Wynn in Doubt (22 page)

Her mouth works to find the right words. “There was something else in the box. A letter addressed to your grandmother.” She taps the paper beneath her hand. “I think her mother wrote it.” She turns in her seat and removes a blue envelope from her bag.

“It’s not opened?”

“No.” The word is uttered quietly.

“And you didn’t want to open it?”

There are tears in her eyes. “It felt like . . . a betrayal—to read something she must never have wanted read. But I couldn’t throw it out.” She passes the envelope to me.

I take it, feeling its weight in my hand. “Why are you giving this to me?”

Tears slide down her cheeks, and she wipes them away. It feels wrong to see my mother cry. Parents are meant to be strong, the ones who make everything better. Who makes things better for them after
their
parents are gone?

“I know I haven’t been supportive of you wanting to find out about what happened to Lola. It scares me to think of you getting hurt. You’re my baby. It doesn’t matter how old you get. You’ll always be my little girl. I wanted to protect you from whatever it was that produced the part of my mother that couldn’t forgive.”

“Mom—”

“I’m so proud of you, Wynn.”

I reach across the table and take her hand.

“You’re such a good, kind, thoughtful person. But you’re restless. I was afraid if you identified with her, I’d lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

Her fingers squeeze mine. “I know. But I also know you have this
need
inside you, and that you struggle. I want you to be happy, but I couldn’t stand it if you left and something happened to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Mom.”

I recognize the smile she gives me. It’s the same smile she showed me when I told her I could fly if only I had the right cape, the smile she gave me when I campaigned to go to Russia for a semester in high school. The smile that says,
I know you think you’re invincible, but you’re not
.

Her fingers touch the edge of the envelope. “I think you should be the one to read it.”

She passes it to me. The seam is sealed tight by glue and time. I look at her from across the table. “Are you sure?”

She nods, holding the mug in front of her. “You know, at first I thought it was luck, you finding the article and then the diary. Now I’m starting to think it all happened for you.”

“What happened?”

“Everything.”

She doesn’t explain further. I place my finger beneath the upper flap and carefully pull it away. A single sheet of cream paper is folded inside. It’s smooth and light. Lola’s familiar, loopy handwriting greets me. I begin, as I did when reading the diary to Oliver, with the date.

4th September 1950

Dear Elizabeth,

This will be my final letter to you. It seems like I’ve written hundreds over the years, but none have been answered. I know now you’ll never forgive me. I try to understand. I know I’ve hurt you, but it seems cruel to make me suffer.

I wanted to tell you something about the night before I left. I was standing in the yard before supper, hanging clothes, when I made up my mind to leave. My hands were cracked and blistered from the laundry. Your father didn’t see the point in buying the good soap they sold at the store, so I had to make my own from lye. It burned my skin.

I remember looking at my hands and thinking they couldn’t belong to me. I had my mother’s hands. Hers were soft and pale with long fingers and pretty, rounded nails. The hands I saw were red and wrinkled, an old woman’s hands. My life flashed before me then. I was twenty-four years old.

I watched you through dinner. Your eyes were so bright and happy. I was jealous of you. Jealous of your light because mine had already gone out. When I tucked you in, you asked for a story, but I couldn’t think of one. It had been so long since I’d held a dream of my own, I couldn’t remember one to tell you. So I stroked your hair and sang a song instead.

Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. If I had seen you at the window or heard you singing to the birds, I would have run back and grabbed you into my arms, and I knew, as much as I loved you, that if I stayed, it would kill me.

Maybe you thought then or think now that I’m weak. That I should have been content to have a home and food and some measure of security. That being your mother should have been enough to keep me from leaving. But at night what gripped my heart with terror was the certainty that every dream I had within me was dying. I wonder if you can understand how that felt. It was a hopelessness I cannot fully describe.

When you’re young you think dreams are limitless, but they’re not. They age with you. Your fears and burdens darken and blur them until one day you wake up and you can’t dream anymore. You can only worry and grieve for yourself. If I had stayed, you would have seen that grief. It would have touched you, and no matter what you think, I wanted to spare you from that, at least. I wanted you to know hope.

I lost hope for a while, but I found it again. First in myself, which is the last place I expected, then later in a man who loved me. I know you remember his name. Michael.

He died many years ago, the victim of a jealous brother and pneumonia. He was so much more than what you think. He gave me a reason to fight. For myself. For you. I was never able to be his wife, and I admit, I made your father pay for that loss.

If he had only released me sooner, things may have turned out differently. But your father was unforgiving, and I did what I could to prevent him from finding the happiness I felt he stole from me. Not just after I left, but before as well.

It was wrong, and I believe it may have set your mind against me forever. Had I known that would be the consequence for my actions, or had I been a better person, I might have been able to tell you this face-to-face.

