The attic was finally the idea that hit him as he lay in bed staring at a ceiling that for once in so many days wasn’t shifting erratically before his eyes. He wasn’t certain, but he had a vague recollection of Hazel gathering pictures over the years. He thought they were for photo albums—not so much when Tommy was younger, but as he got older and could do more for himself, allowing time for other things like taking pictures.
Past the forgotten toys and the record player, William found a particularly old box. He sat down on the floor next to it then brushed the dust off before opening it to see what was inside. He’d been wrong—at least in part. There was no photo album, but in a shaft of light, he saw a pile of photographs.
William picked up the first one, holding it up to view it in the bulb’s glare. It was Hazel—young, with a smile on her face. It was the day after he’d returned from the war. He’d been too busy holding her and the kids, in turn, to snap a photo the first day. A tear trickled down his cheek. They’d had their disagreements over the years, some of them intense, but if it hadn’t been for Hazel, he’d never have felt intensely about anything.
At first, he only lingered on the pictures of Hazel, but soon all of them made him stop. Tommy had blossomed over the years—with Hazel refusing to believe he was as incapable of progress as all the doctors declared. And, of course, Rachel had been her stalwart helper in all things Tommy.
The group home had been a godsend. It’s not that they needed to be free of Tommy’s care, but he needed to be free of them. Hazel had said, “I’m not going to be around forever. We need to make sure he can live on his own and do for himself, within limits, of course.” The work he could do at the sheltered workshop the group home arranged had turned out to be the solution they’d been seeking. Even still, William and Hazel looked forward to their regular visits with their son.
When William went to visit Tommy after Hazel’s death, Rachel went with him. She’d always been a great strength. Her own little family kept her plenty busy, but if ever he or Tommy needed anything, she’d drop everything and be there for them.
William set down the pictures he’d been collecting in his hands so he could wipe away his tears. Reaching into the box again, his fingers touched something unusual. He picked up the object to examine it in the light. It was a tightly wrapped parcel, cylindrical, like the contents inside had been rolled up.
Something about it seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place why. Turning it over and over in his hands, he searched his memory for the lost connection to this item. It was the feel of the fabric wrapping that finally evoked the memory. There was a French priest, he remembered. The cloth probably came from one of his own robes—durable, practical, yet somehow holy. The French priest had given him this for safekeeping on D-day, to keep it away from a ruthless, retreating German army.
After carefully climbing down the attic ladder, he almost reverently carried the mysterious parcel to the kitchen table. He flipped on the light, and for the first time, unwrapped what had been entrusted to his care.
“Oh, my goodness! Oh, wow!” was all William could say for some time. As uncertain as he was about how to proceed with life, he knew what to do with this—and he knew Hazel would approve. He looked up the number for his attorney and scribbled it down. William would call him first thing in the morning.
If only he hadn’t started drinking again.
Week Six – Summer 1975
Sunday
The next day when Madelyn talked to Dad on the phone, she almost said something about Mom, only she didn’t know what exactly to say. So, instead, she chatted with him about what was happening in The Hobbit, as if nothing else mattered in the world.
She’d talked to Zane on the phone the night before. He had called wanting to know what was happening with her mom. “Nothing,” wasn’t much of a response, but it was the truth, unfortunately. During her call with Dad, she kept thinking about that previous phone call and had trouble suppressing a smile as she did so.
“Are you there, Madelyn?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m here.”
She didn’t even mind so much when it was time to hand the phone over to Mom. And it wasn’t until that evening as she was playing a board game with Daniel and Jillian that she realized she’d forgotten to mark off another week. When she pulled out her pad of paper, she was surprised to see that five weeks were over with only five more to go.
Monday
Waking up early, Madelyn picked up her copy of The Hobbit to read in bed. She thought for a moment about tiptoeing into Dad’s study, but the comfort of her blankets won her over. As she read, she couldn’t help but think about Mom. It turns out Bilbo was the one to discover the hidden keyhole into the Lonely Mountain where the dragon lay watching over his stolen treasure. There was far too much of the book left for the dwarves to recover their treasure easily, but it seemed like such an important step forward. Likewise, Madelyn thought, if only Mom could admit to her illiteracy, then the rest of everything would fall into place, and life would be better. Surely, it could be that simple, couldn’t it?
Despite Madelyn’s concerns about her mother, once she got out of bed her day appeared normal in every way—typical breakfast, usual chatter from her siblings—everything mundane and ordinary. Her mother still wasn’t talking to her much, but she’d come to expect that over the last few days.
But everything changed in the afternoon.
When the mail came, Madelyn grabbed the usual assortment of bills and ads, but as she sorted through them, she came across a white envelope. It was addressed to Rachel Osborne. She stopped short. It reminded her of the other envelope addressed to her mother just the month before. Mom hadn’t opened that letter to read it—which now, in hindsight, made perfect sense. So, the question was—what was it and who was it from?
Her heart was beating faster as she carried the mail into Dad’s study, trying to appear as casual as possible. But what to do now?
