Chapter 2 - The Woman Behind Apartment 214
Gavin did not speak during the first ten minutes of the drive.
Samantha did not try to make him.
Phoenix lights slipped past the windows.
She kept both hands on the wheel.
Her breathing was controlled.
Too controlled.
Gavin stared forward.
“The woman is supposed to be dead.”
Samantha said nothing.
“You said that.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
Silence.
“Patricia?”
Samantha tightened her hands on the steering wheel.
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
Samantha glanced at him.
“You’ll know when you see her.”
“No.”
Her eyes returned to the road.
“Gavin.”
“No. You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Tell me you’ve been lying to me for months and then turn this into some dramatic reveal.”
“I wasn’t trying to make it dramatic.”
“You secretly leave our house every morning.”
“Not every morning.”
“You hide clothes under your seat.”
“Yes.”
“You shower the second you come home.”
“Yes.”
“You cry in the driveway so often our son noticed before I did.”
That hurt both of them.
Samantha’s jaw tightened.
Gavin immediately regretted saying it.
But he did not take it back.
“Who is Patricia?”
Samantha swallowed.
“My mother.”
Gavin turned.
For a moment, he genuinely thought he had misunderstood.
“Your mother is dead.”
“That’s what I believed.”
He stared at her.
“For how long?”
“Twenty-eight years.”
Samantha was thirty-five.
Gavin did the calculation.
“You were seven.”
“Yes.”
“You told me she died when you were seven.”
“That’s what Dad told me.”
“How?”
“He said there had been an accident after she left us.”
“Left?”
Samantha blinked quickly.
“I was told she abandoned me first.”
Gavin remembered pieces.
Stories collected across twelve years.
Samantha almost never discussed her mother.
When she did, she described fragments.
A yellow kitchen.
A woman singing while folding towels.
A red bicycle.
Then nothing.
Richard Caldwell had raised Samantha alone.
The story Gavin understood was simple.
Patricia had struggled emotionally.
She left.
She died several years later.
Richard never spoke badly about her.
That had once made Gavin respect him.
Now Samantha was driving to an apartment where Patricia apparently lived.
“How long have you known?”
“Three months.”
Gavin laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Three months.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
“You saw her every day?”
“Most weekdays.”
“And you told me you were at work.”
“Sometimes I was late because of her.”
“Does your office know?”
“My supervisor knows I have a family caregiving situation.”
“So your supervisor knew more about your life than your husband.”
Samantha flinched.
Gavin looked away.
Again, cruel.
Again, true.
They reached the apartment complex at 8:46.
At night it looked even older.
Faded stucco.
Narrow exterior staircases.
Yellow lights.
Samantha parked near Building C.
She did not move immediately.
Gavin watched her.
“What?”
“She might not know me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The dementia.”
He looked at the building.
“How bad?”
“Some days she knows exactly who I am.”
“And other days?”
“She thinks I’m someone else.”
“Who?”
Samantha looked down.
“Herself.”
Gavin said nothing.
“When she was younger,” Samantha continued. “Sometimes she thinks I’m her.”
“That’s why you cry?”
“One reason.”
“What are the others?”
She opened the car door.
“You’re about to find out.”
Apartment 214 was upstairs.
Samantha walked slowly.
Gavin followed.
At the door, she removed a key.
Before she inserted it, Gavin noticed three handwritten reminders taped beside the frame.
LOCK DOOR.
DO NOT USE STOVE ALONE.
SAMANTHA COMES BACK.
His chest tightened at the last one.
Samantha unlocked the door.
A television played softly.
The apartment smelled like disinfectant, old fabric, medication, and something damp.
The exact smell from the clothes.
Gavin understood the perfume instantly.
Not another person.
Not intimacy.
Camouflage.
Samantha stepped inside.
“Patricia?”
No answer.
She hurried toward the kitchen.
The stove was off.
She checked the small bedroom.
Empty.
Then the bathroom door opened.
An older woman appeared.
She wore a faded lavender cardigan.
Gray-brown hair framed her face unevenly.
She was thinner than Gavin expected.
But the eyes—
He knew those eyes.
He had seen them in Samantha’s childhood photograph.
The one image Richard kept in an old album.
A woman holding seven-year-old Samantha outside a zoo.
Gavin stopped.
Patricia looked at Samantha.
Her expression softened.
“Oh.”
Samantha smiled.
“Hi, Mom.”
Patricia frowned.
Then she reached out and touched Samantha’s cheek.
“You came back.”
Samantha closed her eyes briefly.
“I told you I would.”
Patricia looked beyond her.
At Gavin.
“Who is that?”
“My husband.”
Patricia stared.
“You married?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
Patricia looked confused.
“Why wasn’t I there?”
The question was innocent.
That made it brutal.
Samantha’s voice became softer.
“You couldn’t be.”
Patricia considered that.
