Chapter 6
The envelope had sat on Grandpa Charles's bedroom desk for two nights without either of us touching it. It was a plain white business envelope, the flap tucked in and sealed with a small piece of clear tape that had yellowed. Mom had written CHARLES across the front in her quick, slanted handwriting. The same handwriting that was in the notebook.
Lily and Grace were asleep down the hall. I could hear Grace breathing through the baby monitor he'd found in the attic and plugged in. It crackled every few seconds. Charles was at his desk in his reading glasses, the notebook closed to his left, Mom's old phone face-down to his right. The desk lamp made a warm circle on the wood. Outside the window it was dark and raining again.
"The other two are yours now," I said. "This one was for you."
I hadn't let him open it before. I'd kept it in my backpack zipped into the front pocket. Part of me was scared that once he read it, he would have to do something about it. The other part was scared of what it actually said.
He looked at me over his glasses. "Are you sure you want me to open it now?"
I nodded and slid it across the desk toward him. My hand was shaking a little so I put it in my lap.
He peeled the tape slowly so it wouldn't tear the paper. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper folded in thirds, and a smaller folded yellow sticky note. He unfolded the big sheet first and smoothed it flat with his palm. His breathing got slower as he read.
I watched his eyes move left to right. He didn't read out loud. After a minute he turned the paper slightly so the light hit it better. At the top in Mom's handwriting it said March 18. About three weeks before she died. Under that: If you are reading this, Charles.
He read for a long time without moving. Then he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
"Can you read it to me?" I asked. My voice was quiet.
He nodded and put his glasses back on. He cleared his throat.
"'Charles, if Arthur does what I think he will do, I need you to take my girls. I am not being dramatic. He told me last month that when I am gone he wants a fresh start and that three grieving girls don't fit with Natalie. He said foster care would be better for them because he can't parent alone. I told him you would take them and he laughed. Please don't let them be separated. Sophie will try to be the mother and she is only eleven. Keep them together. Keep the photo of me together too, Sophie will know. Arthur always said it made the living room look sad and tried to put it away. I left the life insurance policy number and the bank account information on the sticky note. It's not a lot but it should help with groceries and school clothes. I want you to be their guardian. I signed below. I love you, Dad. - Claire.'"
He stopped. The monitor crackled. Grace mumbled something in her sleep.
At the bottom of the page there was a signature, and under it a notary stamp that was a little smudged but I could see the raised seal when Charles tilted it. Mom had actually gotten it notarized.
The yellow sticky note had two numbers and a name: Northstar Life Policy # 88471, First County Checking x4521, beneficiary Claire M. Hart.
I felt my throat get tight. She'd known. She'd known Dad would say what he said at the cemetery and she'd planned for it while she was still sick.
"She knew he'd choose her," I whispered. I meant Dad's fiancée. I didn't want to say her name.
Charles folded the letter carefully back along its creases. His hands were very steady but his jaw was tight.
"She was protecting you the whole time," he said. "This is a dated, signed statement of her wishes. And this -" he tapped the sticky note "- this is practical help she left for whoever stepped up. She named me. She told a notary."
He looked at the notebook and the phone and the letter together on the desk. For the first time since the cemetery, all of it was out in the open. Not hidden in my backpack or under Lily's mattress.
"We need to make this safe," he said, more to himself than to me. He stood up. "Sophie, I'm going to make copies of everything tonight. The notebook pages, this letter, the numbers. I'll keep the originals together somewhere he can't find them. But we'll have copies too, just in case."
I thought he meant a copy machine. He had a small office closet with a printer that also copied. He pulled the letter and the first few pages of the notebook to test it. The machine light went on and hummed.
"Can you hold this down flat?" he asked.
I held the letter down on the glass while he pressed copy. The light slid under it. The copy came out a little crooked but you could read every word. He did the same for the insurance sticky note. He put the originals into a large manila envelope he found in his drawer, then slid that envelope into the bottom drawer of his desk and locked it with a small brass key. He put the key in his coat pocket and then put the copies into a blue folder.
"This stays here," he said. He put the blue folder on top of the dresser. "And the originals stay locked. I'm not filing anything tonight. I want a full night to think and to call the county office in the morning to ask what the right way to do this is. But we're not sitting on a loose pile of papers anymore."
I nodded. I felt lighter and also heavier. The last hidden thing was not hidden anymore. She had written that she wanted us to stay together, and that she wanted Grandpa Charles. It wasn't just what I'd told him at the grave.
He put his hand lightly on my shoulder. "Thank you for trusting me with this," he said.
May you like
I didn't answer at first. I was looking at the copy of the letter on the dresser, at the words keep them together.
"She knew you'd come," I said finally.
