That one reminded me of why I was there. It was because I had no memories. I decided to start looking for my mother’s grave, but I didn’t know where to begin. Little roads and paths led all over the cemetery. How would I ever find the place where she was buried? I needed a map or something.
I started walking, checking the names on every stone I passed. At first I looked for Spiers, but then I realized I should be looking for my mother’s maiden name, too. I knew she was buried near some of her relatives, and their name certainly wasn’t Spier. Before she married my father, my mother’s name was Baker. Alma Baker — isn’t that a pretty name?
Someone with that name would have been kind and gentle and patient. Alma. It was such a calm, sweet name. I thought about my mother as I walked up and down the rows of stones, and I started to feel a little choked up. Still, I checked each name. My head was starting to spin. There were common names, like Smith and Brown. There were simple ones, like Fox and Bell. There were unpronounceable ones, like Andrzejewski and Guadagnino, and ones that I thought were kind of funny, like Looney and Stumpf. (I had to giggle at those, even though I knew it was a terrible thing to do.)
But I didn’t see any Bakers. The path stretched on in front of me, leading to an apparently endless row of headstones. I was beginning to feel frustrated. “I should know where my mother is buried,” I said out loud, angry at my father for never bringing me to the cemetery. Then I saw something that wiped my anger and frustration away.
It was a simple headstone with a picture of a crane etched onto it. There was a small bouquet of wildflowers on the grave, and the yellow and white blossoms almost hid the name on the stone. But I brushed them aside to make sure I had seen the name correctly. I had. Yamamoto. And underneath that, a nickname: Mimi. Mimi! I felt a wave of sadness, and suddenly I missed Mimi so, so much.
Mimi was Claudia’s grandmother. She lived with them for years — ever since her husband died — and so I knew her all my life. She died not that long ago, and I miss her a lot. She was kind of like a grandmother to me, as well as to Claud. Actually, she was more than a grandmother. She was a special friend. Mimi was comforting, loving, and dependable. If you were upset, she could always make you feel better. And if you were happy, she shared your happiness.
I stood for a moment looking at Mimi’s gravestone, and then I began to cry. Now, my friends call me sentimental and over-sensitive, because I cry so easily. I cry during the Movie of the Week, even if it’s not supposed to be sad, and I cry when I read certain scenes in my favorite books, even if I’ve read them a million times before. So, I admit that I cry pretty frequently. But this time I was crying from somewhere deep inside, and this time crying didn’t feel as good as it usually does. This time it really hurt.
Why was I crying? Well, the tears weren’t only about Mimi. They were also about my mother — but they were connected with Mimi. Let me see if I can explain. Remember I said I knew Mimi all my life? Well, that means that Mimi knew me all my life, too, including the parts of my life that I don’t remember because I was too young. She knew me when I was first born, which means that she also knew my mother. So did other people, of course, but the thing is, I could have asked Mimi all about her, and Mimi would have told me everything she remembered. Mimi would have listened to me when I told her how confused I was about where I came from, and she would have comforted me. But Mimi was gone.
I stood there crying for a long time, until I realized I had to keep working on this mystery that was driving me crazy. “ ’Bye, Mimi,” I said. “I miss you so much.” I wiped away my tears, took one last look at Mimi’s headstone, and left the cemetery. I’d had enough of that place for one day.
By the time I reached my house I had decided something. I was going to go back up to that attic, and I was going to keep looking through those boxes until I understood more about who I really was.
As soon as I got home, I headed upstairs. I figured I had about an hour before the rest of my family came home, so I knew I had to work quickly. This time, I didn’t have to use a flashlight. Weak sunshine was coming through a dusty window at one end of the attic, and I dragged the boxes over to an old armchair that sat in the light.
I looked quickly through the first box, reviewing the pictures I’d seen the last time I was up there. There were my parents again, on their wedding day. And there I was, baby Mary Anne, with those two people I hadn’t recognized by the light of the flashlight. The sunlight didn’t help — I still didn’t recognize them — so I went on looking through the box. The rest of its contents were pretty boring: old spelling tests and social studies reports (“Alaska, Land of Contrasts”) that I’d brought home to show my father.