Madelyn wrestled for several minutes with the temptation to rip the letter open right then and there, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was her mother’s letter, not hers. And if she did open it, how would she explain herself when she eventually handed the letter over? Her guilt would be obvious.
Running her fingers over the envelope in her hands, she contemplated what to do. There were only two things on the letter—the postmark and her mother’s name and address.
Something about both of them tugged at her mind, like she should know them somehow. The postmark said “Merek, Colorado.” She’d heard of it before. It was a city a little distance away, but it wasn’t very big. It was peculiar for some reason, but what it was wouldn’t come to her mind, although it was on the tip of her tongue.
The handwriting of her mother’s name was familiar in a more personal way. The “O” in “Osborne” kept drawing her eye. It was looped more like a spiral, the ends never quite touching to form a circle. She snickered a little because it reminded her of a quail with the curlicue on the top of his head.
Of course! How had she not seen it earlier? That’s exactly the way her grandfather formed his “O’s” on every birthday card she had ever received from him. They came in the mail like clockwork on her birthdays—Madelyn Osborne, with a quail-like “O” starting her last name.
It was a letter from her missing grandfather, and she knew where he was—Merek, Colorado. She said the name of it out loud, “Merek, Colorado,” as if it would bring him closer. “Merek, Colorado …” It all came in a flash. Merek, Colorado was known for one thing—the state penitentiary!
Madelyn sunk down in Dad’s office chair, the envelope shaking in her hand. Everything was suddenly clear—but in a way that makes you want to turn away and shield your eyes. No wonder he was abruptly gone. No wonder he
“couldn’t” visit anymore. And no wonder they didn’t want to tell her.
The reality of it washed over her like a muddy dam that had broken and was heading her way. It was dark and dirty and smelled disgusting. But why? What in the world had he done?
The temptation once again was to open the letter, to read what it said. Her mother need never know the letter had even come—unless … well, unless it contained something she needed to know. And if it did, would that be something she Madelyn wanted to know?
“Hey, do you want to come outside for a water fight?” Daniel said from the doorway.
Startled, Madelyn straightened up, slipping her hand with the letter down by her side where it wouldn’t be seen. “Um, sure. Just give me a minute.”
When he’d left, she stuffed the envelope in her pocket, quickly dispatched the other mail to its appropriate pile or the garbage can, and hustled off to her room.
Wednesday
“Hi, Madelyn.” Mom’s voice broke into her thoughts as she sat on the back steps. It took a minute to register that Mom was initiating a conversation with her, something that hadn’t happened for several days.
“Hi,” Madelyn said while thinking of the envelope folded and stuck in her back pocket.
Mom sat down beside her on the step. She reached down to a patch of lawn and plucked off a yellow dandelion top, twirling it in her hands for several minutes before speaking. “Do you have a plan for getting rid of the dandelions?”
The question took Madelyn by surprise. Since when did Mom talk about plans or being organized in any way? She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess I don’t. I just weed wherever I feel like, but that’s not really working, is it?”
“Probably not.” Mom surveyed the dandelions around them. “You know, I think we should give up on the back, don’t you?” The suggestion caught her off guard, but Madelyn nodded enthusiastically. “Maybe we can make the front look good for your dad’s return—let him know we could handle things.” She got a wicked twinkle in her eye. “He doesn’t have to see the backyard that first day he’s home, you know.”
Madelyn chuckled. “I like the way you think.” It dawned on her that Mom’s take on the dandelions wasn’t any more complicated than that. Mom was trying to deal with her own insecurities about being illiterate—trying to prove to Dad that she could do hard things—like survive the summer without him to lean on. “That’s a great idea, Mom.”
“Well, sometimes you have to cut your losses and focus on what you can do, over what you think you can do.” She smiled then surprised Madelyn by very quietly adding, “And, Madelyn, you’re right. I can’t read.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have a plan for that?”
“Yes, I do,” Madelyn said, brightening up.
“You know, I’ve always thought that not being able to read only affected me. But you’ve seemed so down, especially the last few days, that I had to admit to myself maybe I was wrong about that. It has ripple effects, doesn’t it?”
Madelyn nodded. If only Mom knew the real reason she was down, she thought, feeling the weight of the letter in her back pocket. For a passing second, she considered whipping it out but then thought better of it. This wasn’t the time. Mom’s admission was a gift, and she didn’t want to spoil it, at least not yet. “Well,” Madelyn said, “there’s this teacher named Mrs. Cutler at the high school…”
“Really?” Mom said with a hopeful smile.
“Yes, and did you know that Mrs. Burnham used to teach elementary school and now she writes books?”
“I did not,” she said, her smile wavering just a bit.
. . .
By the time Madelyn had finished tending to the garden and come back inside to call Mrs. Cutler, Mom’s demeanor had changed dramatically. “You know, Madelyn, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been rethinking things. This isn’t really necessary.”
“What? I don’t understand. Just an hour ago you were all ready to go. What happened?”
