began with Aunt Gin’s. The earliest was postmarked June 2, 1955, three days after the accident in which my parents died. A quick examination suggested that this was the only letter she’d opened before sealing it up again and sending it back.
Dearest Virginia,
We write you with heavy spirits, our hearts burdened with sorrow as we know yours must be. The loss of Rita Cynthia is more than any of us should have to bear, but I know we must push forward for little Kinsey’s sake. We were heartened by news that the doctors had examined her and found her unharmed. I spoke to the pediatrician, Dr. Grill, and he suggests that given the trauma she’s suffered, we’ll want to have her reevaluated in a month or so, pending her response in the aftermath of the accident. Children mend so much more quickly than adults do under the same circumstances. Dr. Grill cautioned that her physical recovery and her psychological well-being might be at odds. While the child might give every appearance of having adjusted, an underlying depression could well manifest itself as she begins to realize the finality of her parents’ passing. He urged us all to be alert to the possibility.
We were disappointed that we weren’t allowed to see her during her overnight stay in the hospital here. Of course, she was under observation and I’m sure the doctors were busy seeing to her care. We would not have disturbed her for the world and I thought I’d made that clear. Our only desire was to peep into the room so that we could see with our own eyes that her condition was stable. We had hoped she might spend time with us, but we perfectly understand your desire to take her straight home to all that is known and familiar. At the same time, Burton and I are praying to visit the child as soon as possible so we can personally offer the comfort and support she so desperately needs. If there’s anything we can do for you, in terms of emotional or financial relief, please let us know. We stand ready with our arms open to you both.
On another note, we would love to sit down together and discuss Kinsey’s future. We believe it would be in the child’s best interests to be settled here with us. Burton and I are putting together a proposal that should satisfactorily address both your needs and ours. We look forward to an account of Kinsey’s progress.
Your loving mother, Grand
I closed my eyes, marveling at the sentiments expressed. Did Cornelia Straith LaGrand know nothing about her two oldest daughters? I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected my mother would have reacted badly if she’d received such a letter. Virginia, younger by a year, was doubtless incensed. The Aunt Gin I’d known growing up, was volatile, opinionated, and fearless in the face of authority. She’d have been livid at Grand’s barely disguised attempts to gain the upper hand. The pointed omission of my father’s name must have infuriated Virginia further. Grand’s reference to “a proposal” would have been especially offensive, as though my future were subject to a carefully constructed business plan that Aunt Gin would warm to as soon as she understood its many virtues and advantages.
I returned that letter to its envelope and took up the next in date order, postmarked June 13, 1955.
Dearest Virginia,
My letter of June 2, 1955, was inadvertently returned to me. Perhaps the address I have is incorrect. If so, I’m hoping the post office will forward the address correction. In the meantime, I’m sure you’re doing everything possible to assist little Kinsey during her recovery from recent tragic events. Given your own deep sorrow for your sister’s passing, you must be under a strain as well. I’m hoping both you and Kinsey are bearing up under your sorrow as best you can. Burton and I are hard-pressed to know where to begin the process of putting all our lives back together. It would do us such good if you could see your way clear to having Kinsey spend a few days with us.