I floated from town to town for several years after Michael died. Without him, I lost myself to despair. It was Cecelia, a dear friend, who saved me. I went to see her and found her sick and dying from a tumor in her breast. She needed me to be strong, so I became strong. The way I should have been for you.

A week before she passed, she said something to me I have never forgotten. She said, “Death frightens only people who fear they have not lived.” I knew then that it was fear that had driven me from you.

I wish things had turned out differently. I wish I had never lived a day without you, and that Michael could have known the love of a child of ours. But none of that was to be.

I saw you and your daughter boarding a bus last week. She had your blonde hair and Dutch’s long gait. I walked past your apartment building as well. Please don’t be angry with me. I only want to know that you’re alright. I’m enclosing a key with this envelope. It’s for the savings and loan down the road. I’ve left something for you there.

I have faltered and failed you. But I’ve also loved you every day and with my whole heart. I end this letter with hope that you will one day forgive me.

All my love,

Your mother, Lola

Inside the envelope is a small bronze key, the name of a local bank stamped on the rounded head. I let it fall with a soft clang to the table. The key, even more than the diary, feels private. It was Lola’s last gift for her daughter. I can’t bring myself to touch it.

“Is that how you feel?” She speaks so quietly, I’m not sure if she meant to ask the question aloud, but her voice grows louder. “Like your dreams are dying?”

I hold her gaze for several moments, unsure of what I should tell her: the truth, or the words I know will ease the worry she feels. In the end I say nothing at all.

She takes the letter from my hands, and after looking it over, returns it to the envelope. She lays it on the table, then pulls the diary from her bag and does the same with it.

“Don’t you want to keep them?” I ask. “They belonged to Grams.”

She pushes her seat back and stands, leaving the letter, key, and book in front of me. “No. You keep them.” She reaches for the doorknob.

I should probably walk her out, but I’m struggling with the contents of the letter and what it could have meant to Grams, had she read it. “Mom?”

She looks back at me over her shoulder.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She opens the door but hesitates. The closed smile she aims at me is real—not happy, exactly, but warm. Her shoulders have lost some of their heaviness. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says, half in the apartment and half out. “I was thinking about the time when you were five or six. You were mad at me for something I’d done, and you told me you were running away. Do you remember?”

I turn the mug in my hands, the tea inside getting cold. “No.”

She laughs at the memory and it feels like a release for both of us. “You packed a backpack full of crayons and coloring books and a few stuffed animals. No jacket, no flashlight. I asked what you were going to do for food and where you were going to stay. You said, ‘Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll figure it out.’” She looks at me with such fondness.

I don’t want to cry, so I bite down on my lips.

“It’s time to figure it out.”

twenty

Men and women in shades of black and gray walk importantly from desk to desk. Tabby smacks her gum loudly on one side of me while Franny picks at her fingernails on the other.

“Is this going to take all day? Because Dex and I are meeting the caterer at one.”

I tap the bronze key against my knees, so anxious I’m sick to my stomach. “They said it wouldn’t be long. The bank manager has to escort us.”

“Why do they keep safety deposit boxes in a vault, anyway? Haven’t they ever seen a movie? That’s the first place bank robbers go.”

“You should ask to see the head of security.” Franny’s voice is bored and sarcastic. “I’m sure they’ll be interested in your expert opinions.”

Tabby’s arm connects with my stomach as she reaches out to smack Franny. “Don’t pick on me today.”

Franny retaliates. “Don’t be such an easy target.”

I block each of their next attempts. “You guys. Enough. Can we just wait in silence until they come get us?”

They each turn in their seats, their backs to me. I put a hand on my knee to stop it from bouncing up and down. The silence lasts about ten seconds.

“Tell me about the showgirl stuff again,” Tabby asks, the words she and Franny exchanged already forgotten. Her ability to let things go is one of my favorite things about her. I’m especially grateful for it today.

“You can read it if you want, I’ve got it here.” I lean down to pull the diary from my bag, but she shakes her head.

“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to read it.”

“She means she can’t read it,” Franny says, smiling at her own joke.

Tabby rolls her eyes and smacks her gum, not rising to the bait.

A bald man with gold wire-rimmed glasses and a tan suit marches toward us. He looks a bit sweaty, as though the exertion of walking across the lobby has taken it out of him. “Wynn Jeffries?”

“That’s me.” I rise and shake his hand.

“Stanley Cobix. I apologize for your wait.” His voice is as rushed and hurried as his manner. “You’re a very lucky woman. The person who established the account purchased the box belonging to your grandmother, and now to your mother, outright for the lifetime of the bank. Normally these things are paid monthly, but the purchase was made before the bank changed its policy, and your grandmother’s contract was grandfathered in. I had to confirm that the documents your mother brought in this morning were valid and acceptable to allow you access. It’s unusual for a safety deposit box to sit unopened so long.”

“I understand.”

