Secrets

      Theresa needed to sit down. She slumped down into her overstuffed armchair. One hand on her belly, feeling for the baby who had just announced itself with a kick, her other hand clutching an old letter. Her mind was spinning.

           Had she read the letter incorrectly? Theresa skimmed through the words again in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. It was dated eight years ago, a letter from her father to her mother. But her father died when she was four. Twenty-six years ago.

           The letter had fallen out of a book from her late mother’s estate. It was inside an old copy of Anne of Green Gables, a book Theresa’s mother had read to her over and over at bedtime when she was small. Theresa had always imagined that in that magical place, where the roads were red and the sunlight danced off the Lake of Shining Waters, her father was still alive. He was waiting for her, waiting for her to find him.

           And now this letter. Her father was alive. After all this time. Her mother had died less than a year ago. For months afterwards Theresa had wondered if it was somehow her fault, if she had driven her mother to the edge after all those arguments, all those late nights when her mother didn’t know where she was. And all those nights of one too many drinks.

           She looked at the letter again. The writing was a little messy but she had made out the words fine. Her father had apologized for something, though there weren’t enough details to say what exactly had happened. Something about Christmas Eve and a pair of steel toe boots that he had thrown away. He was asking if he could visit, to see his two daughters once again. Had her mother ever responded?

           Theresa had to tell someone, talk to someone. But who could she talk to? Her mother was gone. Her husband wouldn’t know anything about it. She had to call her sister Harriet. She was ten years older than Theresa. She would know.

           Theresa felt her heartbeat quicken as she waited on the phone. Two rings. Three.

           “Hello?” answered Harriet’s voice.

           “Hi Harriet, it’s Theresa.” She paused to breath. “How are you doing?”

           Harriet was doing pretty well, she said. Though her seven-year-old son had tried to bite his teacher and was staying home for the next two days. Theresa and Harriet hadn’t spoken in weeks, despite living just a few minutes apart. Life got busy ever since Harriet had kids. And it was about to get busier now that Theresa’s first child was on the way.

           “Harriet, I was wondering,” began Theresa. She paused, trying to find the words to broach the subject. She still held the letter in one hand.

           “Yes?”

           A dozen questions rushed through Theresa’s mind. Had Harriet known that their father hadn’t died all those years ago? Why had their mother lied? Was their father still alive today? But it felt like it would be too much to ask any of those questions now, and over the phone.

           Theresa said the first thing that popped into her head.

           “I was wondering, did you want to come to a cookie exchange next Saturday? I’m organizing it with a few friends.”

           “A cookie exchange? Do I know any of these people?”

           “You don’t need to. They’re very friendly. And it’s totally informal.”

           “I—I’ll have to double-check my schedule. Did you want me to bake?”

           “They can be store bought cookies too if you like. There’s no pressure.”

           Harriet paused before answering.

           “All right. Next Saturday you said?”

           “Next Saturday.” The last Saturday before things got too busy with Christmas preparations and nobody had time for get-togethers like this.

           Theresa had not organized a cookie exchange. At least, not yet. But that was easily remedied. She looked at her phone and opened the online group chat called “The Divinely Beautiful, Dazzlingly Clever and Angelically Good.” A quote from Anne of Green Gables. It was time to get the ladies together.

           They saw her message almost immediately and all at once there was a flurry of replies. “That sounds wonderful,” Tracie said, “but I’ll be over at Philip’s parents that night.” Marjory had tickets for The Nutcracker with her new boyfriend and Haley simply posted a photo of herself getting a massage in Hawaii, which garnered plenty of likes. All in all there were seven no’s, three maybe’s which meant no, and just two yes’s. Francine and Desdemona. Loyal till the last.

           If Theresa was being honest, perhaps it would be good if not everyone came. She didn’t want Harriet feeling overwhelmed. That wouldn’t really help her to open up. But what exactly was Theresa expecting to happen? It wasn’t like Harriet was going to start divulging family secrets with all of Theresa’s friends listening in, crunching on cookies in the background.

           No, that would not be ideal. None of this was ideal. But Theresa had to see her sister somehow. She had to know the truth about their dad.