I opened another box, which was marked “correspondence,” and picked up a bundle of letters that lay on top. They were addressed to my father. I turned one of them over, looking for the return address, and my heart gave a jump when I saw what it said. The address read “Baker, Box 127, Old County Road, Maynard, Iowa.” Were these letters from my mother to my father? I put the bundle down for a minute. Maybe I shouldn’t read them. Maybe they were too personal. But I couldn’t turn away from them. I picked them up, slipped the top one off the stack, shook the letter out, and began to read.
“Dear Richard,” it said.
“We, too, miss Alma with all our hearts.” Hmmm. So it wasn’t from my mother. My mother was already dead when this was written. I read on. “But Mary Anne brings us such pleasure every moment of the day. She is truly Alma’s daughter: her bright, sunny disposition is a joy. And she is so clever! Not half a year old, and already she knows our faces. We owe you thanks for sending her to us.”
The letter was signed, “Verna and Bill.”
Verna and Bill? Who were they? Why had I been sent to them? I picked up another letter and began to read. “Mary Anne smiled at Bill today,” it said. “He nearly keeled over with delight.” I read another one. “Enclosed is a picture of Mary Anne with one of our goats. Bill says he’s sure our granddaughter will be a farmer’s wife someday.”
Suddenly my face felt hot and flushed. Granddaughter? That was me. I was Verna and Bill’s granddaughter. They were my grandparents. Verna was my mother’s mother! I had lived with them when I was a baby, and I didn’t remember a thing about it. Not only that, I hadn’t ever heard of these people! But suddenly I was sure they were the two people in the pictures I’d seen.
My mind was reeling. This was almost too much to take in. I picked up one more letter, hoping it would help me understand more about this time I didn’t remember.
“Dear Richard,” it began. “We are glad to hear that you agree with our plan. Mary Anne is happy with us, and she is safe and secure here on the farm. Thank you for giving us this angel.”
Oh, my lord. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. My father had given me away. I threw down the letter and stood up. My legs felt shaky, and my head was throbbing. I’d wanted so badly to know more about who I was and where I’d come from. But now that I knew the awful truth, I realized I’d been better off before. I wished I had never found that letter. I left the attic without a second glance at the boxes that lay open behind me.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t crying or anything — I was just lying there. I think I was in a state of shock. What I’d read had made me feel as if my whole life had been turned upside down.
“Mary Anne!” I heard Sharon calling from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready. Come help Dawn set the table.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out. The last thing I wanted to do was eat dinner, but I was on automatic pilot. I swung my legs off the bed, stood up, and walked downstairs, feeling like a robot. Dawn was straightening the blue-and-white placemats that we use for everyday, so I marched over to the silverware drawer and started to count out forks.
“Mary Anne!” said Dawn. “What’s up? I didn’t even know you were home.”
I smiled at her — but it wasn’t a real smile. I just made the corners of
my mouth curve up, and I knew it probably looked fake. Dawn didn’t notice. She was busy folding napkins.
“Stacey and I went to the mall today, and I got the cutest jumpsuit,” she said. “It’s turquoise, with a wide black belt. Wait’ll you see it.”
I didn’t say anything, and she just kept on talking. “Stacey got the same one in pink. I think we’re both going to wear them to school tomorrow. Or would that be dumb? Like we were trying to look like twins?”
This time I had to say something, since she’d asked me a question. “Uh, no. No, it sounds fine,” I said.
“Mary Anne?” Dawn asked sharply, looking at me more closely. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, feeling like I might burst out crying if I tried to talk.
“Sure?” she asked doubtfully.
I nodded again, and she shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “If you say so.”
Dinner was kind of an ordeal. Luckily, everybody else seemed to be in a chatty mood, and for a while nobody noticed that I wasn’t talking much.
