The Last of the Stanfields(26)

Back when her mind was still sharp and her sense of humor even sharper, my mother would always say I was like an old man, driving around in my silly old pickup. I had to admit I did spend the lion’s share of my time in the workshop, alone. Working with wood can be truly magical. It makes you feel like you can transform matter itself. I first wanted to be a carpenter after reading Pinocchio. That Geppetto really got me thinking: if he could create a son with his bare hands, maybe I could use wood to create the father I had never known. I stopped believing in fairy tales as I grew up, but I never stopped believing in the magic of my chosen trade. The things I make go on to become part of people’s lives. Tables for family dinners and unforgettable evenings, beds where couples make love, beds where children lie dreaming or staring up at the ceiling in wonder, bookshelves that house all the important books a person will ever read. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

One morning in October, I found myself in the middle of a tough job, wrestling with a drawer slide for a chest. The wood had come from planks that weren’t nearly seasoned enough. The slightest misstep and they’d split apart, which had already happened twenty times over. I was furious that the precious maple was rebelling against my touch. When the mailman arrived and broke my concentration, I admit I was a bit gruff with him. He interrupted me, and for what? All I ever got in the mail was bills and other paperwork from bureaucracies that eat away at life like termites.

Yet that day, he came bearing something else entirely: an anonymous letter. The beautiful handwriting on the envelope gave no hint as to the identity of the sender. I tore open the envelope and sat down to read it.

Dear George,

I hope you don’t mind that I’ve abridged your name, but hyphenated monikers run a bit long for my taste, even when they are as dignified as yours. But I digress. My opinion about your name is not why I’m writing to you today.

I can’t even begin to fathom how difficult it must be to watch your own mother slip away right before your eyes, day after day.

Your mother was a talented and courageous woman. But she was other things, as well. All we can ever see of our parents is what they wish to show us, and we in turn must choose how to see what we’ve been shown. And how easy it is to forget that they had a whole life before us. The life of which I speak was theirs and theirs only, a life with all of its dreams and fantasies, as well as the tormented hardship of youth . . .

Your mother, too, had to break free of her chains. The question is: How?

Did she ever tell you the truth about your father, the man you never knew? How did he meet your mother? Why would he abandon you? There are still so many questions. To uncover the truth, you need to go out and find the answers. Should you decide to do so, I would caution you to conduct your research skillfully. As you might imagine, someone as shrewd as your mother would not simply bury her most intimate secrets somewhere they would be easy to find. As soon as you lay your hands on the proof that will back up my claims—for undoubtedly, your first reaction will be utter disbelief—you will need to venture out to come and find me.

But not until the time comes . . . Until then, take some time to think it over. You’ve much to do. Best get started straightaway.

I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving this letter unsigned. It’s not out of cowardice, I assure you, but rather for your own good that I remain anonymous. I’d caution against telling anyone about this letter. You’d be wise to destroy it as soon as you’ve finished reading it. Keeping it will serve no purpose.

Take my words to heart: I wish nothing but the best for you and your mother.

Without hesitation, I crushed the letter in my fist and threw it across the room. Who in the world would send something like that? For what purpose? How did he know so much about my mother’s health? The whole thing was so full of mysteries, I didn’t even know where to begin. It was impossible to concentrate, a serious problem when working with saws, hand planes, and chisels. I decided to put away my tools and head out. I threw on my jacket and leapt behind the wheel of my pickup.

Two hours later, I pulled up to the gates of the nursing home where my mother had lived for the past two years. It was a stately building perched on a modest little hill in the middle of a large park. Thick, broad-leafed ivy crept up the facade of the building, which seemed to make the structure come to life whenever the wind blew. The care workers were kindhearted people struggling to attend to residents who all suffered from the same affliction. It was the same condition, but the expression of the disease was dramatically different in each patient.

Take my mother’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Gauthier. The poor guy had spent the last five years rereading the same page of a book he never got any closer to finishing. He would come back to page 201 again and again, stuck in a loop all through the day reading the very same passage, and bursting out laughing at the end every time. “Ha! What a riot! Oh, that really is something!” he’d repeat.

Mrs. Lapique was stuck in her own loop, an unending game of solitaire—which tried the patience of any sane person watching—in which she would deal the cards facedown and simply stare at them, not even bothering to flip them over. From time to time, she would graze the surface of a card with trembling hand, murmur something inaudible through a timid little smile, then draw back her finger and leave the card unturned. Then she would gather up all the cards and start all over again: graze the surface of a card with trembling hand, murmur something inaudible through a timid little smile, then draw back her finger and leave the card unturned.