Then she nodded as though Samantha had explained something perfectly reasonable.
“Would you like tea?”
“No stove tonight.”
“I know how to make tea.”
“I know.”
“You think I’m stupid.”
“No.”
Patricia’s face changed.
For a second, anger appeared.
“I am not stupid.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I forget things.”
“That’s different.”
Patricia looked at Gavin again.
“What’s his name?”
“Gavin.”
“Kevin?”
“Gavin.”
He stepped closer.
“Gavin is fine.”
Patricia smiled faintly.
“You look serious.”
“So I’ve been told.”
That earned a tiny laugh.
The tension in the room loosened.
Then Patricia turned toward the bedroom.
“I have something for Samantha.”
Samantha stiffened.
“What?”
“The box.”
“What box?”
Patricia frowned.
“The blue box.”
Samantha looked at Gavin.
“I don’t know.”
Patricia became agitated.
“Yes, you do.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
She moved toward the bedroom.
Samantha followed.
“Mom, slow down.”
“I kept them.”
“Kept what?”
“All of them.”
Patricia reached the closet.
She dropped to one knee.
Samantha immediately crouched beside her.
“Please let me.”
Patricia slapped Samantha’s hand away.
Not violently.
Reflexively.
“I can do it.”
Samantha withdrew.
Gavin watched quietly.
After several seconds Patricia pulled out an old metal box.
Blue paint scratched around the corners.
A rusted latch.
She dragged it into the living room.
“Your father said you didn’t want them.”
Samantha froze.
“What?”
Patricia sat on the sofa.
“He said you sent them back.”
“What did I send back?”
Patricia looked confused again.
Then she opened the box.
Inside were envelopes.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
Different sizes.
Different colors.
Birthday cards.
Christmas envelopes.
Legal-sized letters.
Every one addressed to Samantha.
Gavin stepped closer.
The earliest envelope had childish stickers on the front.
Samantha picked it up.
Her hand began trembling.
SAMANTHA CALDWELL
C/O RICHARD CALDWELL
A red postal stamp crossed the front.
RETURN TO SENDER.
She reached for another.
Same thing.
Another.
Same.
Patricia whispered, “He said you hated me.”
Samantha looked at her.
“No.”
“He said you didn’t want a mother who left.”
“You didn’t leave.”
Patricia’s eyes filled.
“I didn’t.”
Samantha slowly opened one envelope.
Inside was a birthday card.
A cartoon puppy held balloons.
The handwriting looked shaky.
Happy 8th birthday, Sammy. I am trying to come home. Please remember I love you.
Samantha covered her mouth.
Gavin sat beside her.
She opened another.
Age nine.
Another.
Age ten.
Age eleven.
Some contained photographs.
Some contained drawings.
One included a pressed flower.
Every year Patricia had written.
Every year someone had sent the letters back.
“I never saw these.”
Patricia began crying.
“I know that now.”
Samantha looked at her.
“When did you realize?”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
Patricia stared at the box.
Her memory seemed to drift.
“Your grandmother came once.”
“Grandma Elaine?”
Patricia nodded.
“She cried.”
“What did she say?”
Patricia squeezed her eyes shut.
“I don’t remember.”
“Mom.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay.”
“No.”
Patricia slapped both palms against her knees.
“I should remember.”
Samantha took her hands.
“You don’t have to.”
“I promised.”
“Promised who?”
Patricia stared at her.
“Elaine.”
“What did Grandma ask you to do?”
Patricia’s eyes moved toward the metal box.
“There was a paper.”
Samantha leaned closer.
“What paper?”
“A paper about you.”
The apartment became completely quiet.
Patricia began digging beneath the letters.
She removed cards.
Photographs.
Receipts.
An old bus ticket.
Finally her hand stopped.
She pulled out a large manila envelope.
The front contained one line.
FOR SAMANTHA — IF RICHARD EVER FINDS HER FIRST
Samantha stared at the handwriting.
“That’s Grandma’s.”
Patricia nodded.
Gavin reached toward it.
Samantha stopped him.
“No.”
He withdrew.
She lifted the flap herself.
Inside were several documents.
The first looked like a court filing.
The second was a photocopy of a custody agreement.
The third was handwritten.
Samantha read the first paragraph.
Her face lost color.
Gavin leaned closer.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“What does it say?”
Samantha looked at her mother.
Then at the signature beneath the letter.
“Dad didn’t just lie about her leaving.”
She turned the page.
A photocopied form slid onto the floor.
Gavin picked it up.
Across the top were the words:
VOLUNTARY RELINQUISHMENT OF PARENTAL CUSTODY.
Patricia’s name appeared at the bottom.
Samantha stared at the signature.
“That isn’t her handwriting.”
A knock sounded from the apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
Patricia went white.
May you like
Then she whispered a name.
“Richard.”
