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What I wanted to do right now more than anything was go to Melanie. I ached to hold her and tell her about the things that had been haunting me for so long.
Instead I drove to Sonoran Acres. Walking in there was rough. Everyone knew who I was, and they’d all heard about Donna’s death. Gloria the nurse even gave me a gentle hug.
“She was so loved,” the woman said, and she suddenly had tears running down her cheeks. I was glad, though, glad my grandmother had so many friends here. I hoped when their grief faded, they’d celebrate the feisty woman who had loved everything about life.
The manager of the assisted living facility came out to talk to me. I’d met him before. He was a small, nervous man who always had ink stains on his white shirt and pulled obsessively at a thin, red moustache. After dealing with him for ten seconds, I realized his biggest worry was that we were going to sue the place for letting my grandmother roam around in the middle of the night and break her hip. I cut him off when he started yammering about releases of liability and shit.
“I need to see her room,” I said curtly. “I’m trying to get in touch with a family member back East, and I’m hoping she has contact information for him.”
“Of course, of course,” the man said. He led me down there himself. He was still talking when I stepped inside and shut the door in his face.
Donna’s cozy suite smelled like lemons. I felt the grief punch me in the stomach the second I entered. There was a bed, a low dresser, and a desk in the bedroom, which adjoined a full bathroom. A small living room area held a two-seater sofa and a television I’d bought her.
I didn’t know where to look, so I started with the bedroom desk. It felt wrong to be rummaging through Donna’s things less than twenty-four hours after her death, but there was a reason. I knew she’d approve.
From our conversation at the hospital, I figured out that she’d been keeping in touch with Steven all these years, although it didn’t seem like the contact was regular. She revealed she hadn’t heard from him in a while, but maybe there was an envelope or something with a return address label so I could track him down. I hadn’t had any success with my Google searches this morning. Gio had mentioned recently that Steven’s family might have moved up to Syracuse, but that information was old. According to the article, the family was living on Long Island at the time of Beth’s death and had since moved from their last known address. Perhaps that trauma had made him pull up stakes and try for a clean start with his two daughters. For all I knew they were living on the other side of Phoenix.
Donna’s desk was a treasure trove of family photos, yellowing menus from Esposito’s, and other odds and ends.
Gio’s fourth-grade report card.
A picture I’d once drawn of a frog eating a fly.
A frayed pink ribbon that must have some unknown significance.
I sorted through the photos with care. It was like staring down into a gallery of ghosts. There were faded pictures of Donna and Papa Leo when they were young, pictures of the old Esposito’s on Spring Street, Polaroid shots of my mother and her big brother, Frank, when they were kids, school photos of me and Gio, and an eight-by-ten family photo taken the day of Steven and Beth’s wedding.
My mouth went dry as I stared at the face I hadn’t seen in ten years. Funny, I didn’t remember her as looking at all like Melanie, and in my mind she still didn’t. Yet in this picture there was something about the way she posed with her chin tilted up, wide eyes looking straight through the long years between then and now. No, Melanie didn’t look like Beth. It was just the defiance of the pose that made me think of her. I gingerly set the stack of photos on the desk.
When I reached into the last drawer, I expected to find more of the same and for the most part I did. There were more pictures, a Broadway program from Les Misérables, and old Christmas cards. Most of the cards were signed with names I vaguely remembered as being friends from New York. I felt morbid, sorting through them and knowing that many of the senders were probably not alive anymore.
The last card I happened to open had a picture of a stately white chapel in a snowy wonderland with “Merry Christmas” embossed on the front in silver script. That wasn’t remarkable. But when I looked inside, the inscription almost made me drop the card.
Dear Donna,
Thank you so much for the American Girl dolls you sent. The girls really do love them. Alice refuses to go to bed unless her Molly is tucked safely beside her. We are doing well and planning to move down to Long Island in the spring. I wish it were sooner. The winters here in Syracuse are not to be believed. Maybe someday we can all come visit you out there in sunny Arizona. I know Steven would love to see you again. It’s been far too long.
Merry Christmas.
We love you,
Beth, Steven, Maya, and Alice
The rounded script blurred before my eyes. Beth had written this. There was a folded piece of loose-leaf paper in the card. I unfolded it to find a neat pen-drawn picture of two figures with long hair and flowered dresses. The word “Me” was scrawled over one figure. The other one was labeled as “My doll, Molly.” At the bottom the artist had written out her name and age.
Alice, age 7.
Alice would be nine now. This card and this picture were two years old.
I searched for over an hour but couldn’t find anything else that gave a hint as to a current address and phone number. I’d have to find another way.
Before I left, I tracked Gloria down and asked her if she could please lock my grandmother’s room until someone from the family had a chance to come collect her personal effects. She squeezed my arm sympathetically and promised that she would see to it.
As soon as I was back in my truck, I made a phone call. Jason answered on the first ring.
“How are you doing, man?” he said earnestly. “Been thinking about you and Gio.”
“Hanging in there,” I said. “Listen, Jay, I need a favor.”
“Anything, buddy.”
“You still keep in touch with that private investigator buddy from college?”
“Yeah. His name’s Arthur Cavendish. Most of his clients are justifiably paranoid upper-crust wives who want to catch their cheating husbands eating twenty-year-old pussy, but Artie can do anything. Why? You need to find someone?”
I touched the Christmas card. It was the only thing I’d taken from Donna’s room.
“Yeah,” I answered slowly. “I need to find someone.”
