Chapter 6 - THE BOX IN THE ATTIC
Dad took us home.
Mom did not come.
She stayed at church with Pastor Ellis.
I had not entered my childhood house in almost seven years.
Everything looked smaller.
Same couch.
Same clock.
Same family photographs.
No picture of Mia.
Of course.
Dad climbed into the attic and returned carrying a plastic storage bin.
I knew before he opened it.
Letters.
Birthday cards.
Christmas envelopes.
One package.
All addressed to me.
All bearing my Asheville address.
None mailed.
I sat on the floor.
Danny swore quietly.
Dad covered his face.
“Why?”
He answered without looking at me.
“Your mother kept saying she would send them later.”
“And you?”
“I let her.”
Again.
He had turned cowardice into a lifestyle.
The first envelope was from Grandma June.
Christmas, four years earlier.
Dear Tori,
I am sorry about Caleb. Linda told me you are expecting. I wish you had called me directly, but I understand grief does strange things.
I stopped reading.
Mom knew before Mia was born.
Grandma continued:
If you need money, come home or let me send some. You should not be alone right now.
I could have used that letter.
God.
I could have used it.
I was pregnant, grieving, reducing hospital hours, counting grocery receipts.
Grandma had been offering help from seven hours away.
My mother kept the letter in an attic.
The next envelope came from Aunt Cheryl.
Then another cousin.
Not everyone believed Mom’s story initially.
Several wrote:
We heard you and your mother fought. Call when you’re ready.
Mom never mailed them.
Why collect outgoing letters?
Dad said relatives often gave them to Mom because she claimed she had my “latest temporary address.”
Then she simply stored them.
My mother had become the postal system between me and my family.
And shut it down.
Then I opened the package.
Inside:
A baby blanket.
Yellow.
Hand-knitted.
Card:
For Tori’s baby. Love, Grandma June.
I started sobbing.
Danny left the room.
Dad sat several feet away, crying too.
I did not want his comfort.
He understood.
Then I found something strange.
One envelope was not addressed to me.
It was addressed to Caleb.
Postmarked before he died.
My hands shook.
Sender:
Dad.
“What is this?”
Dad looked up.
Then remembered.
“I wrote him.”
“Why?”
Caleb and Dad had never been close.
Dad explained.
Weeks before Caleb’s accident, he called Dad.
I froze.
“Caleb called you?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
Dad stared at the floor.
“The money.”
Apparently Caleb had noticed my exhaustion.
He knew I sent money home.
He asked Dad whether my payments were actually necessary.
Dad told him:
Family business.
Caleb pushed.
Then asked one question:
“If Tori stops sending money, will you be okay?”
Dad said yes.
I stared.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“Caleb knew I could stop?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
Dad cried.
“I was ashamed.”
I opened the letter.
Caleb,
I was defensive on the phone. You were right to ask. Tori sends more than she should. I am going to speak with Linda.
He never mailed it.
Why?
“Your mother found out about the call.”
Of course.
Then Dad whispered:
“She told me Caleb was trying to turn you against us.”
My stomach twisted.
Even dead, Caleb had been folded into the same story.
Then I saw a handwritten note on the back.
Dad’s handwriting.
After Caleb dies, tell Tori the truth.
My hands went numb.
“What?”
Dad began crying harder.
“I wrote that after the funeral notice.”
“How did you get a funeral notice?”
Silence.
The room changed.
I had never sent my parents one.
Dad looked at me.
“Caleb’s sister mailed it.”
My parents had known he was dead immediately.
Not months later through Grandma’s Christmas card.
May you like
Immediately.
The day I called saying, “Dad, please. Something happened,” he already knew exactly what had happened.
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