“The man from Sears called,” said Sharon. “Our new washing machine is in, and they can deliver it on Friday.”
“Great,” said Dad. Then they got into a long discussion about the old washing machine and its hilarious habits. Even Dawn had stories to tell, although she’ll do almost anything to avoid doing laundry. They were talking and laughing and having a great old time with each other.
I sat silently, looking at my dad. This was the man who had given me away, the man who hadn’t wanted me. But how did I end up living with him instead of with Verna and Bill, back in Iowa? Maybe the “angel” had turned into such a terrible child that my grandparents had decided they didn’t want me, either. Maybe they’d forced my father to take me back.
Dad wiped his eyes (he’d been laughing so hard he was crying) and gave me a curious look. “What’s the matter, Mary Anne? Are you heartbroken at the thought of saying good-bye to that old washing machine?” That broke them up again, but I didn’t even smile. Dad stopped laughing and looked at me again. “Are you all right, honey?” he asked.
It made me mad to hear him call me “honey.” If I was his “honey,” why had he given me away? A wave of sadness washed over me, but I tried to hide it. I put on my fake smile again and nodded. “I’m fine,” I said.
Dawn put her hand to her mouth and whispered to Sharon and my dad. Something about me and Logan maybe getting in a fight.
They all nodded wisely.
“May I be excused?” I asked politely. I skipped dessert and went straight to my room, where I stayed for the rest of the evening, pretending to do homework. At one point I heard a soft knock on my door. “Yes?” I asked.
“It’s me,” said Dawn. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m here if you want to talk.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Also,” she went on, “Logan called a little while ago, but I told him you couldn’t come to the phone. I figured that was the right thing to say.”
“Fine,” I said. Poor Logan. He must be wondering what was going on with me. I knew I should call him back, but I just didn’t have the energy to pretend that everything was okay. I hoped I could explain the next time I saw him.
“Well, good night,” said Dawn. She was treating me as if I were sick or something. I knew she would feel better if I told her what was going on, but I just wasn’t ready to talk to anybody about it yet.
“Good night, Dawn,” I said. “And thanks.”
I got into bed and tried to read for a while, but it was no use. I couldn’t concentrate at all. Finally I turned out the light and snuggled under the covers, hoping that I’d fall asleep soon. Sleep would be a relief; I could stop thinking about my awful discovery.
I tossed and turned for a long, long time, but I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up with a start. “Mama!” I was saying. I’d had that dream again. In it, I’d been sitting on an old porch swing, between two people. The kitten was on my lap again, and I’d been patting its soft fur. But even though the people were there and the kitten was with me, I felt very alone.
I lay there for a minute, thinking about the dream. Then, suddenly, I sat straight up in bed. I’d realized something. That dream didn’t come out of nowhere! It came out of my memory. That little girl was me, and the people were Verna and Bill. And the reason I felt so lonely was because I missed my mother and father.
I felt a tear slip down my cheek. That little girl hadn’t even been old enough to realize that her mother had died — and that her father didn’t want her anymore. All she knew was that they weren’t there with her. It didn’t matter that the people taking care of her were kind and gentle; they were strangers to her, and she felt lost.
I looked over at the clock. It was after two A.M., but I knew there was no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep now that I had discovered the truth about my dream. And knowing one truth only made me hungry for more. It was time to return to the attic.
I found my flashlight and stepped quietly out of my room. The house was silent; everybody else was peacefully asleep. I opened the attic door carefully, so it wouldn’t squeak, and closed it behind me as I slowly climbed the stairs. The flashlight beam was weak: It barely lit the way through the total darkness of the narrow staircase. I reached the top and flipped on the light. There was a sudden scurrying in the far corner of the attic, and my heart began to pound. “Just a squirrel,” I whispered to myself. “Nothing to be afraid of.” I tiptoed over to the chair and the boxes I’d left open. My heart was still racing, and I could hardly breathe in the musty stillness of the attic.
