The Letter

Standing by the postal box on the street corner, just down from her house, she held the envelope in her hand as she contemplated on what she was about to do. Would this be pandora’s box? Should she rip it up, and head back home, pretending she never wrote the letter? Sighing out loud, she dropped the letter into the mail slot, and whispered to herself, “It is gone. Too late for regrets”. After 64 years it was time, she reassured herself. Walking down the sidewalk towards home, she knew she had done the right thing and whatever happened next was out of her hands.

A week later, a fit petite elderly lady, with lovely white hair, a broad hat to shade her face from the hot afternoon sun, stood beside the postal delivery boxes in her southern Alberta neighbourhood. As she flicked through the mail, with a sigh, mumbled, “No surprises here just the usual flyers, bills, and the neighbourhood newsletter. Oh, look, an actual letter.” Now-a-days, people seldom wrote letters, usually, a text or an email, therefore receiving a letter was a unique experience. Nostalgia of days gone by.

Relocking her postal box she headed home. As she strolled down the street, she looked at the handwritten return address, Parksville, BC. ‘Mmmm. I don’t think I know anyone there’, she thought. Unlocking her door, she entered the air-conditioned kitchen, glad to be out of the heat.

She glanced around the room. The sun shone brightly through the light blue frilly curtains framing the window. They matched the light grey cupboards and Arborite countertops. The white fridge and stove, a matched pair, had been their latest large purchase. That was in 2013. Four years ago, now. She stood beside the large oak table with six matching chairs in the middle of the room. She loved her kitchen. It was where most of the family activities happened. Taking a knife out of the cutlery drawer, she carefully slit the envelope open and pulled out two sheets of white paper stapled together. The words on the first sheet were typed. Glancing at the bottom of the page, she saw a handwritten name. Definitely no one she knew. She sat down on one of the chairs with the letter still in her hand.

She began to read.

Hello Arlene,

I was not sure how to approach you so I decided writing a letter was the easiest way. I have wanted to speak to you for some time, and with the support and encouragement of my family and friends, I now feel confident in sharing this with you.

For many, many years I have been searching for my birth family and my search has led me to you. I have enclosed some background information regarding my family of origin.

I believe, from the information I have gathered, you may be my aunt. This letter may alarm you a bit and it is difficult finding the right words. The information I have enclosed is private and personal, and I do not want to upset anyone. I have intruded, but I couldn’t let the rest of my life pass staying silent knowing I didn’t try to reach out.

As I watched my son grow up (he is now in his early 40’s & has a son) I thought a lot about what traits and characteristics they inherited from me and ‘my side of the family’. When you are adopted, you lose that connection and your family of origin remains a mystery.

The attached document was sent to me from the Alberta Services regarding my adoption.

I was born June 18, 1953, at the Holy Cross Hospital in Calgary, and my birth name is Lydia Larson. The adoption papers list my mother as Jackie Larson, and she had four sisters (three older and one younger than herself). Her father was a carpenter and her mother died in 1943 of a ruptured appendix.

Gasping, the letter fluttering from her fingers onto the table. She stared at it. Unable to believe what she had just read. As she sat there, she thought of her childhood, and how close she and Jackie had been. Their mother had died when they were 8 and 12. There had been quite a gap between them and the three older sisters who had already left home. Unable to raise two small girls, their father, a carpenter, had insisted the older siblings take the girls. Being married by then the older ones had struggled to care for the two girls along with their growing families. The two of them had been shuffled back and forth from family to family, always together. Usually sleeping on a couch or the floor. After two years, when their father had remarried, they returned home to live with him and their stepmother, Marion. Jackie, the oldest of the two, remembered their ‘real’ mother and resented the new wife, refusing to call her ‘mother’. She, Arlene, had been happy to be back home and sleeping on their matching beds in their old bedroom. Over the years she and Jackie had always had each other, sharing secrets and dreams. She always felt there were no secrets between them.

