Listen to Your Heart - Fern Michaels [18]
Josie looked down at the yellow legal pad in front of her. From long years of habit she’d written the letter while saying the words aloud. Tears burned her eyes when she ripped off the yellow sheet from the tablet. She folded it neatly and slid it into a Dupré Catering envelope. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand as she made her way through the second room of the cottage to a file cabinet. She sifted through the folders until she found one labeled: Josie’s Letters to Mom. She removed the rubber bands to slide in her letter. There had to be a hundred, maybe more, in the brown accordion case. Her hand plucked one of the old letters out of the folder. It had been years since she looked at the letters. It hurt too much.
Dear Mom,
You said we are not to act mean and ugly and do bad things. You were mean and ugly to me today when you said my hair looked like the bush by the front door. I did brush it. You forgot to buy that stuff to make my curls soft. Charlie White heard you say that. He made fun of me all day at school. Kitty said I shouldn’t cry, so I didn’t cry, I don’t like you today, Mom. I might like you tomorrow. Kitty said I will. Maybe I won’t.
Your daughter Josephine
Josie slid the ruled paper back into the plain white envelope that said “Mom” on the front. She remembered that day so well. That night there had been two bottles of hair conditioner in the bathroom. She’d cried herself to sleep.
Maybe she should burn the letters or put them through the shredder. They still hurt. Had she ever written any nice letters? If so, had she given them to her mother? Why couldn’t she remember? “I wish you were here, Mom. I wish that so much. Father Michael said you’re always with us in spirit. I have a hard time with that. Maybe if you gave me a sign or did something, I’d understand. I don’t know what to do.”
She was standing there like a ninny, expecting a response, when she knew there wouldn’t be one. Her mother used to say, “Foolish, foolish girl. Why did you do this or that?” Her response had always been the same: “Because I’m me and I wanted to do it.”
“Easy, easy, Rosie. What’s the matter?” Josie said as she bent over to pick up the panting dog. “Oh, I see. The door blew open. So the papers on my desk blew off and are on the floor. It’s okay, baby. I’ll clean it up. I sure hope we get that screen door back soon.”
Josie dropped to her knees to gather up the papers and folders. The yellow sheet with all her notes. She stretched her neck to look out the diamond-shaped windows. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. It hit her then. The idea that just might solve her problems. Marie Lobelia. How strange that her note page had been on the top stack on her desk. When they blew off, the odds were it would be last in the mess. Instead it lay front and center on the floor, the others scattered to the four corners. Her mother?
Coincidence. She absolutely would not pay attention to the tremor in her arms and legs. She wasn’t going to think about this or mention it to Kitty. Never in a million years. “C’mon, Rosie, want to go for a ride to the French Quarter? Just let me copy down the phone number and the address. Yes, you can bring Zip’s clone with you. Okay, let’s go.”
Josie buzzed the test kitchen on the intercom. “I’m going to town. Do you want me to fetch anything back?”
“Stop at the music store and see if that new Corinda Carford CD is in yet. I think it’s called Mr. Sandman.”
Josie loved the Vieux Carré, as did most New Orleanians. She liked the idea that the residential district shared streets with shops, restaurants, and other offices. She always felt so alive with the sights and sounds and the odors of the major port city and entertainment hub. She sniffed appreciatively. From