Chương 4
Emil’s house stood at the end of a gravel lane beneath two white pines. The gutters sagged. A blue tarp covered the section of roof Mara had not been able to repair.
She sat in the car after turning off the engine.
Jo waited.
“He lied to me,” Mara said.
“You don’t know that.”
“He told me he found me outside a church.”
“He might have.”
“He told me my mother was probably young and scared.”
“She might have been.”
“He said he didn’t know my birthday.”
Jo looked toward the house. “He may have lied about some things and still loved you.”
Mara opened the door. “That sounds like something people say when they need the second part to cancel the first.”
“It doesn’t.”
The front lock stuck in cold weather. Mara had to shoulder the door before it opened.
Inside, nothing had moved since the funeral except dust. Emil’s boots remained beneath the coat hooks. A grocery list hung on the refrigerator: soup, batteries, pears, the bad crackers. He had called saltines the bad crackers after chemotherapy changed his taste.
Jo touched the list but did not take it down.
The metal box was beneath Emil’s bed. Mara had opened it once after his death, looking for the deed to the house. She remembered envelopes, receipts, an old rosary, photographs of people she did not recognize, and a bank key wrapped in wax paper.
They carried it to the kitchen table.
The lid gave a low metallic groan.
On top lay Emil’s naturalization certificate, his marriage license, and the death certificate of his wife, Ruth. Beneath those were Mara’s adoption papers. She set them aside. She had seen them before.
Jo lifted a photograph.
Emil stood outside a large stone house wearing a dark service jacket. He was young, perhaps thirty, with thick black hair and a smile Mara had never seen. Beside him stood another man in shirtsleeves, taller and fair-haired, one arm resting on Emil’s shoulder.
Around the fair-haired man’s neck hung the amber pendant.
On the back, Emil had written: Lucien insisting he can repair a motor. June 2002. He could not.
Mara sat down.
Jo placed the photograph between them.
“He knew,” Mara said.
“Yes.”
“He knew exactly who it belonged to.”
“Yes.”
At the bottom of the box, the safe-deposit key remained wrapped in wax paper. A paper tag had been tied through its ring.
ALBANY COMMUNITY TRUST, 318.
There was also an envelope with Mara’s name.
She recognized Emil’s handwriting immediately. The letters leaned forward as if hurrying.
She opened it with her thumb.
Mara,
If I have done this correctly, you will read this after I am gone and after you have found someone who recognizes the sun. If nobody recognizes it, burn this letter and live the life you already have.
I told myself many times I would explain. Each year made explanation harder. Each year you became more my daughter and less the child I carried away. I was afraid truth would take you from me. This was selfish. I knew it was selfish while I was doing it.
Your first name was Céleste. Your mother chose it. Your father complained it sounded like a perfume, then cried when the nurse wrote it on the card.
The night of the fire, your father put you in my arms. He told me not to bring you back until it was safe. I believed safety would take days. Then weeks. Then the people who had burned the north house accused me of taking you. By the time I understood how far they would go, you had no mother, no father I could find, and no family I trusted.
I made choices for you that belonged to you. I am sorry.
The rest is in Box 318.
Do not let rich people turn you into evidence. Do not let angry people turn you into a weapon. Do not let anyone tell you that the life we had was false because part of it began with a lie.
You hated peas until you were eleven. You slept with your socks on until high school. You still leave every cabinet door open. These things are true.
I love you.
Papa
Mara read the letter twice. On the third attempt, the words moved.
Jo sat across from her without speaking.
Mara pressed the paper flat against the table. “He knew I hated being called Céleste.”
“When did anyone call you that?”
“No one. I told him once that if I ever had a daughter, I wouldn’t give her a name that sounded like a scented candle.”
A sound came out of her that was almost a laugh. It broke before becoming one.
She covered her eyes.
Jo came around the table but stopped before touching her. Mara lowered one hand, and Jo took that as permission.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The refrigerator motor started. A branch scraped the roof. Somewhere inside the wall, pipes clicked as the old furnace came on.
“He was my father,” Mara said finally.
Jo squeezed her shoulder. “Yes.”
“Even if everything else is true.”
“Yes.”
“I’m angry with him.”
“You’re allowed.”
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I’m angry that he died before I could be angry at him.”
Jo pulled out the chair beside her and sat. “That is extremely inconsiderate timing.”
Mara laughed then, once, wetly and without dignity.
Her phone vibrated on the table.
Adrien de Marceau.
She let it stop.
A minute later, a message appeared.
My aunt has asked me not to pressure you. I am attempting to honor that request. However, a photograph is circulating, and several journalists have contacted the foundation. We will issue no statement regarding your identity. Please tell me if you are safe.
Mara stared at the words.
“Is that the nephew?” Jo asked.
“Yes.”
“He writes like a hostage negotiator.”
“He probably thinks punctuation is moral character.”
May you like
Another message appeared.
The staffing agency informed us that you were removed from their schedule. Bellavere did not request this. We have asked them to reverse the decision.