Getting up, she walked over to the sink. Turning on the tap, she reached for a glass from the cupboard. Looking out the window, she let the details roll around in her mind. Everything outside was ‘normal’. Her neighbour, Cathy, waved as she walked by with her Irish Setter in tow. Arlene automatically waved back. The ‘resident’ Robin was chirping loudly. ‘I suppose the babies have left the nest by now and their parents are bemoaning their departures’ she mused to herself. Today was a beautiful July day. She had enjoyed her afternoon walk down the street to the local post boxes to get her mail. Not expecting anything unusual.

“Oh dear”, she exclaimed as the glass started to overflow. Quickly turning off the tap, she drained the excess water out of the glass. After raising it to her lips and taking a long, deep gulp, she turned to look at the letter lying askew on the table. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath was shallow. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she contemplated. Should she read the rest? Maybe throw it into the recycle bin with the flyers. No one would ever know she had received it. Maybe the lady would not write again if she never replied to the letter. Shaking her head, she walked back to the table, sat down and picked it up. No, she would finish it. Then decide what to do next.

I was adopted as an infant and was raised in a loving, happy home in a small town in Central Alberta. Over the years, I would wonder about my birth family. Did they know about me? Did I look like any of them? Who else in the family had blue eyes and blonde hair?

I hope you will give me the opportunity to talk with you or that you will connect me with another family member willing to speak with me. You can call me on my cell. If it would be more comfortable for you to write a letter or send an email, since I live on Vancouver Island, I am including my number, email address and mailing address. I occasionally visit family in Alberta so we could connect that way as well. I don’t know what else to say. Hope this has not been too much of a surprise.

Jennifer Dawson

Slowly setting the letter down on the kitchen table, she looked around for her cell phone. She was always setting it down and then forgetting where it was. Spotting it over by the stove she picked it up and dialed her daughter, Roni.

After a few rings, Roni answered with her usual bubbly voice, “Hi Mom. What’s up? We just talked earlier today. Did you forget to tell me something?”

In a shaky voice, she replied. “No dear, nothing like that. I just got a letter in the mail from a lady in BC. She claims to be your Aunt Jackie’s daughter who was given up as a baby for adoption. Jackie never mentioned she had a baby before she married Oscar. The two of us girls, being the youngest, were so close. I am sure she would have told me if there had been a baby. It was in ‘53 so I would have been overseas volunteering. Yet, I can’t believe she wouldn’t have told me eventually. Oh, dear, I seem to be rattling on. Are you free to come over and read the letter? I am not sure what to think of it, of her, or what to do about it.”

“Mom, you put the kettle on. I am on my way. A strong cup of tea while I read the letter is a great start. Maybe pull out the Rum just in case we need something stronger.”

With the tea steeping in the pot, two teacups ready on the table, and the bottle of Rum sitting on the nearby counter, Arlene sat back down and picked up the letter. She flipped to the second page. The document was very official looking with the heading of Alberta Social Services, History of Adopted Child. Skimming the details she realized the facts appeared to be correct. How would a stranger know so much about their family? Feeling confused, she pondered, ‘Jackie passed away a year ago, so there was no asking her. I am the last of the five girls. Oh, Roni, please hurry up and get here.’

Hearing the back door open and slam shut she gave out a loud sigh of relief. Of all her four children, all adults now, only Roni ever entered with such bluster.

Gasping for breath, Roni’s voice was tense with concern. “I jogged over since Tom has the car today. It’s his soccer practise day. How are you doing? Your hands are shaking. Here let me pour the tea. Is this the letter? I’ll read it while you drink your tea. Then we will talk.” She plopped down on a chair beside her mom, smiled confidently to her Mom as she picked up the letter.

Sipping her tea, Arlene glanced over at Roni who was her youngest. She was wearing her favorite Saturday outfit; black leggings, an oversized tee-shirt and white runners. Her long black hair in its usual ponytail had stopped swinging as she read the letter. The room was silent except for the kitchen clock’s steady tick, tick, tick. Another sip of the tea and still Roni didn’t look up. The paper made a crinkling noise as she flipped the pages back and forth, as if checking for…what!? Arlene wasn’t sure.

