Chapter 4 - The Letters in the Tin

The blue tin contained no single revelation.

That was almost worse.

It contained years.

Birthday cards.

School photographs.

Copies of letters.

Newspaper clippings.

A lock of hair taped to a card marked Anna, age six.

Paige sat beside the hospital bed while Anna lifted each item as though touching evidence from a crime scene.

There was a birthday card for Anna’s ninth birthday.

Then tenth.

Eleventh.

Every one unsent.

Anna stared.

“She wrote them.”

Jean nodded.

“After Thomas threatened legal action, Helen stopped mailing directly.”

“She could have mailed anyway.”

“Yes.”

Anna opened the ninth-birthday card.

Inside, Helen had written:

I wonder whether you still hate peas. Paige does. I hope someone lets you eat cake before dinner today.

Anna laughed once through tears.

“I love peas.”

Paige looked at her.

“I hate them.”

“Apparently she remembered correctly about one child.”

The joke hurt and helped.

There were photographs of Paige through the years.

Duplicates, apparently selected for Anna.

Paige at eight missing a front tooth.

Paige at twelve holding a violin she hated.

Paige at sixteen in school uniform.

On the backs, Helen had written small notes.

Your sister says she is too old to smile properly.

Your sister won a prize and pretended not to care.

Your sister dyed one strand of her hair purple and thought I would not notice.

Paige stared at her mother’s handwriting.

“She was making a life summary.”

“For me,” Anna said.

“Yes.”

“And never sent it.”

“Yes.”

Anna placed the photographs carefully on the blanket.

Underneath was a folder labeled SEARCH.

It contained records from private investigators.

Electoral roll searches.

Returned letters.

Old addresses.

A photocopy of Anna’s birth certificate.

A printed email from 2007 asking a landlord whether Anna still lived in Leeds.

Then later documents.

Social media printouts.

A screenshot of the cleaning company page.

Anna’s staff photograph.

Paige looked at the date printed in the corner.

December first.

Two days before Helen drove to Anna’s office.

Anna saw it too.

“She printed my face.”

“Yes.”

“She kept it.”

“Yes.”

Anna pressed her lips together.

“Why didn’t she call?”

Jean answered.

“Fear.”

Anna looked at her.

“Fear does not deserve that much power.”

“No.”

Beneath the search folder were two sealed envelopes.

One marked PAIGE.

One marked ANNA.

Paige had already read the first letter Helen intended for her after death.

This was different.

Margaret looked surprised.

“I didn’t know there was another for Paige.”

Jean did.

“It was written after Helen found Anna online.”

Paige touched the envelope.

Anna did not touch hers.

“Read yours,” she said.

Paige looked at her.

“Together?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Paige waited.

Anna continued.

“I need one thing that is mine before we turn everything into shared history.”

Paige nodded.

“That’s fair.”

Anna took her envelope.

Paige took hers.

Margaret and Clara stepped into the corridor.

Jean remained because she was attached to monitors, but she turned her face toward the window.

Paige opened her letter.

Paige,

I found your sister.

The words blurred.

She continued.

Not “I think I found.”

Not “maybe.”

I found her.

She works for a small domestic services company. Her photograph is online. She has your father’s mouth and the same scar beneath her chin from the paddling pool fall.

Paige looked up.

Anna was reading too, tears moving silently down her face.

Paige returned to the page.

I drove there. I saw her through the window. She laughed at something a younger woman said. For one selfish moment I wanted to walk in and say her name.

Then I was afraid.

I told myself I was protecting her. The truth is uglier. I was protecting myself from hearing that she wanted nothing from me.

Paige covered her mouth.

Her mother had known.

She had known the difference between protection and fear.

She had still chosen fear.

The letter continued.

You deserved to know you had a sister. I convinced myself that telling you without knowing whether Anna wanted contact would be cruel. I now believe that was another excuse.

I am writing because I am sick again and I may not have years to become brave.

Paige stopped.

“Sick again?”

Jean turned.

Paige looked at her.

“What did she mean?”

Jean’s face changed.

“She did not tell you?”

“No.”

Anna looked up from her letter.

“Tell her what?”

Jean closed her eyes.

“Helen’s cancer returned.”

Paige stood so quickly the chair tipped.

“No.”

“It was early.”

“She told me the scan was clear.”

“The first one was.”

“When did it return?”

“January.”

“Mom died in March.”

“Yes.”

Paige stared.

“She knew for two months.”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“She intended to.”

Paige laughed sharply.

“Of course she did.”

Anna folded her letter.

Paige paced to the window.

Her grief changed shape again.

She had spent six days mourning a mother she believed had died suddenly from a stroke.

Now she learned Helen had been dealing with recurrent cancer before the stroke.

“Was the stroke related?”

“No. The doctors said no.”

“Did she refuse treatment?”

“No. She had started planning it.”

“Why hide it?”

Jean’s eyes filled.

“She said you had spent too much of your twenties caring for her during the first cancer.”

“I was twenty-eight.”

“I know.”

“She stole the chance to be there.”

“Yes.”

Paige looked at Anna.

“Apparently that was her specialty.”

Anna flinched.

Paige regretted it.

“Sorry.”

“No. Keep being angry.”

