I look around London and I see all the new buildings. It’s obvious that what the war did has been fixed.
What I did is what I must fix.
I want to fix what I broke.
Julia
Thirty-eight
June 27, 1958
Dear Emmy,
I am sitting here with a glass of sherry watching the rain sputter against the living room window. It’s late and I should be in bed, but I know that if I crawled under the covers, I would not be able to sleep. I have too much on my mind.
I told Dr. Diamant today that I had written everything I could think of to tell you and that I’m no closer to being able to say yes to a happy life than I was before I started.
She asked what I thought was holding me back. I told her I had not been able to fix anything. Writing to you hasn’t mended anything. I wanted to repair what I broke.
If I could fix it, what I would I do?she asked.
You mean aside from going back in time?
Yes.
Well, if I knew where Aunt Charlotte’s house was, maybe I would rap on the door and ask if could have a peek in the crawl space of the bedroom to the right of the stairs.
I said it kind of snippy. Like I wasn’t serious.
And if you knew where Aunt Charlotte’s house was, would you do that?
A prickling sensation traveled up my spine as the hazy image I have of Aunt Charlotte materialized in my mind. Her gray braid, her smile with the little gold tooth at the back, and her blue car. She had chickens. She let me play with her dolls. Two of them. And a tea set. Beyond those images was nothing but fog.
But I don’t remember where that house is,I said.Only that it’s in Gloucestershire.
Thea told Granny that Aunt Charlotte’s house was in Gloucestershire, Emmy. Mum had told her that much.
But then the prickling intensified. I suddenly remembered something else, something that had been hidden in mist for nearly twenty years.
Charlotte had a sister named Rose,I said.
Dr. Diamant seemed cautiously surprised that I remembered this. She furrowed her brow. I could tell she was ruminating on something, wondering if what she was about to suggest was a good idea or not.
Have you ever considered looking for the house where you hid your sister’s sketches?she asked.
I shook my head. I hadn’t believed it was possible to find Aunt Charlotte’s house.
Then Dr. Diamant said that maybe if I retrieved the brides box—if I unhid it—I would put to right a physical wrong. I could fix, to some extent, what I had broken. And if I could do that, then maybe I would find enough peace to believe that I do deserve to be happy.
She told me to go home and think about what it might mean to me to have the brides box again. Was the thought of finding itcomforting to me? Or frightening? Was I okay with the notion that I could very well find the house but the box wouldn’t be there? Could I handle earnestly looking for the house and not finding it?
She told me not to rush to a decision either way. There was no wrong answer, she said. Just an A choice and B choice. Like two doors painted the same color.
What do you think I should do?I asked her.
She thought for a moment. Then she said that I had written to you that more than anything I wanted to undo what I did with the brides box. Retrieving it wouldn’t bring you back, but symbolically I will have righted a wrong.
A righted wrong only matters if you can unhurt the person you hurt,I told her.
