Chapter 4 - The Box in My Mother’s Car
At seven that evening, Daniel and I went to my mother's house.
Patricia stayed with Ethan at ours.
I hated leaving him after everything that had happened, but I hated the thought of bringing him into Mom's house even more.
Mom opened the door before we knocked.
“You came.”
“You said you'd explain.”
She looked past us.
“Where's the baby?”
“Safe.”
Her mouth tightened.
“With Patricia?”
“Safe.”
We entered.
Mom had removed her baptism clothes.
Without pearls, makeup, or her carefully arranged hair, she looked older.
On the dining table sat the white blanket.
Charles.
I stopped.
“Why is that here?”
“I paid for it.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
She folded it and put it aside.
Daniel remained standing.
“Start with the letter.”
Mom sat.
“I never received a letter.”
“Someone thinks you did.”
“They're wrong.”
“Who is texting us?”
“I don't know.”
“Who was Charles?”
“My brother.”
“I know that now.”
Pain crossed her face.
“He was my best friend when we were children.”
“What happened?”
“We grew apart.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Mom stared at her hands.
“He wanted me to leave town with him.”
“Why?”
“He was in trouble.”
“What kind?”
“I didn't know.”
“Did you go?”
“No.”
“What happened that night?”
“We argued.”
“About?”
She looked at Daniel.
“This is family.”
Daniel didn't move.
“He is my family.”
Mom flinched.
Then she said:
“Charles believed someone was following him.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Why did he want you with him?”
“He thought I wasn't safe either.”
“Were you?”
She looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
A lie.
I could feel it.
“Mom, did Charles have anything to do with my father?”
“No.”
“Which father?”
Her head snapped toward me.
Daniel's hand tightened around mine.
I continued.
“Dad? Or Charles?”
She stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“Don't you ever say that.”
“Then tell me why an anonymous caller told us to ask.”
“Because someone wants to destroy this family.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
Again.
Always.
I walked toward the front window.
Her car was parked outside.
The trunk wasn't fully closed.
A corner of cardboard protruded from it.
“What's in your car?”
“Nothing.”
I looked at her.
She looked at the window.
That was enough.
I walked outside.
“Emily!”
Mom followed.
Daniel came behind us.
I opened the trunk.
Inside was a large cardboard box.
Mom grabbed the lid.
“Don't.”
I held on.
“What is this?”
“Private.”
“Does it belong to Charles?”
Her silence answered.
Daniel gently moved between us.
“Linda.”
Mom released the box.
I opened it.
Dozens of items.
Photographs.
A watch.
A college sweatshirt.
A stack of letters tied with twine.
And baby clothes.
I lifted a tiny blue knitted sweater.
“Why are there baby clothes?”
Mom began crying.
Not theatrical tears this time.
Real ones.
“They weren't his.”
“Whose?”
She couldn't answer.
At the bottom of the box was a hospital bracelet.
I picked it up.
The plastic had yellowed.
The handwritten information was faint but readable.
BENNETT, LINDA.
BABY GIRL.
My birth date.
My knees nearly gave way.
“Why is my hospital bracelet in Charles's box?”
Mom reached for it.
I stepped away.
“Answer me.”
“It isn't Charles's box.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Mine.”
I looked through the contents again.
One envelope had my name on it.
EMILY.
I grabbed it.
Mom screamed.
“No!”
She tore it from my hand.
Daniel caught her wrist—not violently, just enough to stop her from ripping it.
“Linda.”
“Let go.”
“Give Emily the letter.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then help us understand.”
Mom stared at me.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“When I was ready.”
“I'm thirty-two.”
“I know.”
“When were you planning to be ready?”
She collapsed against the car.
I took the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet.
The handwriting matched the photograph.
Charles.
Dear Emily,
If you're reading this, then Linda finally decided you deserved the truth.
I stopped.
My mother sobbed.
I looked at the date.
The letter had been written twelve years after Charles supposedly disappeared.
I looked up.
“Mom.”
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
“This was written in 1992.”
“Yes.”
“He disappeared in 1980.”
“Yes.”
I could barely speak.
“He was alive.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see him?”
“Once.”
“When?”
Her answer came as a whisper.
“The day after you were born.”
Everything around me seemed to tilt.
I unfolded the rest of the letter.
Mom suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Don't read the next paragraph.”
I pulled away.
“Why?”
Her face told me before the words did.
I looked down.
May you like
The next line began:
Emily, there is something Linda never told the man raising you...
