title free and clear, just as I’d expected. “Won’t I need a deed to sell the house?”
“Your mother opened the box at the bank when she learned her cancer was terminal. I advised her to place the deed and any other documents, some extra cash, whatever she thought pertinent, there.”
The vise in my chest tightened. That’s it? You made it sound so important, like there was something . . . something special from my mother, just for me. But I nodded, as if that was what I’d expected, and stood to go. I wouldn’t cry in front of this man.
He stood too. “Miss Sterling, I don’t know how to say this.”
I bit my lower lip and straightened my shoulders, waiting.
“Your mother was an unusual woman.”
You’re telling me this as if it’s news? As if I need a perfect stranger to point out my family’s strangeness?
“That came out wrong. What I mean to say is that I admired her very much. She endured a great deal.”
“The cancer,” I conceded.
“I didn’t mean that. Yes, certainly, she did endure that with grace, but she was a kind woman, a brave woman . . . in a none-too-friendly community.”
It was the nicest thing I’d ever heard anyone say about my mother. But how do you know this? Why did she come to you in the first place? “A none-too-friendly community” . . . “I guess you know something about that.”
He half grunted and sighed. “It’s not easy being the newcomer on the block.”
“But my mother wasn’t a newcomer. She lived here for over twenty-five years.”
“It could have been a hundred and I don’t think it would have mattered, do you?”
“Or a hundred and fifty. No, I don’t. But I never fully understood why, unless it was her accent. She was Austrian, you know.”
He looked away. He knows something.
“Mr. Beecham —”
“Ward.”
“If you know something about my mother, I beg you to tell me. We were not close, but I need to understand . . . to . . .” But I couldn’t finish. I didn’t know how.
“To put the puzzle pieces together.”
“Yes. But I don’t even understand how you know that. What did she tell you?”
He shook his head. “Only that there are things she couldn’t explain, that she’d never been able to talk about. But she said you are bright; you would figure it out. She was fiercely proud of you.”
He’s lying.
“She said only that the things she left in the box would create more questions than answers for you. She hoped you’d be satisfied with what you find there. But if you need help or legal advice, she asked me to assist you in any way I can.”
I nodded my thanks, still uncertain, and turned to go.
“Your mother paid for a year.”
“Excuse me?”
“Retainer . . . for me to handle anything you need.”
* * *
I couldn’t leave his office fast enough, couldn’t walk to the bank quickly enough. I shook as I showed the clerk my mother’s key and signed the registry. My knees wobbled as I followed the bank manager into the small vault and watched him insert my key and the bank’s key into the slots on a metal box. He handed me the box, which for some reason I’d expected to be heavier, and showed me into a private room, then closed the door.
Please, God. Let there be something here . . . something that explains, that helps me understand her. I drew a deep breath and opened the box. Papers —nothing but papers. My heart sank. My parents’ marriage certificate, Mama’s naturalization papers, the deed to the house, Daddy’s army discharge papers. A couple of pictures of me as a baby —one was an old sepia-toned snapshot of Mama holding me. And an array of empty,faded envelopes with foreign stamps. I’d expected something personal —a diary, a letter written to me, an heirloom ring or brooch —something to link us, to explain.
Stop being so juvenile. You knew she owned no such thing, would write no such thing. Then why all the cloak and dagger, Mama?
I turned over the envelopes,
“Your mother opened the box at the bank when she learned her cancer was terminal. I advised her to place the deed and any other documents, some extra cash, whatever she thought pertinent, there.”
The vise in my chest tightened. That’s it? You made it sound so important, like there was something . . . something special from my mother, just for me. But I nodded, as if that was what I’d expected, and stood to go. I wouldn’t cry in front of this man.
He stood too. “Miss Sterling, I don’t know how to say this.”
I bit my lower lip and straightened my shoulders, waiting.
“Your mother was an unusual woman.”
You’re telling me this as if it’s news? As if I need a perfect stranger to point out my family’s strangeness?
“That came out wrong. What I mean to say is that I admired her very much. She endured a great deal.”
“The cancer,” I conceded.
“I didn’t mean that. Yes, certainly, she did endure that with grace, but she was a kind woman, a brave woman . . . in a none-too-friendly community.”
It was the nicest thing I’d ever heard anyone say about my mother. But how do you know this? Why did she come to you in the first place? “A none-too-friendly community” . . . “I guess you know something about that.”
He half grunted and sighed. “It’s not easy being the newcomer on the block.”
“But my mother wasn’t a newcomer. She lived here for over twenty-five years.”
“It could have been a hundred and I don’t think it would have mattered, do you?”
“Or a hundred and fifty. No, I don’t. But I never fully understood why, unless it was her accent. She was Austrian, you know.”
He looked away. He knows something.
“Mr. Beecham —”
“Ward.”
“If you know something about my mother, I beg you to tell me. We were not close, but I need to understand . . . to . . .” But I couldn’t finish. I didn’t know how.
“To put the puzzle pieces together.”
“Yes. But I don’t even understand how you know that. What did she tell you?”
He shook his head. “Only that there are things she couldn’t explain, that she’d never been able to talk about. But she said you are bright; you would figure it out. She was fiercely proud of you.”
He’s lying.
“She said only that the things she left in the box would create more questions than answers for you. She hoped you’d be satisfied with what you find there. But if you need help or legal advice, she asked me to assist you in any way I can.”
I nodded my thanks, still uncertain, and turned to go.
“Your mother paid for a year.”
“Excuse me?”
“Retainer . . . for me to handle anything you need.”
* * *
I couldn’t leave his office fast enough, couldn’t walk to the bank quickly enough. I shook as I showed the clerk my mother’s key and signed the registry. My knees wobbled as I followed the bank manager into the small vault and watched him insert my key and the bank’s key into the slots on a metal box. He handed me the box, which for some reason I’d expected to be heavier, and showed me into a private room, then closed the door.
Please, God. Let there be something here . . . something that explains, that helps me understand her. I drew a deep breath and opened the box. Papers —nothing but papers. My heart sank. My parents’ marriage certificate, Mama’s naturalization papers, the deed to the house, Daddy’s army discharge papers. A couple of pictures of me as a baby —one was an old sepia-toned snapshot of Mama holding me. And an array of empty,faded envelopes with foreign stamps. I’d expected something personal —a diary, a letter written to me, an heirloom ring or brooch —something to link us, to explain.
Stop being so juvenile. You knew she owned no such thing, would write no such thing. Then why all the cloak and dagger, Mama?
I turned over the envelopes,
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