Chapter 12: Four Cards

I read all four cards on the floor of my father's study.

The sailboat said: Happy birthday, Hal.

The second had a cake on it, and said: Twenty-seventh. I hope somebody makes you one.

The third said: I'm still here. I can't say where. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

The fourth was the shortest.

It said: Twenty-nine. I would give anything to hear you laugh.

The postmark on each envelope was a small Maine town.

Somebody had slit each one neatly along the top with a letter opener, and pressed it shut again with tape.

Somebody had known exactly when they would come.

I put the fourth card back in its envelope with hands I couldn't feel.

The sailboat card I folded in half and pushed into the waistband of my pajamas.

"You weren't supposed to find those yet," my father said.

He was standing in the doorway in his bathrobe.

I hadn't heard the stairs.

His face was gentle, and sad, and perfectly calm.

"Dad."

"Put the box on the desk, honey."

I did.

My knees wouldn't straighten, so I stayed where I was, on the carpet.

"You read them," I said.

"Every one," Dad said. "I wanted to see what kind of man he'd turned into."

He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair behind the desk.

"He wrote like a boy, Hallie. A sorry, soft boy."

"He never said where he was. He didn't need to."

"The postmarks said it for him."

"You told me nothing came."

"I told you what you needed to hear to get through the year."

"Every April," I said. "You stood in the hall and handed me my cards and said sorry, sweetheart."