I inhaled roughly, blowing out a breath filled with anxiety, fear, and confusion. I pulled on the edges, folded to seal whatever was so important to keep confined. The scrape of the cardboard flaps against each other seemed to echo deep in my mind. Then the sound abruptly stopped; with my eyes closed tight, I couldn’t stop from wondering if I was making the right decision. My heartbeat ricocheted across my ribs, under my breasts, and up through my throat before rebelliously crashing in my head.
I heard Joanie gasp just before I opened my eyes. I could tell by the look on her face, the contents of that box were exactly what we’d been looking for. She had her mouth covered by both of her hands, her eyes exaggeratedly round, and every part of her irises visible with shock. I lowered my sight to the box that sat heavy across my thighs. An array of colored envelopes mixed with cream and white rested in a perfect row. Pinched and clustered by rubber bands, I noticed not one jagged or ripped edge. They were all still sealed with the same intention from when they were mailed—secured and protected. The cluster of banded envelopes closest to my gut seemed to hold less than the larger group at the end of the row. My windpipe closed as my heart clung to whatever ledge in my throat it could find. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I gasped. Joanie reached over and held back the aged cardboard flaps that kept wanting to return to their natural closed position.
My eyes misted as I ran my fingers over the uneven edges of every card and letter. I could smell the ink, the paper, even the rubber bands that bound them. I pulled out the smaller cluster of three before I pulled the box off my lap. I looked at the first envelope. White. The edges stained with age and neglect. My name and address square in the middle. I brought my knees up, protectively guarding my soul from what I was about to endure. I dragged my fingers over the front, catching the rubber band. I pulled it off and allowed the other two envelopes to rest on my lap. I noticed the stamp under the squiggly lined postmark had the American flag with the number 33. I looked at the circle with the place and date it was mailed: Willits, CA, June 14, 2000. I looked at the next postmark on the next envelope: Sept. 8, 2000. I slid to the last envelope. It was pink with a black postmark dated Dec. 22, 2000. I looked over at the next bunch, waiting in the box and the postmark on the top said March 15, 2001. My heart plunged down into my gut. I looked up at Joanie, almost forgetting she was even sitting there.
“They’re all sorted by month and year,” I whispered.
Joanie dipped her head before dropping her eyes to the box. I nodded and she pushed her fingers into the letters toward the back. That banded group was so much larger. There must have been ten or so letters. She pulled back the top of the last letter, dated Oct. 18, 2011. Ten days before my grandpa died.
“It looks like she wrote you more as the years went on,” Joanie said as she let the letter go and rubbed her hands across her knees.
I nodded before I slipped my finger into the edge of the first letter she’d written me and pulled it across the crease, ripping it open. I pulled at the lined paper folded randomly inside.
Dear Wilson,
I’m sorry I can’t do this. I am a bad mom, you deserve better. Someday I hope you will understand my reasons. Listen to Grams and Gramps. They can be tough, but it’s only for your own good.
Love,
Me
I flipped the half sheet of lined paper over.
“That’s it? Nothing more?” I said, shocked at Candi’s words. Joanie held her hand out and I handed her the letter.
There had to be more. An explanation, sentences that would comfort a little girl after her mother dumped her; but there wasn’t. All she left me were just words. Words she wrote that drove me right back to feeling like that broken, abandoned little girl. In the very first letter I opened from this box, Candi managed to freshly tear every wound she’d created in my soul. Now I had a whole box filled with letters waiting to have their way with my heart. No, thanks. I’d spent my entire life trying to heal the damage she caused and in a matter of a couple of sentences I was left reeling and broken.
“I was eight years old, for Christ’s sake. That’s all she gave me?” I said, trying to catch my breath.
“Wilson, honey, if she didn’t care she wouldn’t have filled a box with ten years worth of letters.” Joanie pulled another letter from a different year. “Try reading this one,” she said as she held out a bright red envelope. “The postmark is from 2002. Three years later.”
I grabbed the envelope, looked at the date on the postmark, and noticed it was from December. Like before, I pushed my finger into the corner and ripped along the scored edge. It was a birthday card. On the front was a scary clown with red flaming hair sticking out on either side of his bald head. His forehead was home to a cluster of wrinkles as his light eyes with black painted circles around them were open super wide, his face bright white with a gigantic red nose and exaggerated red lips like Ronald McDonald. He was dressed in a shimmery purple suit and a pink triangle tie with white dots. He was holding a white cake with rainbow sprinkles and a ton of burning candles. Yellow block letters down at the bottom of the card said, “Stop clowning around.” I opened it, and in black letters that matched the front, it read, “Remember…make a wish before you blow out your candles!”