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I wipe the sleep from my eyes and click the power button. Holy crap, it is 9:49. I can’t believe I slept so late. I notice that it’s Friday once again, the end of another whirlwind week. I struggle to sit up and rub my face with both hands in an effort to wake up. I’m a bit surprised that I haven’t heard from Trey, but I suppose he didn’t want to risk waking me. The house is completely silent except for the creek of old floor boards beneath my feet. I peer around the corner as I creep out into the hallway, but everything is silent. I pass through the kitchen and walk to Mom’s bedroom, but no one is around. Maybe Mom had a doctor appointment or something.
I creep over to the corner of their bedroom, to Dad’s old roll top desk and push the tambour back, revealing an assortment of paperwork. I open a small wooden drawer on the right side to find his checkbook. I open another drawer that looks like it must be unpaid bills. Next, I move to the large bottom drawer that is filled with file folders. I immediately move to a thick, unmarked one in the back that catches my eye. Men are so predictable, I think as I pull the folder out and onto my lap. I find it funny that he set up a separate post office box in town to receive her letters and then he stores them in such an obvious spot. Its no wonder Mom knew everything about his affair.
My heart saddens for her as I begin to look through the cards and letters from Silvia that Dad has received over the years. It appears that the correspondence stopped for several years but then started again soon after Silvia’s divorce. She clearly states in one of the letters that she keeps a man named Charles around for company, but it is completely platonic and they sleep in separate bedrooms.
At the end of each letter she tells him how much she loves him and wishes my mother well. These two have such a conflicted relationship. I select three random letters from the beginning, middle and end of the file. That was easy. I pull a large manila envelope from the adjacent drawer and slip the letters inside. Picking up my phone, I send Trey a text to let him know I have the letters and ask him for Jürgen’s address.
I saunter to the kitchen and begin pouring myself a cup of coffee, when my phone rings. Looking at the screen, I see that its Dad calling. “You guys deserted me,” I tease him upon answering.
“Honey, you better come down to the hospital,” his voice cracks as he speaks. “Your mother isn’t doing so well.”
“Oh my God, is she okay?” I ask feeling caught completely off guard.
“No. You should come see her right away.” He pauses as if he’s thinking. “Take your mother’s convertible, it’s in the shed.”
“Okay, I’ll get dressed and be right there.” I race to my bedroom, throwing the envelope filled with letters on the bed and go into my closet to grab some of my old favorite clothes. I can’t believe this is happening!
I feel completely numb as I open the doors to the shed and get into the front seat of her old beloved convertible. It occurs to me that in the end, nothing really matters. The disagreements, the hurt feelings or the little dent my sister put in the front fender. Crap, I need to call her. I scroll through my contacts and dial her.
“I just got off the phone with Dad,” Darla says, without even saying hello.
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure you knew,” I reply, trying to be strong. “We had a really good talk last night.”
“That’s good. Mom and I had our talk about a month ago when the kids and I were home.” She pauses as if she’s in the middle of doing something. “I’m just packing the boys and then we are on our way. We should be there in about an hour.”
“Okay, drive safe,” I tell her, knowing her track record. “See you at the hospital.”
“Bye.” She says before the line goes dead and thoughts begin to clutter my mind once again. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so glad I came home yesterday. I never would’ve forgiven myself if I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her one last time. I screech to a halt in an open parking spot and run into the hospital.
“Maggie Greyson,” I tell the receptionist, nearly breathless.
“Room eleven, at the end of the hall,” she informs me with a compassionate look in her eyes. I’m sure she sees more than her share of pain sitting in that chair.
“Is she awake?” I ask Dad after meeting him in the doorway.
“Yes, she wants to see you.” Tears burst from my eyes immediately upon seeing her in the hospital bed. She looks so tired and weak.
“It’s okay sweetie,” she whispers, closing her eyes as if to fight back her own tears. “I’m sorry we won’t make it to the creek.”