He clearly doesn’t think I do. “Actually, it’s almost unheard of.”

Franny and Tabby stand on either side of me. Franny edges forward. “Great. Can we get moving now? Since Wynn’s a signer on the account, I assume there aren’t any other issues.”

He hesitates, seeming uncomfortable about allowing the three of us past the bank lobby. “Would you prefer to be alone with the box? Your sisters are welcome to wait out here.” He eyes Franny. I can’t blame him, but he also doesn’t know my big sister. She’s coming with me whether he thinks it’s a good idea or not.

Tabby flips long, glossy blonde curls over her shoulder and smiles brilliantly at the bank manager. “We’re here for moral support.”

Poor Stanley. Poor bald, sweaty, manic Stanley. Between Franny’s abrasiveness and Tabby’s low-cut blouse, he’s having a hell of an afternoon.

He leads Tabby and Franny into the small waiting room and ushers me toward the silver vault. It’s round and almost three feet wide. I follow him inside to a long wall of metal boxes. He stops at number 1144 and pulls a key similar to mine from a retractable keychain connected to his belt loop. I insert my key, he inserts his, and together we turn the lock. Stanley removes the box, and I follow him back to the dimly lit room where my sisters are waiting in a square cubicle. It’s furnished with a desk, lamp, and chair.

Stanley’s shiny head retreats toward the lobby. The three of us stare at the box on the black table. They wait for me to open it, but I’m reluctant. Lola’s letter answered most of my lingering questions, but it brought up one more. Was it worth it to her? Leaving her daughter, struggling those years, losing Michael? Did she regret it in the end?

Tabby shifts nervously beside me. “What do you think’s inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s, like, jewelry, or something like that necklace Mom found?”

“Oh God.” Franny leans across me to eye our baby sister. “You didn’t bring your label maker, did you?”

“No,” Tabby says defensively.

“Well, whatever it is, I get first crack at it.”

“You?” I ask Franny.

“Tabby stole everything good from Grams’s house, and you have the diary. I want something, too.”

“But you don’t even like Lola,” Tabby says, raising a shapely eyebrow in Franny’s direction.

“So what? I don’t have to like her to appreciate diamonds, do I?”

I wave my hands. “Stop. Nobody’s entitled to anything. The box belonged to Grams, so Mom gets to decide what happens with it. Agreed?”

My sisters nod sullenly.

“Here we go.” I put my fingers beneath the lid of the box and lift. It takes effort, the box having been closed for so long. Metal grates on metal as it opens. We all move forward to look inside. Green hundred-dollar bills, stacked in thick sets and wrapped in red paper bands, fill the box. No one moves. No one breathes. We just stare at our grandmother’s ignored inheritance.

Franny turns her head toward me. Her whisper is sharp and loud. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit is right. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the money lining this box came from the suitcase of a Chicago gangster eighty-three years ago.

“How much do you think it is?” Tabby’s whisper is quieter.

I keep my voice low, too. I think we’re all afraid of being overheard. “My guess? Ten thousand, give or take.”

“What, did you take math lessons from Tabby?” Franny’s finger taps the band on the first stack of bills. I now notice that each band is marked “$3,000” in small gold lettering. “I count six stacks just from what we can see. That’s eighteen grand.”

She’s right. If each bundle is truly three thousand dollars, there’s well over twenty thousand in this box. I begin removing the bound bills, handing them to Franny to count and stack on the table. I pull bundle after bundle until there’s nothing left. Tabby and I look at our big sister, waiting to hear how much money Lola spirited away.

For the first time in her life, Franny looks almost speechless. “Just over thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“Thirty-five thou—” Franny slaps her hand over Tabby’s mouth. Tabby mumbles the rest of the figure through our sister’s fingers.

We look down at the money. No one touches it. Maybe we’re afraid it’ll disappear. Tabby reaches inside the box. “What’s that?”

“There isn’t any more,” I say in a trance.

She pulls out a small white envelope and hands it to me. “Open it.”

Another envelope.
How many secrets did you have, Lola?
The glue is corroded and the envelope opens easily. Something hard is inside. I upend it over my hand and two gold rings fall out. I hand them to Tabby, who receives them with great care. The letter is short, folded once in half. I read it out loud.

My dearest Elizabeth,

This won’t replace our years apart, and I don’t expect you to take it gladly, but you’re struggling right now. No mother can stand idly by as her child suffers. You don’t need to worry about seeing me again. Just accept this final gift so I’ll know you’ll be alright.

I know how you feel about my past. I don’t regret the choices I’ve made, as hard as that may be for you to hear. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but knowing Michael and loving him was not one of them. He was my husband in every way that counts, and he gave me a gift far more valuable than what is inside this box. He gave me love, unconditional and eternal. The kind I have for you. Please don’t let the past stand in the way of your future. Whatever else you may think of me, know that I did the best I could with my life.

