Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
It was Halloween and Flo was at the school dance.
I’d finished up at the NA family meeting—something I’d been helping out with more regularly—and was in the car waiting for her.
I’d brought a box to sort through while I waited.
I was glad of the distraction because the meetings always threw me.
Today I’d listened to a woman describe going no-contact with her son and I’d felt a sharp sting of recognition.
I didn’t want to think about all Tina’s unanswered letters and the fact I hadn’t visited her in years.
It was a relief to distract myself with boxes of culch.
I never knew what I’d find in the boxes.
I’d found one full of old tin toys, which had turned out to be quite in demand on eBay.
And another one of vintage Christmas ornaments, which were an unexpected joy.
They were a mix of glass in various abstract shapes and bright colors, shiny and tactile, and there was a kitschy little angel tree topper holding a candle.
I’d kept that box aside, to revisit in December.
As I pulled on my thick down jacket, beanie, and gloves and opened up the back of my hatchback, I wondered what I’d find.
I climbed in and sat down with my legs crossed, leaving the hatch up.
It was only forty degrees out, but there was a beautiful sea fog rolling through Camden and I wanted to enjoy it as it crept across the parking lot in thickening veils, muting the streetlights and the sound of music thudding from the gymnasium.
I’d brought a thermos of hot tea to keep me warm.
This box had been up in the “costume room” as Flo called it.
We’d found a little clutch of boxes when she’d hunted through the racks of clothes for something to wear for Halloween.
In the end Flo had chosen an old black suit and painted her face white, with black shadows under her eyes and cheekbones.
“I’m from the black-and-white times,” she told me, posing.
If it didn’t win the prize for best costume, it might at least win for most interesting. It was certainly weird.
This box was labeled MARLY’S. The handwriting was firm and decisive. Dying of curiosity, I’d packed it into the car, so I’d have something to do while I waited for Flo.
Inside there were a few old diaries—the kind you use to keep track of your appointments, not the personal kind.
The oldest one was from 1957. It was well thumbed and full of notes.
It was when I saw the words “Homecoming Dance” on a Saturday night that I realized the diary belonged to a teenager.
Teenage Marly, to be precise. The first page listed her contact details, giving the name Marly Orcutt, an address in Boston, and a phone number that didn’t seem to have enough numbers.
I turned the pages. There were dates for her SATs, which seemed to correspond with a week where there were a lot of appointments: “Mom: Dr. Wesley”; “Mom: blood tests”; and “Mom to hospital.” There was no record of her mother ever coming out of the hospital, but lots of visiting hours were listed.
There was a single wrist-length white glove in the box.
It had little flowers in open lace on the back.
And there was a heavy hardback book without a cover.
I hefted it out and looked at the spine.
Forever Amber. I’d never heard of it. I flipped the pages and found a series of old postcards and letters tucked between the pages.
The first was a screamingly bright graphic postcard that said, “Greetings from New Jersey.” Inside the letters were beachy pictures of cartoon people having fun in the sun. I flipped it over.
Hey, pixie stick. Did you get the cat I sent you? It’s to start your collection. x F
It was postmarked from Fort Dix, New Jersey, and dated November 1956.
There were postcards from West Germany, Korea, Hawaii, Japan, and then Washington, D.C. More than one asked if the recipient (Marly, I assumed) had received her latest cat, and I began to get an idea of why there were so many figurines of cats in our house.
There was a postcard from late 1957, the writing all tiny and cramped so it would fit on the card:
Kid, you kill me. Nothing from you for all those months, and then you write me the War and Peace of letters.
I must have sent you a postcard a month and NOW you write, right when I’m leaving.
I’ll send you a letter when I get where I’m going.
Hopefully they’ll bounce on your other letters—assuming there are other letters.
If there aren’t, write some, will you? I’m sorry to hear about your mom.
I can’t imagine what it must be like. Hang in there. Promise I’ll write. x F
And write he did, whoever he was. There were dozens of postcards, from all over the world, and letters written on thin onionskin airmail paper. The dates ranged from 1956 to 1962.
I can’t tell you much about my day to day, short stuff, or the censors will black out so much of the letter there won’t be any letter left.
