Letters and Numbers

I stood on the stoop for what felt like forever. After a deep inhale, I pushed the door inward and hesitated, calling through the gap ‘Hello?’. The expected silence bid me to enter. The immediate visual and olfactory onslaught overcame me and I involuntarily brought my hand to my mouth - the scent of sweetness and death from browning flowers that were still held in faded posies around the round, with an aftertaste of what could only be described as ‘old person’ smell - the scent of baby powder, medicine and slightly stale urine. I counted only 5 bouquets, considering that this was all that was left of a friendless life, a life ruled by the dichotomy of wanting then discarding, pulling in then pushing away from people. “As in life, so is death”, my mousey voice disturbed the decrepit room.

The air in the house felt heavy with death and loneliness, and I felt ashamed that my head was filled with duty rather than sadness. Who watches their own mother die without shedding a tear? What callous daughter’s eulogy for her mother is devoid of intimacy, where loving memories are replaced by facts. She was born, she had a baby, she grew old and died. I couldn’t very well say ‘she was an abusive drunk who hated everyone’, doubtless, no one would object.

“Right. I have things to do'', my determined voice attempted to bring control through action. With two steps I was in the kitchen “Cleaning supplies will start in here” I placed the buckets filled with cleaning apparatus on the breakfast bar, “and everything in here will need to go”. The sad looking microwave and fridge looked relieved when I said “With a quick clean I think we could sell you on Gumtree”. Swept up in the excitement of organising I swivelled back to face the living room “You - Gumtree”, I indicated to the large brand new plasma TV - “You, council pick up” - my hand touched the once white lounge covered with bright crocheted blankets that barely hid that it was now pockmarked with stains and wrinkled depressions. I fingered a maroon blotch on the leather surface, taking me back to the last time I was here with my mum - her starting an argument with me, this time it was about her parenting of my daughter. I remember how I cried with shock, seeing her red handprint on my daughter's thigh. Her traumatised wail, taking me back to childhood memories of unexpected punches, and the hot pain the marks left behind. I protested “You can’t do that! We don’t do that in my family!” “Then you should'' my mother fumed, the alcohol, a smokey red mist in her eyes, “Until you can control your child, you aren’t welcome”, a thrust of the wineglass on ‘child’ and a dollop of wine was freed from the glass, leaving this small blotch.

“Mum!” Heidi appeared, entering the house from the backdoor as though summoned by the memory, “I found your notebook!” she triumphantly held up a black leather notepad, bound with an elastic band.

“Hello sweetie. How did you get through the backdoor?”

“It was opened” she shrugged. I took the notebook - It was the same as my writing pad, but the leathery feel revealed an older age than mine.

“Where did you find this?”

“It was in the shed”. The shed that had become my cubby when dad left and mum decided children were better seen and not heard. Under my young hand, it had become a well-loved cubby filled with books, toys and things of dreams - an escape from my mothers hurtful drunken rages. A fleeting escape, which ended when a silent house beckoned me to leave, and I would find my mother crying on the couch on her way to sleep.

Now, without a child’s touch, this cubby was a forlorn, weathered shed once more - filled with dreary cardboard boxes and homes for huntsman spiders.

“Darling, you know I don’t like you going in there, it’s not safe - “ but Heidi had disappeared before I finished, leaving me with the old book.

Who could this have belonged to? I snapped off the elastic and the mysterious smell of old books enveloped me. Pages of cursive handwriting I had never seen before filled the pages - it must be my mother’s diary! I had no idea she would even have kept a diary. Why would she put it in the cubby? Suddenly a folded piece of paper dropped to the floor. I picked it up, carefully unfolding it. In my hands was a letter addressed ‘Dearest Daughter’. It was a letter from my mother - ‘Dearest?’ I was confused, but a slight ray of hope dared to enter my thoughts - perhaps she loved me more than she showed? I plonked onto the lounge and started to read.

“Dearest Daughter,

If you are reading this, then I have gone. It saddens me to think that you may hate me, even in my absence and it depresses me further to think that I deserve that hate.”

