Chapter 4
After a restless night’s sleep, I have a headache Saturday morning that two cups of strong coffee do not cure.
I’m having trouble concentrating, so I pour myself a Hail Mary third cup.
I am still sorting everything my mother told me last night like items in a junk drawer, and by the time Hannah wakes, I’m jittery. I need to leave the house.
So we spend the day following whims. We catch the Metra train to the city and try on wide-brimmed hats and cat-eye sunglasses reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn at Macy’s.
We eat Garrett’s popcorn for lunch, then head to the Art Institute, where we stare at the dots of a Seurat painting until our vision blurs.
After, we grab a gelato, and I let Hannah run around barefoot with countless other children in the Crown Fountain.
I successfully escape.
But when we arrive home late in the day, legs rubbery from miles of city walking, we find a package on the stoop of our brownstone three-flat.
I don’t remember buying anything online.
After a closer look at the small brown box, I realize it’s from my mother in California.
From the amount of postage, I can tell she overnighted it. I take it inside, wondering what it is.
Once Hannah runs off to play on her iPad—I tell her she can have one hour of device time before dinner—I take the box to the kitchen and slice it open with a paring knife. Under the flaps, the first thing I see is a piece of notebook paper that reads:
I’m sorry.
—Mom
And below that, the box is full of unopened envelopes. I grab a stack and slide through them like a deck of cards. Every single one is addressed to me, at my childhood home in California.
Every single one has a return address in St. John’s Ferry, Wisconsin.
Every single one is from Alice Brodbeck.
I feel a sting at the corners of my eyes.
Receiving one letter in the mail in the days of texts and emails is beautiful, but taking in decades of them at once is overwhelming.
One after another, I open each envelope to see Alice’s scripty handwriting, sending me birthday wishes and good fortune.
She had sent me a birthday card every year from the time I turned four until I turned eighteen, plus Christmas and Valentine’s Day cards and other intermittent letters.
I count thirty-nine total. My mother had not given me a single one of them.
Until now.
I look again at my mother’s note. I’m sorry. She’s a woman of few words when she’s wrong. I know those two words mean so much more. I’m sorry for never giving you these cards and letters. I’m sorry for never telling you about your childhood.
I’m sorry for keeping Alice out of your life.
It takes me a good hour to read each card and letter in detail, a crash course in the history of my relationship with my great-aunt.
I notice her word choices change as I age.
She calls me her “baby girl” at first, then “sweetheart,” and eventually, “my dear.” But her dedication never waivers, even as the years pass, even when she doesn’t hear back from me.
Her faith remains. “The world is at your fingertips, my dear,” she wrote in my high school graduation card, one of the last in the lot.
“Just reach.” By the end, my eyes burn dry and my wrists ache.
And while I feel content—like I’ve been tucked into bed after a long, hard day—I also feel insatiable, like there’s still so much I need to know.
Hannah finally comes out of her screen cave and finds me sitting silently on the couch.
“Are you okay, Mom?” she asks.
“Yes, honey.” I pat the cushion next to me. “Just thinking.”
She sits. “About what?”
I’m not sure how to explain the situation, or whether I should.
My daughter is precocious, but is this a story better told when Hannah is more mature?
Does it paint her grandmother in a negative light?
I may not feel close to my mother, but I don’t want that affecting Hannah’s relationship with her.
“Well, something kind of funny happened,” I say. “Do you remember when Daddy’s parents mailed you a birthday card last year from Florida with some money in it, but it got lost and you didn’t get the card until a few months later?”
She nods.
“Well, sometimes mail gets lost. And it turns out, that’s what was in the box on the stoop. Lots and lots of letters from my great-aunt, Alice. Can you believe it? She sent me all these letters and cards many years ago, when I was a kid, and I am just getting them now.”
Her eyes widen with intrigue. “Was there money in them?”
I nod. Alice had sent a few dollars here and there, urging me in postscripts to buy myself an ice cream cone or candy bar with the money.
Hannah scans the large pile of letters. “Will you write her back?” she asks.
“That’s a very good question.” I marvel at my daughter’s ability to get to the heart of things. “I actually received another letter from her, a couple of days ago. She invited us to visit her this summer, to stay on her farm in Wisconsin.”
Hannah’s eyes pop again, and her lips suddenly purse and bulge. “Like a vacation?!” she asks.
I nod, and feel a twinge of guilt at Hannah’s reaction to the mention of travel.
We went to see Sean’s parents for Christmas the year after he passed, and we flew to California for my cousin’s wedding when Hannah was two.
But those are trips she could not possibly remember.
We haven’t gone anywhere in recent years.
Elena was right; I haven’t taken a vacation in the three years she’s been my boss.
“Would you like that?” I ask.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Hannah clasps her hands and bounces on the couch like a bobble head; it’s her pretty please with a cherry on top pose.
There is really no reason why we couldn’t drive up to Alice’s farm, at least for a few days. There are no dentist appointments, no birthday parties on the calendar. And Alice did write Anytime is fine.
After dinner, Hannah insists on packing for the trip, even though I tell her I’m not sure we are even going or when.
Mostly, she wants to discern which residents of her small stuffed animal village will tag along.
It’s a moot activity as I know she’ll try to cram all of them into the suitcase I gave her.
While she’s occupied, I grab the letter and my cell and head to the couch to dial Alice.
It rings five times before a woman picks up. Her voice is raspy but sweet.
And familiar, like a lullaby.
“Hi, Alice? It’s me,” I say hesitantly. “Maggie . . . Magpie,” I add, trying on the new nickname.
“You got my letter?” she asks.
“Yes.” I pause, searching for the next words.
“I’m so happy you called,” she says. “So, when can you and Hannah come visit?”
The conversation moves at breakneck speed. I’m silent for a beat.
“Well, you have impeccable timing,” I finally say. “I’m actually off work this whole next week,” I add, not mentioning my recent panic attack or trip to the ER.
“How soon can you come then?”
Out of habit, I check the refrigerator calendar, though I don’t need to.
“I guess as early as tomorrow? But I realize that might not be enough notice.”
“Notice? You don’t need to give notice with me.” She laughs; it’s a chuckle, deep and hearty. “You could show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night.”
My cheeks flush with the warmth of her affection, her soothing voice resounding deep within me. My eyes suddenly water, because I believe her.
I’m not sure my own mother would say the same.
“I feel like we have so much to catch up on,” I start, feeling like I just woke up from a dream, wanting to tell her everything that’s happened, my whole life. “How did you even find me?”
“Oh, we’ll catch up on everything. I promise,” she says. “Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want to spoil our reunion over the phone. It’s been too long, and I want to see your beautiful face when you talk. I want to catch every smile and every glint in your eye. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree.
I factor in what I have to do before we leave—at the very least, ask our neighbor, Mrs. Lee, whom I know only from her occasional gifted jars of kimchi but trust enough, to collect our mail for the week—and do some quick math on the driving time to St. John’s Ferry.
I tell Alice we should arrive around lunchtime.
“Then I shall see you ladies tomorrow,” she confirms. “I love you, my dear,” she adds before saying goodbye.
I sit on the couch a moment with my phone in my hands.
While I can’t remember the days I spent with Alice in St. John’s Ferry, I somehow—instinctually—know I love her too.