           Harriet was the first to arrive. At the sound of the doorbell Theresa stood up too quickly and immediately felt lightheaded. She steadied herself and took one last look at the living room. Everything was ready. Her own chocolate chip cookies sat in a red and green tin on the coffee table.

           “Harriet, hello! How are you?”

           “Theresa,” she said, shaking the snow from her jacket. Then she stepped inside and gave her a hug. “Wow, you’re getting big, little sister. How many months to go?”

           “Three and a half.”

           “Well, hang in there. And get lots of rest.”

           Theresa smiled. She could hardly rest knowing what she knew now. She needed answers. Then she could rest.

           “You found someone to babysit the kids?”

           “They’re at my mother-in-law’s today.”

           “Well, good to have you here. Have a seat on the couch.”

           “Thanks,” Harriet said, handing Theresa a paper bag. “I have a Christmas card for you too.”

           “Thank you. Ah, peanut butter cookies,” said Theresa, breathing in the scent. “Just like mom used to make. You didn’t have to do any baking.”

           “I wanted to. I didn’t want your friends to think I was a fake.”

           Theresa considered the cookies for a moment and felt tears welling up in her eyes, thinking about their mother. “It’s been almost a year,” she said.

           “I know,” Harriet said softly.

           “I’m scared, you know?”

           “Of what?”

           “Of having the baby. And not having mom with me. I would have wanted to tell her,” said Theresa, laying a hand on her belly. “I wish she was here to see me become a mother. After all I put her through.”

           “Oh, Theresa,” said Harriet, taking her sister’s hand. “I think she knows. Somehow.”

           “Steve’s parents died in a car accident years ago,” continued Theresa, her mind going a mile a minute. “So my baby will never know what it’s like to have grandparents.”

           “Your child will grow up having a loving mother and a father, Theresa. That’s more than we had.”

           “Do you remember dad? I was so young when he died. I wish he was here.”

           Harriet’s face darkened. She had never spoken badly about their father. But now Theresa got the feeling that there was some raw emotion there. Something Harriet had never told her.

           The doorbell rang. Francine and Desdemona, loyal friends to the end, had carpooled. They each brought with them a container of cookies, mint and raison respectively, and received Theresa’s sister with enthusiasm. Harriet, on the other hand, appeared to still be processing what Theresa had said, and merely nodded at them in greeting.

           Everyone wanted eggnog. With rum? Yes, with rum, they said. Theresa went to fetch it from the kitchen, leaving the three other ladies to get better acquainted. Those three made a fine group. They couldn’t have been more different. Francine owned a hair salon and Desdemona was an electrician. Harriet was an accountant and liked her job. But from the sounds of it, their conversation was picking up.

           Theresa contemplated the bottle of rum in her hand. A shadow passed over her.

           Those three in the living room did have something in common. Francine and Desdemona had grown up with Theresa. So unlike the rest of the friend group, they knew about her past. They knew about the partying, her brush with alcoholism, her time in the hospital and the clinic. They had stuck with her. And so had Harriet.

           Theresa came back with the drinks. She returned to the kitchen once more to get her own eggnog. No rum in hers.

           “I can’t believe you don’t know yet if it’s a boy or a girl,” said Francine. “That means you’ll have to pick out names for each.”

           “We don’t want to know,” said Theresa. “We want to be surprised. Like how it was in the old days.”

           “I think once you get to the hospital you’ll be happy you’re living in modern times,” laughed Francine. “Though with how roughly some doctors speak you’d think they had stepped right out of medieval times.”

           “Oh stop it, Francine. She’s nervous enough,” said Desdemona. “Have you picked out any names yet, Theresa?”

           “Yes, we have. Since we’ve both lost our parents, we’ve decided to name the baby after them. If it’s a girl, Avery Georgiana. If it’s a boy, Benjamin Wilbur.”

           Theresa stole a glance at her sister. Harriet sipped her eggnog, her eyes downcast. She didn’t give any indication how she felt about that.

