Chapter 5 – THE MOTHER WHO WAS STILL THERE

Celeste stared at the empty envelope.

“I don’t remember a letter.”

June didn’t raise her voice.

“Rebecca wrote it herself.”

“June, I handled dozens of boxes when we reorganized the upstairs rooms. I can’t possibly remember every piece of paper.”

“It wasn’t just a piece of paper.”

Roman picked up the envelope.

The flap had been opened carefully. No tearing. No damage.

Someone had taken the time to preserve it.

“Celeste,” he said, “did Oliver ever receive this?”

She hesitated.

“I read him some things from the notebook.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. He didn’t receive a separate letter.”

Oliver looked at June.

“Did Mom really write it for me?”

“Yes, darling.”

“What did it say?”

June’s eyes filled.

“I don’t know all of it. Your mother sealed it herself.”

Oliver looked down at the envelope.

Then he asked a question I hadn’t expected.

“Was she still sick when she wrote it?”

June nodded.

He studied the cream-colored paper.

“Did it hurt her hand?”

The question seemed to break something in June.

She sat down slowly.

“Sometimes writing was difficult for her.”

Oliver traced the edge of the envelope with one finger.

“Then she must’ve really wanted me to have it.”

Roman looked away.

I felt tears gathering in my own eyes.

There were so many expensive things in that mansion. Watches that cost more than my car. Paintings nobody stopped to look at. Furniture we weren’t allowed to move without permission.

And here was a ten-year-old boy holding an empty envelope as though it were the most valuable thing in the house.

Maybe it was.

Celeste reached toward him.

“Oliver, sweetheart, your mother wrote many things. We can find something else.”

He pulled the envelope away.

“I want what she wrote for me.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

His voice was small, but firm.

Celeste froze.

Then Oliver looked frightened by what he’d said.

“I’m sorry.”

She opened her mouth.

Roman spoke first.

“You don’t need to apologize for wanting your mother’s letter.”

Oliver nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

June took off her brown wool coat.

It was the first time she’d done so since arriving.

I helped her hang it over the back of her chair.

She sat beside her grandson and unfolded the green sweater she’d brought him.

“Would you like to try this on?”

Oliver looked at it.

“Did you really make it?”

“Every stitch.”

He examined the uneven sleeves.

“One arm’s longer.”

June laughed.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Oliver smiled.

Then he pulled the sweater over his head.

It fit, except for the right cuff, which covered half his hand.

He held both arms out.

Roman laughed softly.

“Looks good, buddy.”

Oliver grinned at his grandmother.

“It’s warm.”

June reached over and straightened the collar.

“I thought Chicago winters might still be cold.”

That simple exchange made Celeste’s expression change.

She watched June with an expression I couldn’t quite identify.

Envy, perhaps.

Or the realization that she had spent months trying to manufacture something that came naturally to the woman sitting across from her.

Roman asked me to bring the family their Thanksgiving plates.

For a little while, we stopped discussing the letters.

Oliver ate turkey and mashed potatoes beside June. He asked whether Rebecca had liked cranberry sauce.

“She hated it,” June answered.

“Dad likes it.”

“Your mother used to say that was his worst quality.”

Roman smiled.

“She said a lot worse about me than that.”

Oliver laughed.

Celeste remained at the table, barely touching her food.

I noticed that Roman didn’t ask her to leave.

He was angry, but he was also trying to understand what had happened in his own home.

And I suspected he knew some of the answers wouldn’t make him look innocent.

After dinner, Oliver asked whether he could take the silver bracelet upstairs.

Roman agreed.

But the boy hesitated.

“What if I lose it?”

“Then we’ll look for it together.”

“What if I break it?”

“We’ll have it repaired.”

Oliver thought for a moment.

“Even if it’s Mom’s?”

“Especially then.”

He smiled.

When he’d gone upstairs to put the bracelet in his bedside drawer, Roman remained at the table with June, Celeste, and me.

I began clearing dishes.

“Emily,” Roman said, “leave those for a moment.”

I stopped.

He turned toward Celeste.

“I want you to tell me why Rebecca’s notebook was taken away.”

Celeste rubbed her forehead.

“Because I was afraid.”

The answer seemed to surprise him.

“Of what?”

“Of what happened on Oliver’s birthday.”

She looked toward the doorway.

“He opened that box. He held the bracelet. Then he started asking questions I couldn’t answer.”

“What questions?”

“Whether Rebecca knew she was dying. Whether she was frightened. Whether she wanted to leave him.”

June closed her eyes.

Celeste continued.

“I tried to reassure him, but he kept asking what she’d written. He wanted me to read the notebook.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I did.”

Roman went still.

Celeste looked at June.

“There was a passage about not building your life around an empty chair.”

June frowned.

“What passage?”

Celeste swallowed.

“She said the people left behind had to make room for new love. That it wasn’t healthy to keep everything the same.”

Roman stared at her.

“Rebecca wrote that?”

“Yes.”

June’s expression changed.

“I remember something like that,” she said slowly.

Celeste looked relieved.

“Exactly.”

“But Rebecca wasn’t telling Oliver to forget her.”

“I never said she was.”

June leaned forward.

“Then what did you tell him the passage meant?”

Celeste didn’t answer.

Roman looked at her.

“Celeste.”

She stood abruptly.

“I said that his mother wanted us to be happy. That she wouldn’t want him trapped in grief forever.”

June nodded.

“That part is true.”

Celeste’s shoulders loosened.

Then June continued.

“But Rebecca always told me there was a difference between making room for somebody new and throwing somebody away.”

Roman glanced at the empty envelope.

“Where is the notebook now?”

“In my study.”

“Bring it.”

Celeste shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Bring it.”

She stared at him.

Then she said something that made June go very still.

“Roman, you should understand that Rebecca didn’t just write about Oliver. She wrote about you. And some of what she said might hurt you more than it hurts him.”

Share