“I … I don’t know. I got caught up in the idea, I guess, but the reality’s different. Maybe it does affect you, but it’s better the way it is. I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t you want to be able to read? It will open up the world to you. There’s so much that you’re missing out on. I want to help you find that.”
Mom’s shoulders were hunched over, and she wouldn’t look at Madelyn, preferring to use her toe to scrub at some imaginary scuff on the floor. She mumbled something that Madelyn couldn’t make out.
“What did you say?” Madelyn put her hand on Mom’s shoulder and softly said, “What is it, Mom?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Meet the teacher? Go alone? What?”
“I can’t learn to read. I tried when I was young, when you’re supposed to be able to learn easily, but I couldn’t do it then, and I certainly can’t do it now.”
“Yes, you can. I’m sure of it,” Madelyn said, even though she wasn’t in the slightest. “Mrs. Cutler said she could teach you, and Mrs. Burnham wants to help too.”
“Well, Mrs. Cutler has never met me, and Dorothy doesn’t like me.” Without another word she turned and walked away.
. . .
By afternoon, Madelyn had decided on a brave—or stupid—course of action. The outcome would determine which it was. In Dad’s study, with the door shut for privacy, Madelyn picked up the phone and dialed Mrs. Cutler’s number. It turned out it was the school number, and they had to transfer her a couple times before Madelyn actually reached her, but too soon she was on the other end. “Yes, this is Mrs. Cutler.”
Madelyn’s knees were knocking together and her fingers shaking. In as calm a voice as she could muster, she said, “This is Madelyn Osborne. We met last week. I’ve talked with my mother, and I’m wondering when I might be able to bring her in to meet with you. She needs to learn to read because she can’t. I mean she can’t read right now.”
“Okay. I can meet with her tomorrow at ten or Friday at the same time.”
“Friday. Friday would be great. Thursdays we visit my uncle. He’s got cerebral palsy, and he looks forward to our visits, so – well, anyway, Friday would work.” Mom may not be able to read, but Madelyn felt like she’d lost the ability to talk coherently. She was relieved when the appointment for Friday was confirmed, and they hung up.
Now, how could she convince Mom to go?
Before she could ponder the question, two different sets of giggles filtered in from outside the study. As she approached the door, Madelyn noticed it was slightly ajar. When she swung it open, a pail full of confetti showered her from above. “Daniel! Jilly!”
Although she made them think it when she found them, Madelyn wasn’t angry. She was actually grateful for the distraction.
Thursday
Madelyn still didn’t have a solution the next morning as she got ready to visit Uncle Tommy. Eating breakfast, she hardly dared look Mom in the face, not knowing what to say, not knowing what look she’d get in return.
Madelyn shouldn’t have been so concerned. As they all finished eating, a horn honked from outside. “Hurry up, you two,” Mom said, sweeping Daniel and Jillian out the front door.
Mom answered the unspoken question as soon as the front door closed behind them. “I arranged for Delia to come take them. That way we can have the day to ourselves.” She took a deep breath. “I am willing to try to learn to read.” Madelyn jumped up and hugged her before she had a chance to continue. Mom pulled back to hold her at arm’s length. “But Madelyn, I make no promises about the results.”
“That’s okay. I’ll help you. We can do this, Mom. I know we can.” Mom gave her a weary look but didn’t o
bject.
After that breakthrough, along with the arrangements for her siblings, Madelyn figured the ride to Uncle Tommy’s would be full of talk. It wasn’t. They both sat silently, staring at the familiar road ahead, but Madelyn couldn’t help fidgeting.
By the time they reached the last, long stretch of road, Madelyn’s fidgeting had taken on a life and sound of its own—snapping her fingers, drumming on her legs, bouncing her feet against the car floor. Mom let out an audible sigh. “Go ahead and ask.”
“How? How did you make it through school without learning to read? What happened?”
She nodded toward the road ahead in the direction of Tommy’s workshop. “Tommy. It wasn’t his fault, but he was my excuse.” Madelyn didn’t respond, just waiting to see if her mom would continue. A few minutes passed before she did.
“I didn’t understand the words I was supposed to be reading. I tried, but the more I tried, the more confusing it became. I didn’t want to tell my parents, they were already so worried about Tommy. Pop always called me his perfect child. I couldn’t let them know I wasn’t.”
“They never knew?”
“Whenever a teacher would send a note home, I’d throw it away. If they asked about school, I always made something up then changed the topic to Tommy.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I tried to compensate by listening carefully—whenever a friend read a passage in a book or to what the teacher was saying. I tried to memorize whatever I could. Although I wasn’t very good at that either.”
“But what about your teachers? Why didn’t they hold you back or something?”
“That just wasn’t done, Madelyn. You got passed on to the next grade regardless of what you could or couldn’t do. I was usually in the slow classes—what I liked to think of as ‘stupid class.’ No one flunks out of ‘stupid class.’ Sometimes I was clever enough to fool them, and I’m sorry to say that I became very good at making friends and having them help me. We’d get together to do homework, and I’d talk and talk so it felt like I was part of the effort, but, in reality, I was there to listen, to glean as much as I could that way.”
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