           “So Harriet,” said Francine, “we haven’t talked in forever. I mean, I saw you at your mom’s funeral, but that was from a distance—”

           “Francine!” said Desdemona. “You can’t just bring that up so casually.”

           Theresa wondered if the rum was getting to her. She hoped she hadn’t put too much in their eggnog.

           “It’s all right,” said Harriet. “I’ve done my grieving. You wouldn’t have wanted to talk to me back then.”

           Francine looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. The grief—it never really goes away, does it?”

           “You cope as best as you can. But I have my sister with me,” she said, touching Theresa’s hand. “That’s all I need.”

           Theresa nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure she agreed. She needed a sister who was there for her, a sister who was honest with her. And if their father was truly still alive, she needed him there too.

           With all those thoughts whirling around in her head, Theresa found it difficult to engage in the conversation. Harriet seemed to grow quiet as well. But Francine and Desdemona were enough to keep each other going for some time.

           Before long Theresa started to get tired and the other ladies noticed. Francine and Desdemona made their exit first, thanking Theresa and Harriet for the chat and for the cookies. They parted with hugs and kisses, stepping out into the crisp, snowy evening.

           That left Theresa alone with Harriet.

           Theresa knew that her husband would be coming home from work soon. It was now or never.

           “I found something in one of mom’s books,” said Theresa, studying her sister. “It’s a letter from dad.”

           Harriet’s face betrayed nothing. “Oh?”

           “It was written eight years ago. Dad is alive.”

           “Oh,” said Harriet. She seemed to deflate slowly and leaned back in her seat on the couch.

           “You knew?”

           “Mom made me promise never to tell you. But I wouldn’t have told you anyways. It was the right thing to do.”

           Theresa sat up. She could feel her blood beginning to boil. “The right thing to do? To lie to your own sister?”

           “You were a child! Barely four years old.”

           “It’s been twenty-six years since then. I think I deserve to know what happened!”

           “You deserved better. We all did.”

           “What do you mean? Tell me the truth. No more lies.”

           Harriet closed her eyes and sighed. “You think you want to know, but you really don’t.”

           “You don’t know what I want.”

           “What do you want?”

           “I want my child to have a grandfather.”

           Harriet opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again.

           Theresa continued. “I know, I spent all those years thinking I was Anne Shirley of Prince Edward Island because I didn’t have a father. I thought it was wonderfully poetic, romantic even. But it wasn’t real. None of it. I want my father, Harriet. And I don’t care if he ran out on us or if he gambled his money away or whatever story you’re about to tell me—”

           “It’s worse than that.”

           “I don’t care what he did. He’s my father. Our dad.”

           “An angry drunk in steel toe boots is not someone you want around a young child!”

           The two sisters sat there in silence for a moment.

           “Theresa,” Harriet said slowly, “do you remember how you got that scar on your head?”

           Theresa reached up instinctively to touch her left temple. There had always been a distinct white line there, the width of her thumbnail. But she never knew how it got there. She must have forgotten.

           Her sister Harriet was staring at her intently. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you what happened Christmas Eve when you were four.”

           But the pieces were already there. All it took was for Theresa to put them together. That’s why they hadn’t allowed her dad back. It had been to protect her.

           So that was the story. Their father was a raging, violent drunk. And twenty-six years ago he did something unthinkable, unforgiveable, leaving her with his shoe imprint on her temple. And then he was gone. Gone for twenty-six years.

           Then Theresa remembered the letter. “The boots. He threw them away the next day.”

           Harriet left the cookie exchange with her share of treats. Theresa insisted that she take them. They hugged on the doorstep for a good long moment, and when they drew apart they were both crying. They promised to visit each other again soon. In the new year for sure. Maybe sooner.

           Before Harriet left, she had one more thing to add. She had forgotten to sign her Christmas card. Theresa lent her a pen. She seemed to be writing slowly and intentionally, careful not to make a mistake. Once she was gone, Theresa sat down on the couch and opened up the card. It related Christmas greetings to her and her husband and their unborn child. It was signed, “With Love, Harriet.” But under the signature was a phone number. And next to the number was a name. “Wilbur.” Dad.