Page 43 of All We Thought We Knew
“So many memories,” she whispered as her eyelids drifted closed.
I waited for her to continue, but when she remained still, I said, “Mama?”
She struggled to open her eyes. “I’m so tired, dear. Take this.” She pushed the box toward me. “Read the letters. You need to know who you are. Where you come from. You won’t understand everything in them but read them. All of them. I’ll explain later.”
The strange request puzzled me. What could a box of old letters have to do with me? And then there was my father’s reaction to seeing me with it the day Mama prowled through the trunk. “Are you sure Dad won’t mind me looking at these things?”
Her eyes closed. “He might, but it’s time for secrets to come into the light.”
She fell silent then. Her breathing told me she was asleep. I waited a full minute to be certain she didn’t wake up before I quietly left the room. I carried the box across the hall and set it on my desk. When I lifted the lid, the contents were the same as they’d been the day I’d returned it to the trunk. The old Bible lay on top of two stacks of yellowed envelopes, each tied with string.
What secrets was Mama talking about? How could knowing them help me understand who I was?
The letters apparently held the key, but a more important question was, did Iwantto unlock what could amount to a closet full of family skeletons? Would it even matter, especially if Mama didn’t get any better? I’d purposefully avoided thinking about what I would do if she died, but I knew one thing for certain. Stayingin Tullahoma was out of the question. The mysteries this shoebox held, therefore, were irrelevant.
I closed the lid to the box and shoved it under my bed.
Hopefully Mama would forget she gave it to me.
I had no intention of reminding her about it.
• • •
I awoke Thanksgiving morning to find three inches of snow on the ground, with more coming by the looks of heavy clouds in the sky.
“Great.”
I crawled out of my warm bed and looked out the frost-covered window. The scene outside was ideal for the front of a cheery Christmas card but little else.
A shiver raced through me as I threw on an old sweatshirt withTullahoma High School Debate Teamprinted on the front, and a pair of bell-bottom jeans I’d brought with me from California. While the furnace in the basement did a decent job of heating most of the farmhouse, a draft from the old coal-burning fireplace in my room did its best to turn me into a block of ice every winter.
When I came out of the bathroom, the door to my parents’ bedroom was open. I tiptoed over to peek in. Mama was tucked snuggly in bed, asleep. I’d heard her and Dad stirring during the night, their voices slightly raised, but I hadn’t been able to make out the words. It had almost sounded as though they were arguing about something, which was unusual. Not only was it an odd time to have any kind of discussion, but the truth is they rarely argued. At least, not in front of Mark and me.
I went downstairs and found Dad and Nash sipping coffee at the table. Jake lay on a rag rug near the heating vent in the floor, his head on his paws and his lone eye on me.
“Good morning.”
The men responded likewise. I assumed they’d already eaten,since a clean frying pan and two plates sat in the dish rack, drying. Nash was good about cleaning up after himself, which I appreciated.
“I guess I’ll get started on the dinner preparations,” I said with little enthusiasm. Between the foul weather and the daunting task of fixing a huge meal by myself, there wasn’t much about this day I was going to enjoy.
I’d just opened the refrigerator to take out the turkey when Dad cleared his throat in a way that meant he had something to say. I glanced at him and waited.
“With the roads iced over, I doubt the Arnolds will be able to make it out to the farm today.” He met my gaze. “I know the meal is a lot of work, especially without your mother to help. If you’d rather not go to the trouble, we can make do with simple fare.”
I straightened.
Both his offer and his understanding of how overwhelmed I felt surprised me. I glanced at Nash, who nodded his agreement.
“What about Mama?” I said. “She always looks forward to Thanksgiving. Won’t she be disappointed if we skip it?”
Dad stared into his coffee mug for a long moment. “Her disappointment is that she can’t prepare the food herself. Being surrounded by her family and friends was always more important than what we ate. Cooking was her way of showing us love.”
I knew he was right. Mama genuinely loved people. Even though it was just the four of us after Granny passed, she made every day special. Neighbors and friends from church often graced our table through the years. Fourth of July cookouts at the farm were lively events. Everyone brought a dish to share, but Mama’s barbecued beef brisket was the star of the show.
A twinge of shame pricked me.
It would be easy to simply ignore the holiday—that’s what I’d wanted to do from the get-go—but now, after Dad’s reminder about Mama’s heart for people, I suddenly felt differently, waydeep inside. More... charitable, I guess, which admittedly wasn’t something I came by naturally.
