It occurred to Jane that she might not know her daughter as well she thought she did. That perhaps Hazel was off in Grandor, Maine, truly starting her new life. Perhaps Eve and Silas were enough to fill her up. Enough to fill up all that space she knew she’d left empty here at home. Letting Hazel embark on this journey forced Jane to question if she was there enough as her daughter started to grow and change into a young woman. But still, this silent treatment from her very own daughter, her very own flesh and blood, felt like punishment.
Sure, Jane had been distracted by the twins and Cam. But how couldn’t she have been? Sure, she should have noticed that Hazel was withdrawing and probably didn’t do enough to intervene, but that could have been simple teenage stuff. It didn’t have to mean that Hazel would leave her forever. And Jane was starting to feel increasingly anxious that that was the path they were going down.
When she decided to let Hazel go visit her real father, she assumed it would help quell some feelings of abandonment for Hazel. But when, when would that feeling of ease come? When would Hazel reach out? When would Hazel call? When would Hazel be back in her arms? How would she get her back? And what the hell was going on up there at the lake? Why had no one called her yet?
Jane’s ears and cheeks started to get hot with a mix of sadness and anger. She dropped Hazel’s backpack on the floor as if it were radioactive and sought comfort in immersing herself in another one of Susie’s letters. She found the journal and cozied into a spot on the couch and started reading.
Letter 5
Telling (or not telling) Silas about you
Susie
Dear Eve,
It wasn’t until you were well into elementary school that I felt compelled to tell Silas you existed. It started off as a gentle idea and turned into a raging, pestering, daily need. There was a steady drumbeat of it. I don’t know why I felt that compulsion but I did. Perhaps it was seeing you grow up into your own person, finding your independence in even the smallest of ways. And perhaps it was just because the wind started blowing a new direction. But whatever it was, I finally decided I would just head on up to Grandor, Maine, where I first met Silas and do it. I needed an excuse to tell your father so that I could make it up there for the day. It wasn’t challenging.
Your father was sitting peacefully with a book in his hand and his reading glasses perched effortlessly on the bridge of his nose. He was looking calm and natural and easy as ever. One leg was crossed over the other and he was still in his work clothes. I had never known another man that felt more comfortable in slacks and a button-down. I had never even seen him untuck his shirt when he came home for the day. Your father licked the top of his finger and then turned a page without breaking his attention.
I drew my palms firmly across my shirt and skirt, pressed my lips together and cleared my throat to get your father’s attention. I stood as erect as I could in the corner of our living room, waiting for a response. Your father was engrossed in the book.
I cleared my throat again. This time a bit louder. I took a few steps toward him and my heels clicked against the floor.
I told him I was thinking about getting my business up and running again and he replied that he thought it would be a good idea. He said it without even looking up from his book.
I took a few more steps toward your father and crouched down in front of him and asked him if he was certain. He rested his book down on his lap and pulled his glasses off from his face.
He assured me that he was. Your father smiled with just his lips, returned his glasses to their position on his nose and brought his book back in front of his eyes.
It was so easy. He was so easy. About everything.
I pressed down on the top of the book with my palm and looked back at your father. I told him how much I loved him and kissed him on the forehead.
Later that weekend, I was off to Grandor again. When I arrived, the first thing that drew my attention was the great white tent filled with jars of honey sticks. I immediately flashed to that moment all those years ago in Grandor, when I’d allowed myself the indulgence of that one honey stick. I had all but given up sugar then in service of my figure. It was so unlike me to allow myself that kind of extravagance. To be so permissive of my petty desires. It was that single drip of sweet honey on my tongue that had spiraled into the meeting of eyes and tequila and then the brushing of hands and then more tequila and then the touching of lips and then more tequila and then spending the night with a man that made you, you.
I suddenly felt like I was making a mistake going up there. My jaw and neck and shoulders and ribs tensed up. I wanted to undo the memory of that evening so badly. I wanted to replace that tequila-drenched night in a musty room with a man I hardly knew with a sober, respectful evening with your father on our Duxiana bed with fifteen-hundred-thread-count sheets.
I felt another pang of not wanting to be up there.
I walked over to the tent with the honey sticks and again pulled a dark brown root beer–flavored one from the jar. I twirled it in between my fingers and thought of Silas and thought of you and your father. I truly wished that you were your father’s daughter, biologically speaking, but I couldn’t completely wish away that night because that night created you. My healthy, beautiful, sweet little girl.
I looked down at the honey stick between my fingers. The sweet little indulgence that started it all. I opened the change wallet from my beige leather purse, pulled out a small handful of coins and walked confidently over to the elderly woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat sitting behind the table. I asked how many honey sticks I could get for my change and placed the coins onto the table.
The woman organized the money with her wrinkled fingertips and looked back up at me.
She offered me ten and asked if they were going to go to someone special.
I told her that they would go to you, my daughter, and that you were seven years old.
She told me how lucky you were and that I was a good mother for getting you some treats. She placed her hand on top of mine. I winced a little bit at the feeling of another person’s palms on mine and felt my eyes well up at this stranger’s words. “A good mother.” That’s all I ever wanted to be. And you were happy and had a nice home and that was what mattered.
I didn’t need Silas to know a thing about you. I had everything I needed, everything I wanted at home with you and your father.
I thanked her warmly, looking straight into her eyes. I blinked vigorously until my tears subsided and drew stick after stick from their jars until they formed a colorful bouquet of sticks.
She slid an extra honey stick my way with a wink. She told me little girls loved the cotton candy ones and that it’d be perfect for you. I thanked the woman again and then shoved the honey sticks into my purse. I decided I had gotten everything I had come for at the market and I marched back to my car and drove right back home to Connecticut and my real family.
Silas didn’t need to know a thing about you.