Chương 3
Laura kept both hands on the wheel.
At a flooded intersection she turned around instead of risking the water.
Ethan said, “You knew she was alive?”
Laura's hands tightened slightly.
“Yes.”
The word was almost lost under the wipers.
“Is she alive now?”
“As far as I know.”
“As far as you know?”
“I haven't spoken to Rebecca in years.”
“How many?”
Laura hesitated.
“That should be easy.”
“Nine.”
Ethan turned from the window.
“You haven't talked to the woman who gave birth to me since I was four?”
“Not directly.”
“What does directly mean?”
“She sent letters.”
The strongbox made a soft sound in the cargo area as the car took a curve.
Ethan looked back at it.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“You read them?”
“Some.”
“You didn't give them to me.”
“No.”
“Dad didn't give them to me.”
“No.”
“Grandpa didn't.”
Laura's jaw worked once.
“No.”
Ethan faced forward.
He stopped asking questions because every answer made the car feel smaller.
At home, the porch light had been left on.
Ethan had always liked that. His father used to complain about wasting electricity, and Laura used to say a house should look like it expected you back.
Tonight the light made Ethan angry.
He unlocked the front door and carried one end of the strongbox inside with Laura.
The living room still contained too many traces of Daniel.
His reading glasses lay on the side table where nobody had moved them in six weeks. A blue ceramic mug held three pens and a screwdriver. His jacket remained on the hook beside the basement door because Laura had tried to put it away two days after the funeral and ended up sitting on the kitchen floor for twenty minutes.
Ethan had not known what to do then.
He had stood nearby holding a cereal bowl until the milk became warm.
Now he looked at the jacket and thought, You knew.
The thought was so simple it made his teeth ache.
He set the strongbox on the dining table.
Laura removed her wet coat.
Ethan left his jacket on.
“I'm opening everything.”
“Ethan, it's one in the morning.”
“You lied to me for thirteen years. You don't get to tell me when I'm tired.”
Laura pulled out a chair.
“You are tired.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
“That seems convenient.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she sat.
“All right.”
Ethan opened the strongbox.
The photograph lay on top.
Beneath it were twelve envelopes bundled with blue cotton string.
Each bore his name.
Not Mr. Cole.
Not Ethan Daniel Cole.
Just Ethan.
The handwriting changed slightly over the years. The early letters had careful rounded printing. Later envelopes were addressed in quicker strokes.
Every one had been opened.
Ethan looked up.
Laura's eyes went to the bundle.
“Dad opened these?”
“Some.”
“All?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you?”
“Two.”
“Which two?”
“The first one. And one when you were seven.”
“Why seven?”
Laura rubbed her thumb against the edge of the table.
“You were asking where you got your brown eyes.”
Ethan stared at her.
He almost laughed again.
It came closer this time, one breath of disbelief.
“So you read a letter from my actual mother because I asked where my eyes came from, and then you just told me Grandpa had brown eyes.”
“Henry does have brown eyes.”
“That's what you're going with?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Laura looked down.
“I was afraid.”
Ethan picked at the string.
“Of what?”
“You.”
He stopped.
Laura seemed embarrassed by the answer.
“Losing you,” she said. “Not physically. I knew what the papers said. I knew I was your legal parent. That wasn't the fear.”
“What papers?”
“The adoption papers.”
Ethan's fingers froze.
“You adopted me?”
“When you were eighteen months old.”
He looked at her.
“I thought you said she gave me up when I was born.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You made it sound like that.”
“I know.”
“What happened for eighteen months?”
Laura did not answer immediately.
Ethan felt his heartbeat in his throat.
“What happened?”
“You lived with your father and me.”
“And her?”
“Sometimes.”
The rain made a hard rattling sound against the kitchen windows.
Ethan loosened the blue string.
The first envelope was dated on his first birthday.
He pulled out the letter.
Laura rose.
“I need coffee.”
“It is one in the morning.”
“I know.”
She filled the kettle anyway.
Ethan unfolded the paper.
Dear Ethan,
You are one today. You probably have no idea what a birthday is, which seems unfair because everyone else gets cake and you mostly get photographed.
Your father sent one picture. You have hair now. Not much, but enough that I can stop worrying you will look like a very small accountant forever.
Ethan stopped.
He had not expected humor.
He started over.
By the third paragraph, his hands were trembling.
Rebecca did not write like someone performing tragedy.
She wrote that she had started a job at a print shop. She wrote that she had moved into an apartment where the upstairs neighbor practiced trumpet badly. She wrote that she had bought Ethan a wooden train and then decided sending toys might make things harder, so the train was still on her dresser.
At the end, she wrote:
I hope your dad keeps his promise. I hope Laura knows I am trying not to make trouble. I hope someday you can know me without having to choose between people. If they wait until you're older, I will understand. I told Henry thirteen felt old when I was thirteen. I probably won't feel that way when you get there.
Happy birthday, small accountant.
Rebecca.
Ethan read the final paragraph three times.
Laura stood at the counter with her back to him.
The kettle had not yet boiled.
“Dad promised what?”
She did not turn.
“You already know.”
“No. I know what she says. What did he promise?”
May you like
“That you would know the truth by thirteen.”
Ethan looked at the date on the envelope.
