“Very well. I have just the thing!” I sing softly.
I kneel beside the bed and pull down my old folktale book from the nightstand. I can’t remember any of the stories now. Julia used to read them to me until I was old enough to read on my own, but I suppose I lost interest in children’s tales at an early age.
I twist around and take a seat on the edge of my bed, cradling Flora in the crook of my arm. “Which story shall we read?”
Flora slaps the first page and grunts. “I don’t think you’ll find the copyright page too interesting,” I tell her.
She slaps every page I open. “How about,The Frog Princess?”
I jump right in without checking to see how many pages the story is, but after the sixth page, not only are my eyes starting to close but Flora has fallen asleep. I gently place her down on the bed, careful not to disturb her.
The book falls off my lap, slapping against the wooden floor and I nearly shout at myself for being so careless. Thankfully, Flora remains asleep. I lean down and pick it up, grabbing it bythe back cover. I shut the book and place it down beside me and curl Flora into my arms, so she doesn’t roll off the bed.
Despite nearly falling asleep moments ago, all I can do now is listen to Flora’s long, deep breaths, and stare at the side of my book, glowing from the moonlight peeking in through the window. I never noticed the pages didn’t align before. The pages must be warped. But I’ve always been so careful with it, so I don’t know how that could have happened. I flip the book open to the end, where the last page doesn’t meet with the back hard cover. It’s warped—the thick paper coating beneath the bound canvas covering.
Staring at the slightly raised center, I notice the beveling is in the shape of a perfect rectangle. I sweep my fingers over it again, finding a distinct edge on each side. Along the bottom as I find both corners, the protrusion budges upward. Something’s behind the paper lining.
I pick at the canvas, seeing if the glue will come loose easily and it does. The fold is so tight around the edges that it must have been holding the back flap together. Even the lining is loose. I slide a finger between the back panel and the lining and catch the corner of what must be a folded piece of paper. It takes me a minute to fidget my finger in the right position to pinch the paper enough to slide it to the open edge, but once it’s free, I’m dumbfounded to find another piece of paper worn and soft, old, but untouched.
What is this? My fingers tremble unsteadily as I try to carefully unfold the paper, scared to tear whatever it is. Once it’s unfolded completely, I find crisp penmanship, perfect lettering—the hand of a calligrapher maybe—of a letter made out to:
My Sweet Halina
TWENTY-SIX
HALINA
My body deflates on the bed, and I can’t figure out how to make my eyes keep reading past “My Sweet Halina?—”
There’s two pieces of paper that were folded in together and I desperately flip each paper over, in search of a signature. Then I find it…
With all my love to you,
Your mama
(Nora Belle Wojic)
The papers flutter to my lap as my eyes fill with tears. I haven’t read any other words. All I see is a blur of script in soft brown ink, each loop of a letter elegant but purposeful—like she was trying to define herself through the ever curling sweep of her pen. I don’t know what she has to say or how I didn’t know this note was folded into the seams of the book. Why now? She couldn’t have known when I’d find this. My questions are endless, which is why I’m struggling to lift the papers back up. What if there are no answers?
My entire life…I’ve just wanted to know who they are, what they looked like—why…
I shove my hand back into the book’s torn seam, searching for anything else, a photograph, anything, but the note is alone.
I turn the pages back over and lift them up, my hand unsteady as I try to keep the pages still enough to read.
Nora Belle Wojic,I repeat in my head.
With a long, tired blink, I resettle my focus on the top of the page and push through the salutation:
My Sweet Halina,
I hadn’t planned to write you a letter, not before you ever took your first breath. But a heaviness inside of me, something I can’t explain told me I should. My parents, your bubbie and grandpa, God rest their souls, used to tell me that when great life events are imminent, we gain a sense of clarity. I see now that must be true.
The doctor tells me you’re a girl, by the way I’m carrying you, and he also said you are quite spirited, so much, you keep me awake many times with all your little kicks. Sometimes I press my hands to my belly and whisper to you as if you’re already here. I cannot yet see your face, but I know I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.
If this letter finds its way into your hands, it means the worst of my fears were in fact a premonition. You may not yet understand what this means. If you’re young, I ask you to tuck this away. One day, when you are older and the world makes more sense, read it then. And you will understand.
Your father and I never wed. We spoke of it, the idea of exchanging vows during a small ceremony, nothing grand, but the idea was always talk for another day. Then, I tookill with what I thought was a passing sickness, which turned out to be you.
