One
April 6, 1958
I am going to try to explain.
I’m not sure I can. I’m not used to explaining things to you, maybe because usually we understand each other so well. I picture us like two roses on the same stem, us against the world, surrounded by thorns ready to prick anyone else who dares to come close.
But I’ve realized with some things, we willalwayshave a different perspective, because we’re standing in different places. You see family so differently than I do, because you come from a luckier, happier world. Sometimes I’m drowning in jealousy, the way you take your family for granted.
I love you. Passionately. Consumingly. Loving you, some days, has been the only thing keeping me going.
But romantic love is only one love, and not the most important. (I can see you shaking your head here, butstop.Even if you disagree, understandIbelieve this. I prize other kinds of love as highly as being in love.) You are not a knight and I am not your lady in the age of chivalry, and we are not the pinnacle of what matters. I love you and I want you, but what Iwantand what isrightare not always the same. You haven’t always had to think about the difference before (youknowyou haven’t), but please do now. I’m making the right choice.
I love you.
But I am not going to change my mind.
Growing up, my mom liked to play a strange version of Would You Rather. It happened when she picked me up from a friend’s house—from Niko’s, whose mom baked mochi cake, or Haley’s, whose mom knit scarves.Would you rather have Niko’s mother,Mom would ask,or me? Would you rather have Haley’s mom or me?
Even during the worst fights between us, I knew better than to cross this line. Fights between mothers and daughters transcended almost to an art form: I knew how each thrust and parry would land, and how to aim shots low or high. But even when casting words meant to draw blood, I’d never take this shot. This was the soft spot behind the skull, water to the Wicked Witch, Achilles’s unprotected heel. You only struck this spot if you struck to kill.
“You,” I always told her, as we walked away from Niko’s manicured lawn, or left Haley’s porch with its bunting flag in red, white, and blue. “I’d rather have you.”
The doorbell rang in the middle of a storm.
The rain pounded against the eaves, nearly drowning the chimes out. Sheets of water streamed across the living room’s French doors, distorting the yard and forest into shifting blurs of green and brown. March in New England might officially be springtime, but in reality it was chilly and wet and dark.
I sat curled on the sofa, readingRebeccaby Daphne du Maurier. The combination of gothic novel and weather had me on edge, despitethe room’s bright lights and my steaming mug of peppermint tea. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for hours; they’d gone to a town hall meeting, which basically counted as a date night in their world. My brother, Dave, was sleeping over at his best friend’s house. Mom had worried about leaving me home alone, but I’d shooed her and Dad away; my parents deserved a night out. Besides, I liked having the house to myself.
Most of the time.
The chime sounded again while I stayed frozen on the couch, book clutched in both hands, heart racing. No one had ever accused me of being sensible (“You have atadof an overactive imagination,” Dad often said, holding his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart)—but honestly, who wouldn’t at leastconsiderwhether a doorbell during a storm heralded a serial killer?
Best not be a sitting duck for my prospective murderer. I padded through the house toward the front door, positioning my back against the wall as I craned my neck to peer out a window.
A USPS truck lingered in the driveway, headlights cutting through the rain, and a figure dashed toward the cab and leaped inside. The truck backed away and sped into the dark.
Oh. Cool.
Anxiety draining out of me, I opened the inner door to the mudroom, a small, chilly space filled with umbrellas and boots. My toes curled as they hit the cold stone floor. I quickly unlocked the outer door, and wet wind lashed at me. The trees in the front yard bowed back and forth under the gust. A rain-splattered box sat on the stoop. I grabbed it and retreated inside, locking both doors and carrying the box to the living room.
Dr. Karen Cohen, 85 Oak Road, South Hadley, Massachusetts,the address read. Mom. The sender:Cedarwood House.
Made sense. O’ma’s nursing home had told us they’d be sending over a box of her stuff recently found when cleaning out her closet. I could wait for Mom to come home before opening it. Which a less nosy, more respectful daughter would do.
Or.
Got the box of O’ma’s stuff!I texted.Will let you know if it contains secret riches.
I slit the packing tape with a key from the kitchen odds-and-ends drawer. The box flapped open to reveal a cursory note from the nursing home and a brown-paper-wrapped package. Now I hesitated. This had been O’ma’s, this twine-tied bundle, something she’d packed away so long ago it had been forgotten. Carefully, I tugged the brittle bow loose, then unfolded the brown paper. At the core lay the treasure: a pile of envelopes, all addressed to Ruth Goldman. O’ma’s maiden name.
Bright curiosity cut through me. A hundred things could be inside. We knew so little about O’ma’s life, especially from before she met O’pa. Ruth Goldman instead of Ruth Cohen. Who had she been?
I knelt on the living room floor and spread the envelopes in an arc, marveling at the thick parchment and the way the ink bled into the fine weave of the paper. Fifty envelopes at a guess, with a Lower East Side address.
The envelopes didn’t have return addresses.
I picked up the first envelope and slid the letter out. Neat, slanted writing filled the page.My darling Ruth,it began.I still can’t believe you’re gone. I keep looking out the window expecting the car to pull up and you to emerge and say this has all been a mistake. Please come home soon.