Instead, why don’t I tell you something about a guy I met last week.
He’s a very mannered sort, soft spoken, with a sideways smile.
Very Southern and prone to deferring to others.
Which might not be what you’d expect from a man who makes girls scream just by walking into a room.
He doesn’t live in barracks but rents a private house.
Maybe so he’s got somewhere to store his blue suede shoes and his hound dog.
Oh my God, he was talking about Elvis, I realized, checking the envelope and date. West Germany, 1958. I felt a thrill run through me.
There was a postcard from Paris in 1962: I was supposed to be here with a girl I know, but she stood me up. x F
And one from Palermo: I’m getting fat on leave in Italy. Thinking I could live here when I’m discharged. x F
There was another brief airmail letter, written in a more unsteady hand: I heard you got engaged, pixie stick.
E wrote and told me. I keep thinking about that time I saw you in Maine, when I came back from leave.
I’m an idiot, I guess. Anyway, I wish you nothing but the best with the guy who was smart enough not to be an idiot.
Then there was a postcard from Maine later that year: I’ll wait.
That was the last one.
I blinked, coming back to myself and the trunk of my car. I felt like I’d been transported back in time. Who was he, this F? And what had happened between him and Marly? She’d kept his letters and postcards, so he clearly meant something to her.
I unpacked the rest of the box but didn’t find out anything more about F. I’d have to ask Jake what he knew. And if he didn’t know anything, or wouldn’t answer, I’d ask Elton.
I was in the middle of cramming everything back in the box when I saw Flo and the other kids coming out of the gym. “What happened to you?” I gasped, when I saw the red smeared all over her face. But it wasn’t blood—it looked like some kind of paint or marker.
“Lainey Mullins happened to me,” Flo said flatly. “It’s lipstick. She said it would turn me Technicolor.”
Now I was tempted to use the b-word. “I’m talking to your teachers. Where are they?”
“No, Mom.” Flo grabbed me by the arm to stop me from charging toward the gym. “Don’t. I’m all good.”
“You’re all good? You’re getting bullied by that horrible kid.”
Flo patted my arm. “Don’t crash out. I told you I’m playing the long game.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll find out. Eventually.” She got in the car. “Come on, it’s cold.”
“But—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
I paused. She wasn’t crying or upset, she wasn’t raging. She was telling me she was handling it. I tried to listen, but it was hard when I wanted to wring Lainey Mullins’s neck.
The week after Halloween, Tim came to collect Flo for his wedding.
Her teachers had given her work to do while she was away, and she was thrilled to get out of school for a week.
He came in on an early morning flight on Saturday and Flo and I picked him up from Augusta airport, which was a tiny regional airstrip surrounded by sodden parkland.
Augusta itself was the capital of Maine and a pretty little place on the banks of the Kennebec River, about an hour west from Oxeye.
It was a cool misty morning as we drove through, the fall leaves bright in the watery morning light.
Flo was bouncing with excitement at seeing her father.
I was nervous. I hadn’t seen Tim in person for months and was anxious that he’d say something negative about the house, and the fact that I’d moved our kid to rural Maine.
Not that he could talk. He’d moved across the country and left her behind.
“There he is!” Flo went flying when she saw him emerge from the little red-roofed building. She threw open the car door and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, flinging herself at him. My heart pinched to see how much she loved him.
He looked good, I thought reluctantly. Tim was tall and lanky, in an olive-green duffel coat with an oat-colored sweater and dark jeans.
He had a good haircut for a change, his brown hair styled with product.
Wedding hair, I thought a bit meanly, assuming Alyssa was responsible for the makeover.
He was still smiling as he climbed in the backseat of the car, his round glasses fogging up almost immediately. He laughed and took them off.
“I’m sitting in the back too,” Flo announced, sliding in after him.
She’d left the front door open, so I leaned over and grabbed for it, feeling graceless. “Hey, Tim,” I said. “Welcome to Maine.”
“Hi.” He dropped his arm around Flo and squeezed her. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Dad, we packed my bag in the trunk because we didn’t know what you’d want to do. Do you want to drive around looking at things and have lunch, or come see our house?”