Page 66 of Book People

Instead, I carry the box over to the counter and put it down. Take a breath. My pulse is very fast and I’m nervous for reasons I can’t pinpoint. This is some of my history in this box, a history I had no idea about, but I also know that, whatever is in here, it won’t be enough.

I never thought I’d be angry at my mother, but I feel an ember of it now, flickering in my heart. I know she didn’t want to give me up and I’m so grateful, yet her argument with Rose has meant here’s a whole side of my family I will never know. I wonder if she ever thought about that. I wonder if she ever thought that I might want to have a part in it, to have them in my life. Still, it’s not all her fault. I didn’t push for answers, because I got so caught up in my own life that I stopped asking questions. And now I’m here, and I’m nothing but questions, but it’s too late to ask them. Because she’s gone.

The past is important, though. Especially since we are all of us the sum of that past. We are the consequences of the choices our parents made and the choices their parents made and so on.

It matters. It gives context. It can show us who we are.

I’m not just the past, I know that, but I’m a person who loves books, who loves stories, and the story of my own family is important to me. In fact, I never realised how important until now.

I take the top off the box.

Inside there are postcards. Letters. A broken necklace. A silver ring. A small Bible. A lipstick. Some old, beaded bracelets. Newspaper clippings. A hospital tag with ‘Baby of Rose Jones’ on it.

I hold the tag, my throat tight. That baby was Mum, and Rose kept the tag all these years. The door that Mum had closed so firmly had been unlocked all this time and she’d just never opened it. Then again, neither had Rose.

Sighing, I pick up the newspaper clippings. They chronicle the disappearance of Kathryn Jones and how she vanished without a trace, and how long she’d been missing. Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

No wonder Rose was so difficult. That must have devastated her.

Finally, I pick up the letters and it’s curious, because the paper they’re written on is familiar, thin and crackling with age. Slowly, I open one and it’s the red ink that stands out.

Familiar red ink.

Rose, I’m sorry. I have to go. I can’t explain why but know that your existence is the only thing that has made my life bearable. You were the best thing to come out of my marriage. The only good thing. I want you to be happy. Iwant you to find love. I had it once and I threw it away because I did not have the courage. I do now.

Know that I will be safe. Know that I will be loved.

Know that I will be happy.

Your loving mother.

The red ink has run in several places as if someone had cried over it, and of course someonehadcried over it. Rose.

My own throat gets painful and the dull ache in my chest returns.

I pull another letter out.

I am sorry, darling H. But I cannot write to you. He watches me constantly. I think he knows.

C

My eyes prickle; shock echoes through me.

I pick up the next one.

I love you. I never thought I would find someone I would feel so passionately about. I thought I would always be alone, always be trapped. Then you appeared and none of it mattered any more. You freed me. I wish I had met you five years ago.

C

I pick up another.

I always seem to be saying I’m sorry, but you must know that I am. I am a coward. I want to be with you so badly, but now I have her to think of. He might let me go, but never her, and I cannot leave her. I cannot come with you, no matter how much I want to. Please understand.

C

Tears fall down my cheeks. I know who she’s writing to. I know who C is now, and I probably should have guessed, but I didn’t.

I know you won’t ever see this note, not now, but I saw you leave. You were so handsome in your uniform. You were so much braver than I. Stay safe, Sebastian.

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