Part 7
Work was how he apologized when words failed him.
Leah slept in the lodge’s smallest guest room because the larger one contained her wedding dress.
At three in the morning, she woke to the sound of sleet against the window. Her first thought was that Cal needed to check the antifreeze in her car. Her second was that she could check it herself.
She lay on her side with a pillow beneath her stomach.
The baby hiccupped.
Leah counted the tiny, rhythmic movements until they stopped.
In the morning, she opened Thomas’s box.
Molly sat on the floor nearby, eating cereal from a coffee mug. Neither of them spoke as Leah cut through the brown tape with a key.
The first thing inside was a red scarf.
It had belonged to Leah’s mother.
The wool was thinner than Leah remembered and smelled faintly of cardboard. She lifted it carefully. Beneath it lay photographs, a cracked wooden recipe box, three envelopes tied with kitchen string, and a small stuffed rabbit missing one eye.
Leah recognized the rabbit.
She had named it Captain for reasons no one remembered. It vanished the year after her mother died, when Thomas packed the car and left their rented house before the landlord could change the locks.
She pressed the rabbit’s flattened body against her chest.
Molly set down the cereal.
“I thought he threw all this away,” Leah said.
“So did I.”
There were no hidden documents proving Thomas innocent. No dramatic letter revealed that he had been forced to leave. The contents were ordinary and therefore more painful.
Receipts from motels.
A photograph of Leah at nine holding a fish by the tail.
Her mother’s recipe for chicken soup, written on the back of an electric bill.
A program from Leah’s high school graduation, folded but unused.
Thomas had not attended. Someone must have mailed it to him.
At the bottom of the box were fourteen sealed envelopes addressed to Leah at places she had lived over the years.
None had stamps.
She opened the oldest.
The letter began with an apology, wandered into an explanation about construction work in Nevada, and ended before Thomas reached any meaningful point. He had written, I’m going to get myself straight and come see you when I can do it without messing up your life again.
He had never sent it.
The next letter made the same promise in different words.
The fifth was angry. Thomas accused Leah of refusing to understand what grief had done to him, as if she had not lost the same woman.
The eighth admitted that he had driven past Leah’s college once and kept going because he had been drinking.
The twelfth contained only three sentences.
I saw a picture of you online. You look like your mother around the eyes. I hope that does not hurt you to hear.
Leah placed the letter facedown.
Molly leaned against the bed.
“You do not have to read all of these today.”
“I know.”
She continued.
The final envelope was not addressed to Leah.
It bore Cal’s name.
The seal had been opened.
Inside was the first letter Thomas had sent to the shop.
Mr. Vale,
You don’t know me, and I don’t have a right to ask you for anything. I am Leah’s father. She may have told you I am dead. If she did, do not correct her. I found your business page and saw the photograph of you together. She looks safe with you. That is the only reason I am writing.
I am not asking for her number or address. I would like to know if she is well. You can tell me to go to hell. I have been told before.
Thomas Mercer
Cal had written a note on the bottom in black ink.
Do not contact her. Do not come to the shop. If you are actually sober, prove it by respecting that.
Leah read the note three times.
Molly held out her hand.
Leah passed her the letter.
“He started right,” Molly said.
“Yes.”
“That might make the rest worse.”
“Yes.”
Leah found Cal’s replies in another envelope.
Thomas had printed them.
The first was a single paragraph reiterating that Leah wanted no contact. The second, written three weeks later, answered a question about whether she had finished college. Cal said only that she had built a good life and Thomas should not interfere.
By the fourth exchange, Cal was asking about treatment.
By the sixth, he had agreed to meet Thomas at a coffee shop halfway between Pueblo and Denver.
The progression was slow enough to be believable and fast enough to feel like betrayal.
Cal never shared Leah’s address.
He did share that she was pregnant after Thomas guessed from a photograph.
He did not send her medical details.
He did tell Thomas that she still made her mother’s soup when she was sick.
He sent the baby-shower picture after Thomas completed a year of sobriety.
In one message, Thomas asked whether Leah ever spoke about him.
Cal replied, She speaks about what you did, not about you. That may be worse.
Molly read over Leah’s shoulder.
“That sounds like Cal.”
“It sounds like he was speaking for me.”
“Yes.”
Near the bottom of the stack was a message from three days before the wedding.
Thomas: I have a box that belongs to her. I don’t want to mail it. Some things can’t be replaced.
Cal: Give it to me next week.
Thomas: After the wedding?
Cal: Yes.
Thomas: You’re still planning to tell her?
Cal: I am.
Thomas: Before or after?
There was a gap of eleven hours before Cal’s reply.
After.
Thomas had answered with one sentence.
That is cowardly.
Leah laughed.
The sound startled Molly.
“He knew,” Leah said.
“Apparently.”
“My father, who spent fifteen years avoiding me, recognized cowardice.”
“Specialists often identify their own field.”
May you like
Leah laughed again, then covered her face.
The laughter turned into something unsteady but did not become crying. She sat with her palms pressed against her eyes until the pressure passed.
