Looking for Jane (3)

Inside is a stack of what appears to just be yellowed paper, but as she removes one of the pages, she notices the elegant cursive handwriting on the front of the top envelope.

Letters. A stack of them. Angela lifts them out one by one, counting—five letters. All old, by the look of them. Not surprising, she thinks, given that this is an antiques shop. That, and the fact that no one really sends letters much anymore. That aging, once-bustling pursuit is now undertaken solely by stubborn, overperfumed elderly ladies.

She holds one of the letters up to the light flooding in from the storefront windows. Unlike its fellows, which are naked of their former envelopes and appear to be mostly bank statements, this one is still sealed, the edge along the flap slightly bubbled, as though the glue had been wet with too much moisture. The stamp looks modern. The slanting cursive writing in the top left-hand corner of the envelope lists the return addressee as one Mrs. Frances Mitchell. It’s addressed to Ms. Nancy Mitchell, and something stirs behind Angela’s navel as she reads the address of the antiques shop.

The writing looks shaky, though Angela can tell it had, in decades long past, been beautiful, graceful penmanship.

BANG!

Her heart shoots into her throat. She looks over to see the mousy-haired girl muttering an apology as she bends to scoop up a large book. Angela manages a small smile, her pulse still pounding, but the girl waves goodbye with a mumbled, “Thank you,” and the bells above the door jingle as she exits the shop, ushering in another gust of cold air.

Relieved to be alone again, Angela runs her fingers over the edge of the envelope seal, weighing her intrigue. The date stamped in red ink across the top of the envelope says the letter was posted in 2010. And yet it remained unopened. Who had it been intended for? Did the letter simply go astray from its destination? But no, the shop’s address is indeed scrawled across the front, along with the mysterious name of Nancy Mitchell.

It was destined for this address.

Angela knows it’s technically a crime to open another person’s mail, but her curiosity has bested her moral code. She plucks the brass letter opener from the heavily ink-speckled Mason jar they use as a pen cup, slides the tip underneath the corner of the envelope flap, and, with a satisfying tear, slits it open. She pulls the letter out and unfolds it with the tips of her fingernails, as though avoiding the traces of incriminating fingerprints. The paper is heavy and lightly textured. Expensive. Purchased by someone who wrote a lot of letters and took the time to make sure they carried weight.

Intrigued, Angela begins to read, eyes darting back and forth across the page underneath her dark bangs:


Dear Nancy,

It is my intent that this letter reaches you after I am gone. I instructed my lawyer Mr. Klein to post this upon my passing. I am sorry for this, and I have my reasons, but I wanted to ensure you were made aware of certain facts pertaining to your own history.

Nancy, I have loved you as much as a mother can love her daughter. I have done the best I know how, been the best mother I could. Although, my dear, I am human, and therefore imperfect.

There is no way to tell you this other than to simply write the words: your father and I are not your biological parents. We adopted you as a baby.

We tried for years, prayed hard and daily for God to send us a child, but it was not to be. And so we sought out a baby girl to adopt, and were referred by our family doctor to St. Agnes’s Home for Unwed Mothers here in Toronto.

You were born on the day you know to be your birthday: April 25th, 1961. We were told your birth mother and father were a young couple, only teenagers, who were unmarried and had lost their way. They had no money, and could not afford to raise you. They said your mother gave you up willingly for adoption, with a heavy heart and a hope that we could provide you with a brighter future than she could, young and poor as she was. Her story broke our hearts, but we thanked God for her selflessness and for bringing us this most precious gift. Our celebration was her grief.

We raised you and loved you as our own. The priest and warden at St. Agnes’s counselled us not to tell you, to simply move on as though you were our own child from God, that it would be easier for you that way. We took their advice. We believed they knew best. But not a day has gone by that I have not questioned that decision.

When we brought you home, I found a pair of yellow booties tucked deep inside the blanket they had wrapped you in. I assumed your birth mother had sent them as a gift of goodwill, but I couldn’t bear to use them, so I locked them in a safe drawer. I was afraid if I told you about her, that you would see me differently, and I couldn’t help but imagine her out there somewhere missing you terribly. I tried to rid myself of my guilt by lighting a candle at church and praying for her every year on your birthday.

But here, my darling… here is where I must beg you, with every ounce of my heart and soul, for your forgiveness.

Not long after your wedding, your father and I discovered that you were not given up for adoption willingly and with a full heart, as we had been told. We were lied to, Nancy. And we, in turn, have lied to you.

There was a story on the news about some girls who had sought refuge at St. Agnes’s, but were forced to give up their children by threat or worse. The Home was shut down not long after you were born. The people who ran it seemed to us to be good people. We wanted a child so desperately, and we believed them. We had no reason not to. We did not know. After the news story, I revisited the drawer and found the enclosed note stuffed deep inside the toe of one of the boots. You can read it for yourself, my dear.