Chapter 19 #2
Dahlia sat down on the stairs and blew the dust off the green rusted box.
By the looks of it, it had been hidden for a long time.
Decades, maybe more. Her fingers lifted the rusted clasps and raised the lid.
“It’s more letters,” she mumbled to herself, letting out a mouse-like sneeze.
There were hundreds in the box. The skin on her arms tingled as if she knew she was uncovering a mystery meant to stay buried.
But the Dateline enthusiast inside her wondered who’d hid them and why.
Her curiosity won out as it often did, and with trembling hands she reached for the last one.
It was dated September 1, 1956. A quiet gasp spilled from her lips when she spotted the sender’s name and address. Gene Obermann, 6121 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. It was addressed to Lizzie Laurent, 6 Meadow Lane, Southold, New York.
Dahlia slid her fingers under the brittle envelope flap that had never been opened. She felt like a voyeur traveling back in time. She blew out the breath trapped in her lungs and read it to herself.
Dear L,
It’s been over a year since you left me, and I still haven’t received a letter back.
I’ve written you almost every day, and yet nothing.
I thought I would have heard from you by now if we still had a chance.
I’m not sure if your father has had a hand in keeping us apart or if you changed your mind after returning to your real life on Long Island.
No matter what, I want you to know that those two months we shared in Los Angeles were the best of my life.
You will always be with me in everything I do and who I become.
It will always be you and me forever. I love you with all my heart and soul.
Goodbye,
G
The box was filled entirely with letters from Gene.
Dahlia sat there, letting the tears roll freely.
She didn’t know exactly why she was crying.
She didn’t know this man, yet it felt like she did.
Through the years, she’d tried so incredibly hard to be strong, but now it felt like the dam was breaking.
Maybe it was supposed to. Someone kept these letters from Gran.
The likely assumption was that it was her great-grandfather, but it very well could have been her pop if he found out.
Poor Gene. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but she did.
It wasn’t his fault that her grandmother had misled him.
She wiped her wet eyes with her cobweb-free cuff.
What if he hadn’t known she was married?
What if he’d had no idea? The nostalgic young girl inside her wanted to tear each letter open and read every last word.
But with her head still pounding and the speed at which the facts were unfolding, she didn’t have the energy.
It was as if she was in a batting cage being pelted with balls.
If Dahlia read further, she might change her mind altogether about connecting with him. She feared something inside the letters might make him a knowing accomplice. So she closed up the tackle box and left it on the stairs, where the past belonged for now.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she scrambled to retrieve it. When she saw the text from Noah, everything stopped.
Why didn’t u tell me you had a daughter? I heard from my ex, of all people. The only thing I asked for was honesty.
She didn’t know what to say back in a text, so she called him instead from the kitchen. Her pulse quickened. What if he picked up? What was she going to say? Her throat closed, hearing it go right to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Noah. You know what to do.”
She heard the beep and took a deep breath.
“Hi, it’s me.” She paused. “I’m so sorry, Noah.
I know there is no excuse for not telling you about Daisy sooner.
I was going to tell you the other night.
I don’t know why I didn’t. Being with you made me feel things I’ve never felt before.
And I was afraid …” She heard a single beep, alerting her that the recording time had expired.
Panic set in, and an overwhelming sense of dread washed over her.
She had more to say, but wasn’t sure if she should call back and leave another message or if the last one had actually been recorded.
“Ugh,” she whisper-shouted. The linoleum floor was getting a workout the last few days.
She paced and bit her cuticle, trying to decide if finishing her thought was more important than looking like a stalker.
It most certainly was. She dialed his number while saying a silent prayer.
She wasn’t a desperate person, but the fear of being misunderstood sent her into a tizzy.
Please pick up, please pick up, Noah. It clicked, then an automated message filled her ears.
“This mailbox is full and cannot accept new messages.”
A stifled scream gurgled in her throat. Then she centered herself with a few deep breaths and texted him.
Noah, I’m sorry. All I can say is I was going to tell you. I guess a part of me was afraid it would scare you off. Call me back and I’ll tell you why. Your voicemail is full.
What more could she say? He was either going to forgive her or walk away. It felt like a game of chess, and it was his move now.