I continued.
I understand that Caleb's family has faced difficulties of its own. We don't want to interfere. We only want him to know that Mara never chose to leave without saying goodbye.
At the bottom, Elliot had written:
If you prefer, please send me his current address, and I'll make sure the letters reach him directly.
I stared.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Then I looked at Mara.
“Your father wrote to Grandma?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“When did you find this?”
“After he died.”
I looked toward the date again.
April 2005.
I was fifteen.
Living in Chicago.
Attending high school.
Trying to navigate the difficult years when my parents' marriage was ending.
I remembered almost nothing about my grandmother's correspondence from that period.
But I remembered visiting Millbrook occasionally.
I remembered asking about Mara less frequently because the answer never changed.
No one knew where she was.
No letters had arrived.
I looked toward Mara.
“Did Grandma answer?”
She nodded slowly.
My stomach tightened.
“What did she say?”
Mara hesitated.
Then reached into her handbag and removed another paper.
It was a photocopy of a short reply.
My grandmother's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
Dear Elliot,
Thank you for writing. Caleb is well, but his family is going through a difficult period. His mother has asked that we not encourage further correspondence at this time.
I stopped breathing.
I read the sentence again.
His mother has asked that we not encourage further correspondence.
I looked up.
Mara was crying.
She continued quietly.
“My father didn't tell me about this until much later.”
I stared at the letter.
She swallowed.
“He thought he was protecting me. I was having a hard time with Mom's illness, and he didn't want me waiting for somebody whose family didn't want us involved.”
I looked toward the wall.
For a moment, the garage seemed unfamiliar.
My grandmother knew.
My mother knew.
And for years, nobody told me.
I felt anger rise.
Then confusion.
Then something worse.
The feeling of being twelve again.
Standing beneath the rose-covered fence.
Waiting for a letter that would never come.
I looked toward Mara.
“Why would my mother do that?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I stared.