All his clothes and shoes had been donated or thrown away—he didn’t have anything even close to new or fancy, just jeans, flannel shirts, and the like. She’d taken three of his shirts, washed them, and hung them in her own closet for memory’s sake. No, they didn’t get along at all, but he was still her father, and she thought she might want something of his down the line. They still hung in the far reaches of her closet, and she hadn’t taken them out since that first washing.
The first box didn’t contain much. A few photo albums she didn’t have the energy to flip through. Some spy novels. His favorite. A shoeshine kit, which made her snort a laugh because not only had she never seen him shine any shoes, but all he ever wore were his steel-toed work boots. What would he have shined? A toiletry kit was also there, almost empty save for a razor, some tweezers, and a small travel-sized bottle of Brut, the cologne he slapped on once in a while. She unscrewed the cap and took a whiff…and was instantly transported back to that old, run-down house and her childhood. She closed her eyes and could see her father’s smiling face. He didn’t smile often, and she was grateful that was the memory that hit her. She gave herself a shake and put the cologne back.
The second box only contained a few things as well. A framed photo of her grandparents that she didn’t remember and decided to take with her, so she set it aside. A small tool kit with a hammer, flat-head screwdriver, Phillips-head screwdriver, tape measure, and pair of pliers. She also decided that might come in handy and set it next to the photo. The last thing in the box was another box, also sealed shut with tape. This tape was different, and she figured whoever had packed up her dad’s closet had simply tossed this box in without looking inside. She pulled the tape off and flipped the flaps open. A pile of envelopes filled her vision.
Her heart began to pound as she read her own name and address on the top one.
“Oh my God,” she whispered as she picked it up. Reaching into the box, she sifted all the envelopes through her fingers. There were dozens.Dozens. Maybe a hundred or more in all. Different sizes.Different colors. Different weights and thicknesses and postmarks. A few had been torn open, but the majority of them were still sealed. Never opened. Never given to her. Tossed into a box and left there for decades. The only thing that was the same on every single one of them was her name in her mother’s flowery handwriting.
“Oh, Dad, what did you do?”
She dropped them, covered her mouth with both hands, and felt the emotion boiling inside her. She wanted to read them. She also wanted to put them away and pretend she’d never found them. Her eyes filled, which pissed her off, because she’d made a vow a long, long time ago not to give her mother any more of her tears. She’d given far too many as it was. But now?
What about now?
Because while this pile of mostly unopened letters didn’t change everything, it certainly changedsomethings. Yes, her mom had still left, but she hadn’t ghosted her. She’d done what she could at the time to stay in contact. She’d sent—she sifted through them again, scanning dates on the postmarks—roughly six or seven letters a year for God knew how many years.
What had her father been thinking? On what planet was it a good idea to let your child think her mother wanted nothing to do with her, rather than explain the intricacies of divorce? Maybe not when she was five, but how about when she’d gotten older? As a teenager? When she was old enough to understand some of it? How in the world did he think completely erasing her mother from her life was the better option?
She felt sick and, for a horrifying moment, worried she might throw up right there in the middle of the dingy storage unit. But she pulled herself together and literally swallowed down her hurt, her borderline rage atbothher parents now—though she had to admit she’d softened the slightest bit over her mom.
Several minutes passed, and she stayed in the unit, on her mother’s rocker, and just blinked into the gloom while she let her brain absorb the new knowledge. And then, as if poked by a cattle prod, she plunged her hand into the box, grabbed one envelope, and pulled it out.
It was a soft mint green with a Hallmark gold seal on the back. Clearly a card. It was postmarked the year she turned ten. She tore it open before she could talk herself out of it and slid a birthday cardout. A teddy bear holding a bunch of balloons graced the front, and a big pink number ten floated above it. When she opened the card, a twenty-dollar bill slipped out and settled into her lap. Her mother’s handwriting spoke to her from inside.
To my little Cherry Pop—
I know you’re probably too big now for teddy bears, but this one reminded me of Sherman. Remember him? You had him when you were two and he was about the same color brown as the bear on this card. I hope you have a terrific birthday. Use this to buy yourself something fun. I can’t believe you’re ten years old! I love you and miss you so much. Call me anytime. I’d really love to talk to you. It’s been so long. 919-555-6723. Happy birthday, my sweet girl.
Love, Mommy
The tears were flowing freely now. She opened five more. Each card or letter had the same phone number printed at the end. She’d had access to her mother for years and years and hadn’t known it. And this time, that feeling of being sick wouldn’t be swallowed down. She bolted from the chair and out into the daylight to a nearby garbage can where she emptied her stomach until she was dry heaving nothing but air.
* * *
Later that afternoon, alone in the apartment—Shea was out of town visiting her parents and Adam was working—Cherry sat on her bedroom floor, the pile of cards and letters fanned out between her knees. She hadn’t opened more, since the few in the storage unit. Hadn’t been able to find the strength she’d need to do that. She’d looked at all the postmarks, and she’d put them in chronological order, but that’s as far as she’d gotten.
She needed to open them. She owed Lila at least that, didn’t she?
When her phone pinged a text notification, she didn’t think twice. Probably Shea checking on her, as she’d done three times already that day. But when she glanced at the screen, she felt a jolt of surprise.
It was Ellis.
A little gasp left her lips without her permission and she quickly opened the text.
Been thinking about u…not sure I should tell u that, but there it is. U ok?
Apparently, Cherry had turned into a waterworks that day because her eyes welled up as she read the text again. Should she respond right away? Wait a bit and let Ellis stew? She snorted. Why? Why wait? She typed.
Hi! So glad to hear from u. Ok is a relative term. Been a really weird day…
The gray dots only bounced for a second before Ellis’s text came back.Tell me.
Those two words warmed her in a way she didn’t expect, and the tears spilled over and down her face as she cried for what felt like the sixty-third time that day. She cleared her throat, wiped a hand across her cheek, and typed.
Found out yesterday that my mom tried to contact me, but my dad wouldn’t let her. She said she sent letters for years and never heard back…
Ellis replied with a simple:OMG.
