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By Root 1249 0

I arrived. Like spring, like March, instead. I meant to see Joseph, of course, and to pay a visit to Cora, whose name is Jarrett now, though she does not feel like a sister. It was overcast and you had taken out all your winter things again—the blue coat and the pale blue hat and mittens I had fashioned to send to you at Christmas. I left my suitcase on Mrs. Elliot’s porch and walked across the street, so impatient to see you, to touch you. The mittens were falling from your hands, dangling from your wrists on the little strings I had made, and your hat was off, too, bouncing against your back, and your coat swinging open, because it really was not very cold, revealing your sunshine dress. The hollyhocks were blooming, their soft bell shapes hanging from the tall stems, and you picked some and began to shape them into dolls—an unopened bud for the head, the blooming flower for a skirt. We used to do this together, I taught you how. You were intent, and did not look up until I squatted down beside you. Then you pushed your hair from your face and smiled.

“I’m making dolls”, you said. “Do you want to help?”

“Yes, I’ll help. They’re very pretty”.

“My mother taught me”, she said, and this pierced me with joy, because even though you did not know me right away, you certainly remembered.

“Your mother loves you so much”, I said.

“I know. She’s pretty and she made me these mittens”.

“Those are very nice mittens”, I said, and I remembered sitting downstairs, knitting those mittens for your little hands, while conversations swirled around me.

“I got them in my stocking. They were put away. Mama says I may play with them awhile, but I must put them back, I mustn’t get them dirty”.

I waited for a heartbeat, two, then three, taking in the meaning of your words.

“Who said you must put the mittens away?”

“Mama said. Mama Cora. Did you come to see her? She’s in the kitchen, making bread”.

“No”, I said, and then I could not say more.

You finished your flower doll and handed it to me.

“I made it for you”, you said. “You are a pretty lady”. And then you stood up and ran off, laughing.

I let you go, your pale blue mittens flashing against the folds of your coat.

I had to pause. I stood up and walked to the window, which overlooked the expansive front lawn, and watched cars travel up and down the street. I was filled with compassion for Rose, squatting on the damp ground with the daughter who did not know her, and there was nothing to do with this emotion because Rose was gone, long dead. I thought of my great-grandfather, whose story had seemed so seamless from our vantage point in history, struggling in his early years to start Dream Master Locks, taking care of a child who was not his own, married to a woman with endless aspirations for their lives. Close-up, their lives were as complex and chaotic as my own, full of mistakes and disappointments and good intentions gone awry. I felt duped, for I’d believed in the clear-cut heroic arc of my great-grandfather’s life, and I’d known nothing of Rose, erased from the family lore as surely as if she hadn’t existed. I went back to the letters to find out what she’d done next.

When you left I walked and walked, far out of the village and down the rutted country lanes, the flower doll wilting in my hand. I found myself at the edge of the lake. Foam made a lacy trim to the cold gray water. I wept. I had not imagined this. You were always so present that I never imagined I was all the time fading from your mind.

I want you to know how I struggled. I sat down on a large stone, waves lapping near my toes, and tried to think what I should do. I could see two possibilities. I could go back to the house and announce that you were mine and take you with me back to the city. Vivian would make a place and so would the others. No one would ask about your father, they would assume he had died in the war.

But what would you do, while I was at work? And I must work. And how would you feel about my tiny attic room? Would Cora let you go, or would she argue that I was unfit, because I’d been