Roni looked up at her mom. “Wow, everything seems right. It lists Papa Larson as a carpenter, five sisters and their ages seem about right, and Gran Larson did die sometime in the 40’s of a ruptured appendix. Do you think Uncle Oscar knew?”

Arlene shook her head. “I really don’t know. Not even a whisper about a baby. In ‘53, Jackie would have been 25 and living in Calgary either on her own or with Aunt Betsy. She was always moving around. Unable to settle down. I returned from my year overseas in ’54. Jackie was working as a secretary for a lawyer downtown. She moved in with me until she married Oscar a year later. Everything seemed normal. Not a hint of any pregnancy or a baby.”

“Surely someone would have noticed if Aunt Jackie was pregnant. Right? Wow, this is unbelievable. You read about things like this, never thinking your own family might have a secret that no one talked about. Boy, those who knew sure kept mum about it.”

Looking over at Roni, she said, “The question is…what do we do now? Forget the tea. I think we need a drink of rum on the rocks. Would you get it, please, I think I need to sit here a bit longer. My legs feel like rubber and my head is swimming. I keep going through those years and trying to see what I missed. How could I have not seen the signs and overlooked such a crucial moment in Jackie’s life?”

Scrapping her chair back, Roni got out two glasses from the china cabinet putting them on the counter beside the fridge. The ice cubes clinked as she dropped two of them into each glass. Returning to the table she poured in the Rum. In her confused state, some sloshed over the rim. Her typical clumsiness more defined than usual. Grabbing the dish cloth, she cleaned up the mess. Looking at her mom, expecting her usual comment on her clumsiness. There was nothing. Her mom just sat there looking blankly at the letter. ‘Wow mom is definitely shook-up,’ she realized.

The two ladies sat at the table quietly sipping on their drinks. Both deep in thought.

“Ok, Mom, first we need to decide if we want to contact this lady or not. What are your thoughts? Whatever you decide, I will support you 100%. There are a few other things we need to consider. Do we tell the others? Oh dear, what about cousins Jen and Thomas, Aunt Jackie’s kids. Should we tell them?”

Both ladies, letting out a long sigh in unison, picked up their glass, sipping quietly, each deep in thought. The letter laying on the table. Neither wanting to pick it up.

“Ok, I think what we should do is look her up on Facebook. We might be lucky and her picture will be posted there. Where is your laptop, mom?”

“On the coffee table in the living room. You go get it. You know my password so go ahead and sign in. I will just sit here.”

After getting the laptop, bringing it to the kitchen table, and signing in, Roni turning to her mom asked, “Do you want me to look?”

“Yes, you are faster than I am with it.”

“OMG, here she is. She looks just like a younger version of Aunt Jackie.” Passing the laptop to her mom, she said, “What do you think?”

Staring at the enlarged photo, Arlene, just sat there. Looking up at Roni, she exclaimed, “I can hardly believe it. You have a new cousin. Print it off for me. I believe we need to get in contact with her. She obviously is Jackie’s daughter.”

She was relaxing in her lounge chair in the backyard under the shade of a large Arbutis tree, reading a book when her cellphone rang. The letter, written weeks ago, was all but forgotten.

Picking up the phone, she glanced at the name. It didn’t look familiar, “Hello,” she said. “Hi, is this Jennifer?”

“Yes, it is. May I help you?”

“Jennifer this is your Aunt Arlene; you sent me a letter a few weeks ago. You are my sister, Jackie’s daughter who she gave up by adoption. I am sitting here with my daughter Roni. Our family was surprised to hear about you. I am not sure if you know this, but Jackie passed away last year. She never told us about you. Everyone would love to meet you.”

The forgotten book falling to the ground as she stood up in astonishment. “Oh, my goodness. Yes, yes, I would like that very much.”