Now I understood.
She’d written apologies for years without sending them.
And Trina had never come back.
Or so I believed.
***
Trina was wrapping dishes when I came downstairs.
Now I understood.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“Letters. They’re all addressed to you.”
She put down a plate.
“She wrote to me?”
“What was inside?”
“For years.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Trina, she regretted what happened.”
“You read them?”
“Some. Margaret said they were for you.”
Trina turned toward the sink.
“You read them?”
“Then perhaps she should’ve mailed them.”
“She missed you.”
Trina faced me.
“Please don’t tell me what my aunt wanted.”
I should’ve stopped.
“She missed you.”
But I remembered Margaret sitting beside the telephone, trying not to cry.
“She was lonely, Trina. I saw it.”
“You saw the last year of her life.”
“And where were you?”
Trina went still.
“She was lonely, Trina. I saw it.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked, “You really don’t know what happened, do you?”
“Then tell me.”
“You’ve already decided.”
She picked up her keys.
“I’d like you to leave now. Take the letters with you.”
“Then tell me.”
***
I walked home with the box under my arm.
I’d spent an entire year caring for Margaret. Surely that meant I understood her better than someone who hadn’t visited.
But that evening, I remembered another conversation we’d had months earlier.
Margaret had been sitting beside her telephone.
I drove home.
“Why don’t you call Trina?” I’d asked.
“I don’t think she’d answer.”
“Want me to help you write something?”
“No, Jo.”
“Why don’t you call?”
“Even a birthday card?”
Her voice had sharpened.
“Please leave it alone.”
I’d assumed she couldn’t bear another rejection.
Now I wondered whether I’d misunderstood.
“Even a birthday card?”
I opened the box again.
One letter began:
“I know you tried to see me last spring.”
Trina had tried to visit?
Margaret had never mentioned it.
Trina had tried to visit?
I searched the remaining letters, but none explained why Margaret had turned her away.
One ended with a sentence that troubled me.
“I wanted you to come home, but I couldn’t bear to hear you say you wouldn’t.”
I set the letter down.
Margaret hadn’t only been waiting.
I searched the remaining letters.
She’d been afraid of what Trina might say.
I picked up my phone and called Trina.
She didn’t answer.
So I sent a message.
“I was unfair to you today. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you without hearing your side.”
She didn’t answer.
There was no reply.
***
Two days later, I baked Margaret’s favorite cookies.
I packed half into a container, then stopped.
I’d spent years bringing people food whenever I didn’t know how to have an honest conversation.
There was no reply.
Cookies wouldn’t fix what I’d said.
I left them on the counter and called Trina again.
This time, she answered.
“Hello?”
“It’s Josette. Could we talk?”
Cookies wouldn’t fix what I’d said.
“About Margaret?”
“About how I treated you.”
A long silence followed.
“I’m at her house,” she finally said. “I’ll be here another hour.”
“I can come over.”
“About Margaret?”
***
Trina was sitting among boxes of photographs when I arrived.
“I accused you of abandoning someone I loved,” I said. “I didn’t know enough to say that.”
“You barely know me.”
“You’re right. I should’ve asked instead of judging you.”
“I didn’t know enough to say that.”
She studied me.
“I thought you’d come to defend her again.”
“I came to listen.”
Trina opened a cardboard box beside her chair.
“Then sit down.”
She studied me.
Inside were birthday cards, envelopes, and printed messages.
She handed me a card addressed to Margaret.
A postal mark showed it had been returned unopened.
“I mailed this five years ago. She sent it back unopened.”
She handed me a card.
I examined the date.
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t speak to me.”
Trina showed me two more returned envelopes, then a message she’d sent while visiting town.
