Mom:
Who r they from
Seriously, Mom had both terrible reading comprehension and terrible punctuation. Why did I need to go to school if adults didn’t know how to write?
Me:
I don’t know, some guy named E. Gotta read more, have fun adulting
Outside, rain slashed away. Inside, I sank into the letters. E’s writing made it clear O’ma had moved to New York City and loved it,though he seemed skeptical anyone could enjoy the city. Different bits jumped out at me:
What we do is none of my mother’s business.
A bakery, Ruth? Are you sure?
He wrote about painting the ocean:I’m happy to report my Monet-esque attempts have become more palatable, though I doubt I’ll accurately capture the light on the sea if I paint every day for the rest of my life. Yet never fear; I shall rise to the occasion. The attic no doubt looks forward to being crammed with my poor attempts.
Mostly, though, he wrote about missing her. He wrote about missing her in the gardens, on the beach, in the gazebo. He seemed wracked with a hundred memories of her. He wroteNantucket is not Nantucket without you.
Nantucket.
The name conjured up a speck of an island off Cape Cod. The Cape: a hooked arm of national seashore and small towns southeast of Boston. But while the Cape and the islands were standard vacation spots for Massachusetts families, O’ma had spent most of her life in New York. When had she ever been toNantucket?
Impatient, I skipped to the last letter (I was the kind of person who sometimes read the last page of a book first; never let it be said I handled curiosity well). It was short and dated almost six years after the first—May 3, 1958:
I’m not mailing the necklace. If you want it, come back to Golden Doors and talk to me.
—E
And dammit, Ruth, don’t you dare say this is about anything other than your damn pride.
Surprise swayed through me. What had happened? When had these romantic letters switched to anger?
Served me right for reading out of order. Hoping for more context, I opened the penultimate letter.Can’t we talk about this in person? The operator won’t even put me through anymore. You’re far too proud, and you don’t need to be.
Man, an operator. What an age.
The one before:
Ruth,
You’re being ridiculous. I’m catching the next ferry to the mainland.
Don’t do anything stupid before I get there. I love you.
Edward
A shiver skirted across the back of my neck. Lowering the letter, I stared out the French doors. The rain had lessened, no longer obscuring the woods encroaching on the backyard. Tall oaks and pines shot into the sky, their trunks soaked black. Winter had been harsh this year, and even now, mid-March, I had trouble imagining I’d ever feel warm again. I had trouble imagining O’ma as an eighteen-year-old, too.You’re far too proud,the letter-writer had said. Had O’ma been proud? Elegant, yes. Smart, curious, a little sad, a little difficult. But proud?
Though what did I know? I hadn’t even known O’ma had been on Nantucket. I definitely didn’t know who this Edward was, or what necklace O’ma wanted back, or why she’d left him in the first place.
Come back to Golden Doors,Edward had said.
I opened my laptop and began to type.
Several hours later, the door swung open and Mom’s voice echoed through the house. “Abby?”
“Here!”
