I wrote slowly, as if that could keep the words from shaking. I would give her another gift, and finally, I would write something to accompany it.
My Zahra,
If this week is more than a week can hold, I’m not surprised. You have been asked to carry too much for too long. You don’t owe anyone a quick reaction or a good story about it. You don’t owe anyone grace, either, but you’ll give it anyway because that’s who you are.
I can’t tell you what to do with this news. I’ve tried to call you, and when I deliver this, I’ll be outside in my car, waiting for as long as you need, just so you know that someone is with you in this moment. All I can say is this: you are allowed to decide what becomes part of you and what does not. You are allowed to put a heavy thing down and pick it up later, or never.
Paul is your father. He and his wife would love to meet with you. He knows it’s too late to be a father, but he does want to know you. And you are more than worth knowing.
If you want noise, I can be noise. If you want quiet, I can be quiet on the other side of the wall.
With love and great regret,
Your Kalb
The nursery two neighborhoods over kept odd hours. I found the door open and a woman watering trays of leafy green seedlings. I chose a potted gardenia, which apparently symbolized love and unspoken apologies. The tag read:Low light. Forgiving. Cleans the air.
I grabbed a gift tag from the counter and wrote a message:For whatever grows next.
I carried the plant to her building just before dusk, when the hall lights came on and the day had already declared itself done. Setting the pot and card gently beside her door, I knocked but did not wait.
Hesitating on the stairs, I paused at the landing below hers and listened. Footsteps, the whisper of a lock, the slightest scrape of the door.
I took the last flight down with a steadiness that surprised me. The gifts had begun again. I would have to learn the discipline to stop if she asked. I would have to learn the discipline to keep going, quietly and patiently, if she didn’t.
I settled into my car to begin the long wait, busying myself with emails. I had a new mission. Helping Rose overcome her past was a journey that I had begun a few days ago through a lawyer I frequently worked with. Sealing records was difficult for adults, but I had a secret weapon. I had Dr. Vincent Conti.
Chapter 37: The Rose—Rose-colored glasses
I entered the bar nervously. It was only 9 am and wasn’t technically open, but Paul had texted that he’d leave the door unlocked for me. It felt strange being in the same bar that my mother had frequented decades ago. I’m sure it was much different then, but knowing I was in the physical space where my parents met (no matter how briefly) was a strange feeling.
A woman strode across the room giving me a warm but nervous smile. “Hi Rose. I’m Sally, Paul’s wife.” I smiled back, my hand wavering by my side awkwardly. Shaking hands felt odd. This wasn’t a business meeting, but I also felt a need to physically greet her in some way. Paul, my father (that is so weird to say!) sat at a table nearby, with a similar nervous smile.
I wandered over and declined Sally’s offer of a drink. The three of us sat silently for some time. Thankfully, Sally seemed like a talkative person and opened our discussion by stating the obvious.
“So, you’re Paul’s daughter. I’m sure this is strange for all of us, but Paul and I both agree that it’s really important to know your family.”
I looked at her gratefully. “Yes, thank you so much. I know this is probably so difficult for you, and I don’t expect anything from you at all. It was important for me to know my family origins. My ... I mean, I think it’s important to know of any ... health issues and such.” I wanted to address Paul’s mental health.
“My health is good. No issues, and Dad, I mean Lou, is getting really old and really has no health issues other than blood pressure,” Paul stated, looking pleased with himself.
“Is your ... um, emotional health good?”
Paul frowned, glancing at his wife with a confused expression. Sally smiled reassuringly at me and then turned to Paul. “She means mental health, Paul.” She rolled her eyes in the “ugh, men” style.
“Oh, yeah. I’m all good. One of our girls struggles a bit with anxiety, but we’re all good.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s good. I’ve ... had some struggles of my own but am all good now. And this closure really helps. How old are your girls?” I had sisters. Well, half-sisters, but sisters!
“Lily is 13, Helena is 11 and Margo is 8,” Sally said proudly. She pulled out a photograph of her three girls. My three sisters.
“They are so beautiful,” I gasped honestly. Three radiant, happy girls beamed out at me from the framed photograph. They looked loved and secure. The little set of three sisters had built-in allies for life. They were truly blessed and instead of jealousy, I felt complete satisfaction that my little sisters were so adored and protected.
Paul’s expression had changed from nervous to excited. I exhaled a silent breath of relief that my mental health confession hadn’t made him want to kick me out of the bar and lock the door behind me.
“Rose, Sally and I have discussed it and we think it would be good for the girls to meet you. If you want, we can just introduce you as a friend, but we are happy to, and we think honesty is the best policy here, introduce you as a sister. They’re young, but Sally’s sister is a counsellor and says in these cases, it is best for them to know from the outset rather than change the narrative halfway through.” He glanced at Sally as though asking her if he’d recited that correctly. She nodded silently, offering him a smile of praise.
These parents cared about their girls and were acting in their best interests. I felt warm inside at the thought.
