Page 34 of Clashing Moon

The day after the funeral, thankfully, was a Saturday, so I was only on call, as opposed to seeing patients. That morning, Rafferty had encouraged me to go out to my father’s house and begin the process of preparing the house for sale. Stella had called a Realtor friend of hers who had promised to come out on Sunday afternoon to take a look. Before I gave the whole process over to a Realtor, I wanted a chance to look through some things in the attic. My father had never allowed me up there. He said it was because of safety reasons, but I always had the feeling there was more to it. If I were to sell the house and get rid of most of the contents, I wanted to make sure I knew what was up there.

I shivered as I stepped into the dusty attic, the chill slipping in from the tiny window on the far wall. The air was thick with the smell of mothballs and old wood. Boxes upon boxes were stacked neatly, like some archive of a life I barely understood. I took a steadying breath, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, readying myself for the task of sorting through my father’s things.

I didn’t know why I felt so nervous, but as I looked around, the shadows stretching across the dusty floor, a strange pricklingfeeling crept up my spine. I was about to find something important.

After a few minutes of moving boxes, my eye caught a small wooden chest wedged between an old suitcase and a broken lamp. It was unremarkable in every way—just an old, plain box with metal latches that had begun to rust. My heart started to beat a little faster as I pulled it out.

It’s something in here.

I set the chest on the floor and knelt before it, brushing off the dust. The latches squeaked as I pried it open, lifting the lid to peer inside. It appeared to be a keepsake box—there were newspaper clippings, several notebooks, yearbooks, and a few photographs. At the bottom of all that, a stack of envelopes in varying sizes were bound together with a blue ribbon. I forgot everything else when I saw how the envelope was addressed. To me. And the return address? My mother.

Sally Collins

254 Oak Lane

Missoula, Montana

I flipped through the envelopes with postage dates that spanned over years but were always mailed on the same day, exactly seven days before my birthday. There were fourteen in all. All sealed, untouched. Unread.

“What is this?” I whispered, barely able to breathe. I ran my fingers over the envelopes; their edges softened over time.

I sat back, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and disbelief as I held the bundle of letters in my lap. Each one marked a year, a birthday I’d spent here, under my father’s roof, completely unaware that somewhere out there, my mother had thought of me, remembered me, and written to me. And he’d hidden them. He’d hidden all of them.

My throat tightened, and I felt the sting of tears as I held the cards, my fingers tracing over her neat, precise handwriting.How could he have kept these from me? The very thought seemed unthinkable, a cruelty I couldn’t comprehend. Taking a shaky breath, I untied the ribbon, letting it fall loose around my hands.

A ribbon. He’d bothered to tie them all together but not give them to me?

What have you done?

With trembling fingers, I carefully opened the first envelope, dated for my fifth birthday. Inside was a card, bright and cheerful, with a cartoon puppy wearing a party hat and holding a cupcake in its mouth. The text on the front read, “Happy Birthday to You!” in playful letters.

My Sweet Arabella,

Happy fifth birthday. I hope you’re smiling and laughing today and that you have a cake with sprinkles and candles to blow out. If I could be there, I’d hold you tight and never let go. Every day, I miss you with all my heart, and I dream of the day when I might see you again.

Please know that I love you, always and forever. Keep that close, my brave girl.

With all my love,

Mom

The words blurred as tears stung my eyes. I had no memory of my fifth birthday, no recollection of cake or candles. In all likelihood, my father wouldn’t have allowed me to have a party. Maybe a cake? But when I searched my memory, it was nothing but blank space.

There were similar cards and messages for my sixth, seventh, and eighth birthdays.

The one she’d sent on my ninth birthday featured a beautiful illustration of a forest and a cozy cabin in the background. A few deer and birds added a whimsical touch, and the text on thefront read, “For My Beautiful Girl on Her Special Day.” Inside, she’d written:

Happy ninth birthday. It’s hard to believe you’re growing up so fast! I think about you every day, wondering how you’re doing and what you’re interested in and wishing I could see it for myself. Until we meet again, I have only my imagination, thinking of you growing up good and strong. I’m proud of you, Arabella, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing. I carry you with me always.

Be happy, beautiful girl.

With all my heart,

Mom

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of her words. She’d wanted to see me, to know me. She’d been holding me in her heart even though I’d thought she’d forgotten me.

The letter for my tenth birthday came with a lighthearted card featuring a cartoon owl wearing glasses and perched on a branch. The words read, “Look Whooooo’s Turning 10!” I smiled through my tears.

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