JOAN'S FEAR
Sadie called Joan that evening.
Dana wasn't there.
She learned about the conversation the next morning when Sadie showed up at her house without warning.
Dana opened the door wearing pajama pants and an old university sweatshirt she had never attended.
Sadie's eyes were swollen.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Sadie entered carrying a cardboard box.
Dana recognized it before it reached the kitchen table.
Not the box itself.
The handwriting on the first envelope visible beneath the lid.
Her own.
Dana sat.
Sadie remained standing.
“My mom kept everything.”
Dana touched the top envelope.
Sadie - age 1.
Dana's handwriting.
Below it were birthday cards, photographs Dana had mailed, and folded pages.
Letters.
Dozens.
Not returned.
Not destroyed.
Kept.
Dana pulled out one dated February 2004.
Dear Joan and David,
Thank you for letting me see her last month. I know it was probably strange for everybody. I don't want to interfere, but if you're still comfortable with another visit this summer, I would be grateful.
Dana stopped reading.
Sadie sat across from her.
“She lied.”
Dana put the page down.
“What did she say?”
“That after the diner she got scared.”
Dana waited.
“Apparently I cried for you in the car.”
Dana closed her eyes.
“She said for almost two hours.”
“I didn't know.”
“She said I kept saying Dana.”
Dana remembered Sadie trying to pronounce her name.
Danna.
Sometimes Nanna.
Never Mama.
“She called your mother that night,” Sadie said.
Dana opened her eyes.
“Lorraine?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to know whether seeing you was confusing me.”
Dana felt something cold move through her.
“What did my mother say?”
Sadie looked down.
“That it probably was.”
Dana stood and walked toward the sink.
She needed distance from the box.
Sadie continued.
“Mom said Lorraine told her you were having trouble moving on. That you cried for days after visits. That continuing contact was keeping you stuck.”
Dana gripped the counter.
Some of that had been true.
After the diner visit, Dana had cried.
Not because seeing Sadie had harmed her.
Because leaving had.
The difference apparently hadn't mattered.
“Joan asked what she should do,” Sadie said.
Dana turned.
“My mother told her to stop contact.”
“Yes.”
Dana closed her eyes briefly.
“What about the letters?”
“Mom said you kept sending them for about six months.”
“I sent them longer.”
Sadie glanced at the box.
“There are letters here for almost three years.”
Dana stared.
She had forgotten some.
Or forced herself to.
“She read them?”
“Yes.”
“And never answered.”
Sadie nodded.
“Eventually she asked your mother to tell you to stop.”
Dana laughed once.
The sound was ugly.
“And Lorraine told me they moved.”
Sadie wiped her nose with the heel of her hand.
“My mom said she convinced herself it was kinder.”
“To whom?”
“She didn't have a good answer.”
Dana walked back to the table.
“Does she know you're here?”
“Yes.”
“What does she think?”
“She thinks I'm choosing you.”
Dana's stomach sank.
“Sadie—”
“I told her that's exactly the problem.”
Dana waited.
Sadie pushed the box toward her.
“She thinks there are two sides and I'm supposed to stand on one.”
Dana looked at the letters.
“There shouldn't be sides.”
“Apparently everybody decided things for me before I could talk, and now I'm twenty-five and they're still trying.”
Dana reached across the table, then stopped before touching her.
Sadie noticed.
After a moment, she extended her hand.
Dana took it.
Sadie's fingers were cold.
“I don't want her replaced,” Sadie said.
“I don't want to replace her.”
“I don't know what I want you to be.”
“You don't have to.”
“I might get angry at you.”
“You probably should.”
“I might disappear for a week.”
“Okay.”
“You can't leave flowers at the highway every time I don't text back.”
Dana laughed despite herself.
“That seems fair.”
Sadie began crying again.
Dana did not move around the table to hug her.
Not until Sadie stood first.
The hug was awkward.
Sadie was stiff for the first few seconds.
So was Dana.
Then Sadie's forehead touched Dana's shoulder.
Dana felt the weight of an eight-week-old infant so vividly that her knees nearly gave way.
She held on.
Not harder than Sadie did.
When they separated, Sadie wiped her eyes.
“We need to talk to your mother.”
Dana looked toward the window.
“Yes.”
“You don't want to.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Dana thought about Lorraine's kitchen.
Her mother's practical hands.
Her certainty.
Her ability to turn decisions into facts simply by saying them firmly enough.
“Because she will explain it.”
Sadie frowned.
“Isn't that the point?”
“No.”
Dana looked at the box.
“Lorraine can explain anything until you almost forget it happened to you.”
Sadie considered that.
“Then don't go alone.”
Dana looked at her.
Sadie lifted one shoulder.
“I've apparently been involved in this conversation since 2001.”
Dana smiled.
“Yes.”
“You can pick me up tomorrow.”
“Why me?”
“Because your car knows the way.”
Dana understood the joke.
The highway.
Mile Marker 41.
For once, they both laughed before either could feel guilty about it.