“You don’t have to defend her.”

“I’m not.”

Paige sat again.

She finished the letter.

Helen wrote that she intended to tell Paige everything after contacting Anna.

She intended to apologize.

She intended to invite both daughters to the house.

She intended to accept whatever came.

Then the stroke happened first.

Intentions.

So many.

No time.

Paige folded the letter.

“What does yours say?”

Anna held her envelope close.

“Not yet.”

Paige nodded.

Jean watched them.

“Your mother asked me to give the tin to Paige if she died before telling you.”

“Then why did you keep it?” Paige asked.

Jean looked ashamed.

“Because I panicked.”

“About the will?”

“Partly.”

“What was the other part?”

Jean stared at Anna.

“I was afraid you would learn about the park.”

Anna frowned.

“The one visit?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I lied to Helen about it.”

Margaret appeared in the doorway.

“What?”

Jean’s face crumpled.

“I told Helen Anna barely spoke.”

Anna stared.

“I talked.”

“Yes.”

“I remember talking.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie?”

Jean began to cry.

“Because you kept asking for her.”

The room went silent.

Anna sat down slowly.

“I asked for Mom?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You asked whether she was coming. You asked why she stayed away. You asked if Paige could come home with you.”

Paige closed her eyes.

Jean continued.

“And when the visit ended, you screamed in the car.”

Anna’s face had gone white.

“I don’t remember.”

“I do.”

“Then what did you tell Mom?”

“That you seemed settled. That the visit confused you.”

Anna looked at her.

“Why?”

Jean pressed both hands to her face.

“Because Thomas told me if Helen tried again, he would disappear completely.”

Margaret whispered, “Jean.”

“I was afraid.”

Anna laughed bitterly.

“So you helped him.”

“Yes.”

“You told Mom I didn’t want her.”

“I told her you were distressed.”

“That’s the same to a mother who was already scared.”

Jean sobbed.

“Yes.”

Paige looked at Margaret.

“You knew?”

“No.”

Jean turned toward her sister.

“I never told anyone.”

Margaret’s face hardened.

“You let Helen believe that for thirty years.”

“I know.”

“You watched her blame herself.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell her later?”

“Because every year I waited made it harder.”

Anna stood.

“No.”

Everyone looked at her.

“Stop saying harder.”

Jean froze.

“Hard is not the same as impossible.”

“You’re right.”

“It got harder for you. Not for me. I was the one living inside the lie.”

Jean nodded.

“You’re right.”

Anna picked up her letter.

“I’m leaving.”

Paige stood.

“Do you want me to come?”

Anna hesitated.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“But call me tonight.”

Paige blinked.

“Okay.”

Anna looked almost surprised at herself.

Then she left.

Paige watched through the window as she crossed the hospital car park.

Clara followed a few minutes later, but stopped near the exit and let Anna go alone.

Margaret sat beside Jean’s bed.

No one comforted Jean immediately.

Paige appreciated that.

Consequences needed space too.

At home that evening, Paige did not unpack boxes.

She sat at the dining table with Helen’s letters spread in front of her.

At nine fourteen, her phone rang.

Anna.

Paige answered.

“Hi.”

Anna breathed.

“I read it.”

Paige waited.

“She says she came to the office.”

“I know.”

“She says she saw me.”

“Yes.”

“She says she was proud of me.”

Paige closed her eyes.

Anna’s voice cracked.

“How could she be proud? She didn’t know me.”

“She knew pieces.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No.”

“She wrote that she was sorry she let other people turn me into a question instead of a daughter.”

Paige wiped her eyes.

“That sounds like her.”

“You know what else?”

“What?”

“She asked me not to forgive her quickly.”

Paige sat very still.

Anna continued.

“She said, ‘If you forgive me because I am dead, then I have taken one more choice from you.’”

Paige covered her mouth.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Anna asked, “Do you hate her?”

Paige answered honestly.

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“A little.”

“Me too.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Paige laughed through tears.

“Complicated.”

“Terrible word.”

“Accurate.”

Anna was quiet.

Then she said, “I don’t want the house.”

Paige closed her eyes.

“We’re not doing that tonight.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“But I want something.”

Paige’s heart shifted.

“What?”

“The photograph.”

“The paddling pool?”

“Yes.”

“Take it.”

“No.”

Paige frowned.

“What?”

“I want a copy.”

The difference mattered.

Not taking.

Sharing.

Paige smiled.

“Okay.”

“And I want to come back tomorrow.”

Paige looked around the silent house.

For the first time, it did not feel empty.

“What time?”

Anna hesitated.

“I was supposed to clean.”

Paige laughed.

“Absolutely not.”

“I already invoiced the agency.”

“We will solve the invoice.”

“That sounds rich.”

“It is.”

Anna laughed too.

A real laugh this time.

Then she said, “Ten?”

“Ten.”

After they hung up, Paige walked to the mantel.

She picked up the photograph.

Two girls.

Matching yellow hats.

The same paddling pool.

Different memories.

She turned the frame over.

Behind the cardboard backing, tucked into the corner, was a tiny folded piece of paper.

Paige pulled it free.

Her mother’s handwriting.

Two words.

My girls.

Paige sat down on the floor.

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She cried there alone.

But not lonely.