I reached into the box and pulled out a handful of letters. Then I sat down in the big chair. I held the letters tightly in one hand, looking at them. I took a deep breath and opened one of the letters.
“Dear Richard,” it said. “Mary Anne grows and changes every day. Bill and I feel so lucky to have her.” It went on to describe all the things I’d done recently: I’d patted the goat, smiled at a neighbor, pulled the cat’s tail (by accident!) — stuff like that. Then, at the end of the letter it said, “You can rest assured that you made the right decision when you sent Mary Anne to us. She’ll grow up healthy and strong here.”
I closed my eyes tightly. It was so hard to believe that my father had given me up. Why had he done it?
I opened my eyes and read another letter. “Enclosed is a picture of Mary Anne on her first birthday,” it said. “She is a delightful child.” I felt another stab of pain. My father hadn’t even been with me for my first birthday party! I guess he just hadn’t cared about me.
I sat for a minute in the dark, stuffy attic, gathering my thoughts. Every letter I had read so far had only made the hurt worse. Should I keep reading, or should I stop? I felt shaky from lack of sleep. But I still had questions that hadn’t been answered. Why had I been sent to my grandparents? How long had I stayed there? And why had I been sent back to Stoneybrook? I decided to keep reading.
“Dear Richard,” said the next letter I picked up. “We understand your desire to spend some time with Mary Anne.”
I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I read that. He had wanted to see me! I read on.
“I’m afraid, though,” it said, “that we feel it would be too disruptive at this point for her to travel halfway across the country. Enclosed are some recent pictures. Perhaps they will satisfy your need to see your daughter.”
I picked up another letter and read it eagerly. I was dying to know what happened next. “Dear Richard,” it said. “There is no need to be so vehement. Of course we believe that you are now ready to ‘be a father’ again. But are you really sure you are capable of taking care of a little girl as well as we can? After all, you are a man alone. A little girl needs more than just a father.”
I held my breath as I picked up the next letter. Would my father insist on having me back? Would he fight for me? “Dear Richard,” it said. “If you are sure you are ready to take care of
your daughter, we are willing to let her come to you. But remember, you gave her to us. And we are not ready to let her out of our lives forever. We want you to show us she will be raised correctly. She is almost eighteen months old now, and we have given her what we could. We entrust her to your care for now. But remember, she is as much ours as yours.”
I put down the letter — it was the last one in the bundle — and stared into the darkness of the attic. So my father had wanted me. Enough to insist on my return to Stoneybrook. But my grandparents had wanted me, too. Did they have a legal claim to me? Maybe this explained why my father had been so strict with me when I was younger: He had to prove he was a fit father. Otherwise, I could have been returned to my grandparents’ custody.
I wondered if they were still alive. What if they were? What if they still had a claim to me, and what if they decided to act on it? Suddenly, my whole life felt up in the air. Who did I belong to?
I couldn’t believe I’d never known about any of this until now. Why hadn’t I been told? Why had my father kept it such a secret? And other people must have known, too: Mimi, Kristy’s mom, Claud’s parents. Maybe Kristy’s older brothers even knew! I felt angry. Why was I the last one to know about my own self?
It was all too much to take in. I leaned back in the chair, too exhausted to walk down the stairs and go back to bed. I thought for a long time about what I’d learned. I must have dozed off. The next thing I felt was the rising sun on my face. I had spent the night sleeping in that attic.
It wasn’t easy getting through a day at school after sleeping in the attic. I was tired, for one thing, since I hadn’t slept very long. Also, I had a terrible crick in my neck from sleeping in the chair. And, of course, I was still in shock about what I’d discovered reading those letters. All day, I felt incredibly strange and out of place. Nothing looked or felt familiar, and it took a lot of energy to remember where my classes were and how I was supposed to act around my friends. I wasn’t thinking much about what I’d read in those letters; my mind was almost a blank. I didn’t want to think about my past anymore. I realized I’d been better off before, not knowing.
Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic Page 4