All my love, Lola

Tabby pats the skin beneath her eyes. “Crap. This mascara isn’t waterproof.”

I hand her a tissue from my purse. She gives me a crooked smile and the rings in return.

I cup them in my palm. One rests on top of the other so they look intertwined.

“Why do you think she left those in the envelope?” Franny asks.

Touching something that belonged to her, to them, still feels unreal. I move the rings around with my thumb. They’re light, but their significance is heavy. “I think she wanted Grams to know how much he meant to her. She probably thought it would help explain why she had to leave.”

“Why’s that?”

I’ve never seen her face, only her profile and the dip of her hat, but I know her. “She didn’t feel like a whole person.”

“And he made her whole?” Tabby asks, her nose buried in the tissue.

I shake my head. “She did it herself. That’s why she could love him. Only, I don’t think she knew that until a long time after.”

“So what do we do with it?” Franny picks up a stack from the desk and runs her thumb along the edges.

“We take it to Mom.”

Tabby eyes the money longingly, sighing. Franny notices and moves the bills away from her. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?”

“I can read your thoughts. You’re thinking about showing up at the church in Cinderella’s carriage with a dozen white stallions pulling you to the altar.”

Tabby crosses her arms, shoving perky breasts toward the ceiling. “Not even close.”

I share Franny’s skepticism.

“I’m not going to be taken to the church by something that poops in the road. I want a Bentley.”

“Oh please, let me?” Franny grabs the cotton grocery bag Tabby talked the poor bank manager out of and dumps thirty-five thousand dollars onto Mom and Dad’s kitchen table without pomp or circumstance.

Our parents drop their mouths open like a couple of synchronized swimmers. My father slowly picks up a stack of wrapped hundreds.

“Did you rob the bank while you were there?” he says, dumbstruck by the money in his hand.

“It’s what was in the box.” Tabby fans herself with green.

Mom looks at us, shocked. “No.”

“Yes.” Franny pretends to shove a bundle down the front of her shirt.

“This was in that box for the last sixty years?” She looks only at me this time.

Unlike my sisters, I’m not tempted to play with the money. I can’t stop thinking about Lola, about the lengths she went to for her daughter’s future, even knowing she wouldn’t be a part of it.

My mother takes the bills my father hands her. “All that time, and Mom didn’t even know it was there. You girls wouldn’t know this, but your grandparents really struggled for a while. We were jammed in a one-bedroom apartment for a couple of years. If she’d just forgiven her mother . . . What a foolish thing.” She points at the rings in my hand. “Are those—”

“Yes.” I bring my hand up so she can better see them. She touches each carefully, as though it might fall apart under her fingertip. “Hers and Michael’s.”

“How remarkable. What’re you going to do with them?”

Everyone turns to look at me.

“Me?”

Dad smiles over her head. He’s always been able to read her thoughts, so I know that whatever she’s about to say, he approves.

“Yes, of course you,” Mom says. “You found them, Wynn. You found everything. This all belongs to you.”

A single vowel escapes Tabby’s lips before Franny elbows her in the stomach. My dad smiling; my mom looking at me with luminous, happy eyes; my sisters doing their best not to look too disappointed. I don’t understand.

“Mom, this . . . this is yours. It belonged to Grams.”

“And how much good did it do shoved beneath an old dresser?” She moves forward to hug me. “You did what your grandmother and I couldn’t. You gave Lola the benefit of the doubt. You believed she was worth forgiving. Her legacy belongs to you now.” She steps back and looks so proud, I’m nearly overcome.

I wave my hand toward my sisters. I don’t want to leave them out. It feels wrong to take everything for myself. “But Franny and Tabs—”

“Eh, whatever.” Franny tosses the cash back onto the pile as though it were Monopoly money. “Ben just got a promotion at work. If I took any of this, we’d be in a new tax bracket. Besides, I still owe you for stealing him out from under you. Now we’ll be even.” She shrugs, indifferent, but her smile is genuine.

Tabby looks less convinced until Franny shoves her in the back. Her money reluctantly joins the rest of the stacks on the table. “Dex’s family is filthy rich, you know. I don’t need any either. But”—she points a pink nail at my face—“I expect a really good wedding present.”

My heart works frantically to catch up with what’s happening. It’s got me out of breath. “But I don’t need all of this.” I turn to my parents. “You guys have to take some.”

Mom shakes her head. “No. These things—they don’t just happen. This money is a gift you were meant to find. You inherited something from her the rest of us didn’t. When you read me that letter . . . Wynn, I don’t think I realized how badly you
want
things. I knew it, in the back of my mind, but I didn’t really understand. I’m still not sure I do, completely, but I know that I love you, and I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to feel lost all the time. If seeing the world is what you need to do, then that’s what we want for you. So take this, please.”