Chapter 9: Where The Truth Was Mailed
The photo stayed on the little table between us and nobody touched it. It was the one of Mom young, smiling in front of a brick building, with his arm around her shoulder. Richard's hand was flat on the table next to it, not on the picture, like if he touched it he'd have to believe it.
Vivian stood against the door. Her necklace caught the light every time she breathed.
Richard picked up the envelope I'd given him. It was soft at the corners because I'd held it so many nights under my pillow. The paper on the outside was yellowed and the ink was faded. He turned it over.
"There's two stamps," he said. His voice was low.
He read out loud, slow, like he was sounding out words. "Forwarded. 1200 Tower Place. Suite 400." He traced the red stamp with his finger. "And then... Return to sender. No longer at this address."
My shawl itched my neck. I pulled the cloth with the ring tighter in my fist.
"That's Dad's old office," Vivian said quickly. "He moved buildings that year. Mail got lost all the time."
Richard didn't look at her. He pulled the letter out. It was folded in three, and a smaller paper was clipped to it with a rusted paperclip. A doctor's note.
He unfolded it and his thumb shook.
He read fragments, stopping and starting. "'Richard... if you're reading this... I'm writing because... I'm pregnant. Eight weeks. Doctor confirmed today.'"
His breath caught. He swallowed.
"'I don't want money. I don't want trouble for you. I only want... you to know. And for the baby to know who you are one day. If you want nothing to do with us, just tell me. I will understand.'"
The dressing suite felt too warm. The wall sconce buzzed a little.
Vivian stepped forward. "Richard, you don't have to do this right now. In front of—"
He held up his hand without looking at her and kept reading. "'I've included the doctor's note... so you know this is real. You can call the clinic. My appointment was March 12th.'"
He looked at the small clipped paper. It was on thin paper with a blue logo at the top. He didn't read that part out loud. He just stared at it, and his eyes got wet.
On the back of the envelope, near the bottom, there was a little sticker with writing. He turned the envelope to the light.
"What's this log?" he said.
Vivian didn't answer right away. Her hands were clasped so tight her knuckles were white.
Richard leaned closer. "Forwarding log. Initials. M.R. - processed 4/14. V.H. - authorized hold."
He said the letters out loud. "V.H."
He finally looked up at Vivian.
"You were managing my mail that spring," he said. It wasn't a question. "You'd just started helping Diane in the office. You said you'd handle the tower move."
Vivian's mouth opened and closed. Her earrings swung.
"I handled a lot of mail," she said. "Hundreds of letters. I don't remember one letter from seven years ago."
"It was marked personal," Richard said. His voice got quieter. "It says personal on the front. In her handwriting. And it was forwarded, then held, then returned."
He set the envelope down carefully next to the photo, like both of them were evidence.
"I never saw it," he said, looking at me then. "Ellie, I swear to you, I never saw this. She did write me. She told me."
I nodded. My throat hurt. I remembered Mom at the kitchen table writing, her hand on her belly that was big then, saying, "If he knows the truth, he'll know what to do."
Vivian laughed a little, a short sound. "So now you're blaming me? You think I hid a pregnant woman's letter for seven years?"
Richard didn't forgive her. He didn't move to hug her or tell her it was okay. He just stared at the initials V.H. on the sticker and at the red Return to sender stamp.
May you like
"You authorized a hold," he said again. "That means you saw it."
I kept holding my cloth. I didn't say it was okay, because it wasn't. Mom had mailed the truth and it never got to him, and I had to walk into a ballroom to bring it myself.
