There are some things I must tell you, even if you don’t want to speak to me,” Mom had written. I’d tried to read this letter before, the night I’d dug through her trunk for her transmission warranty, but choked up. Now I searched the lines again with my finger, perched on the edge of her bed.
I’m sure I’m overreacting, as I know I do. But I don’t want anything to affect you or your life because I didn’t tell you.
Affect me? What from Mom’s life could have possibly affected me back then?
I glanced at the date—just three months before Mom’s death. I’d been in Tokyo at that time, interviewing the Japanese prime minister and writing award-winning articles on the Nagasaki bombing. Schmoozing with the bigwigs of journalism and studying journalistic ethics online for my master’s.
As far as I knew, Mom was simply on one of her desperate kicks to turn her life around and start over with me when she sent this slew of correspondence.
But as I read again, brows creasing, something dark began to lurk in the corner of my mind.
You’ll think I’m crazy, Shiloh, but hear me out. Have you ever, in all your wanderings, been to Staunton, Virginia?
The words hit me with surprising force, as if someone had thrown my glass of cold mugicha tea in my face.
What could Mom possibly have been talking about? When she died, I didn’t even know what state she lived in.
I jerked the letter closer, the crackle of paper echoing in the stillness of the bedroom.
I get the eerie feeling that someone in town knows you.
“Knows me?” I shouted, making Christie look up from her makeshift bed on the braided rug, head against my leg.
A bald guy with a sprained or broken right hand. Have you ever met him?
I threw my head back in surprise, nearly sliding off the bed.
Okay. Maybe “bald” is too strong a word. But he’s got really thin hair. He keeps it cut short, and you can see his scalp in a patch in the back. I don’t know his name.
Maybe you know him from college? Or one of your newspaper jobs in New York?
I keep telling myself that’s the answer—and surely there’s a simple explanation. But something inside me doesn’t sit right. I can’t explain why, but that’s the truth. He’s called twice asking to talk to you, and he knows you’re my daughter.
And he seems to expect that you’ll arrive here soon.
Every last ounce of energy slipped from my joints, and I had to reach up and shut my jaw with my hand.
A year and a half ago, and somebody had asked for me? Here? In redneck western Virginia?
Anyway, please call me. If this guy is indeed a friend of yours, I’d like to know it, and I’d be glad to put him in touch with you. But if not, then we really need to settle this right now because his manner is a little disturbing.
Be careful, okay? I’ll write you again next week.