I had to re-read the opening paragraph. At least I wasn’t the only one that was hurt! I leaned past the bags of medical supplies littering the coffee table and grabbed the box of tissues. Her blue-white face from inside the hospital crept into my thoughts.

“I had tried to do everything right by you, your very wellbeing was in my every waking thought. The happiest moment in my life was when I saw your face for the first time, felt your heartbeat through my chest in the first moments of your life. Please know that you are the most important thing in my life, I am so proud of you and all that you have and will become”

A loud sob escaped me and I shuddered as tears felt hot and heavy. I clearly did not know my mother at all. Why could she not have said this to me?

“If I could take away this pain that you are feeling, this pain I have caused, I would. The least that I can do is leave you with my small savings, I have left in an account -” a small arrow beckoned me to turn the page,

“I won’t be needing this where I am going. John has said that we can both find work, start a new life together. I am sorry I had to leave you with Roger, but if I stay any longer, it will mean my death. I only hope you will not anger him as I had, not feel his hand as I have.

Please be a good girl for daddy. When you are old enough, know there is money for you to take and escape with. Please live your life to the fullest!

All my love, may God bless and keep you safe xxx

Your loving mother,

Genevieve”

My tears were replaced with feelings of renewed shame - the glimmer of hope the letter initially presented was a scab that was now being ripped away with the realisation that this was not my mother’s letter to me. Standing up, I discarded the tissues into the bin - how could I have been so foolish to think that my own mother would have written that? My mother would never have told me she is proud of me, and as for being the best thing in her life - it’s almost laughable.

The scribbled account details at the bottom of the letter that once caused excitement to rise in my chest, now left me feeling hollow and confused. Who is Genevieve and why is her letter in my mothers belongings? Tossing the letter onto the kitchen bench, I freed both hands to further delve into the notebook. I flicked through the pages, the cursive writing racing, blurring past my eyes and the musty old notebook scent wafted upward, tickling my nostrils. There - on the last page - the missing link was encircled by a drawn heart -

‘My beloved daughter, Rebecca Jane Porter, born 20/3/1941’

Grandmother Jen was actually Genevieve, who I had never met, as she had died when my mother was a young girl. But - she had not passed away - instead she had chosen to leave my mother - her own daughter! - behind while she left Granddad for another man!

The lens with which I have viewed my life and my mother had started to shift and everything started to make sense. I could imagine my mother, as a young girl like Heidi, finding out that the love her mother bore for her was not enough to keep her at home. Abandoned by her mother, growing up with a violent father - what a horrible upbringing for a child. She had obviously masked her pain with alcohol and rage, living like a recluse and not forming close relationships to prevent further abandonment. I looked out at Heidi, playing make believe in the overgrown grass outside. Such a sweet and innocent young person should be protected - I couldn’t imagine a time and place I could ever leave her behind, not with a violent person.

Returning to the notebook, I traced a finger gently around the love heart. What amount of money would have been enough to excuse such neglect! The cool paper was rippled with age - but then, an extra stiffness at the edges. After realising that the last page had been glued to the cover, I cautiously pried at the edges. A crumpled receipt fell out - an account receipt, bearing the same numbers as the one Genevieve had written at the end of her letter.

Withdrawal $20,000

Balance $0

$20,000 is apparently the price of a mother’s love! A decent amount for 1960, 12/12/1961 to be precise. My mind wandered, $20,000 would have been an incredible gift as a 20 year old. That amount of money would have easily set her up with a house. Considering the age of this dilapidated house, it was most likely this house.

Could we ever choose being set up financially for life over a mother’s love and protection from a brutally violent father? I tried to imagine Heidi, alone and in a dangerous situation - could I ever excuse that abandonment with a large financial award that she may not even get to enjoy as she has to survive a life of violence first?

A startling thought caused me to jump up, and with renewed energy I fought past the clutter in the living room into her bedroom, where a thickly stuffed manila folder rested on the bed. I rifled through the pile of papers until I found it - tinged yellow with time, but undisputed.

Roger Albert Porter dec. 12/12/1961