52 Letters

Harriet takes in the white house with a bright blue door and a copper goose weathervane. The arched gate covered in ivy adds an extra touch of charm to the place, but then again, the entire village seems to come straight out of a fairy tale.

She walks up the stone path. Her hand on the door handle, Harriet slips the key in the lock. She takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. On the doorstep, a feeling she cannot name makes her pause before walking in.

On the wall directly in front of her, a beautiful painting hangs, like a window onto a lake. The cozy blue living room offers more paintings: a big tree silhouetted by a brilliant sunset, horses running across a field of flowers, a woman pushing a little girl on a swing. One is a portrait of a young woman who Harriet guesses is a young Adele Marchand. The look in the eyes is different, but the resemblance is so striking, the canvas might as well be a mirror. The kitchen is white and clean, with a backsplash of hand-painted orange and turquoise tiles, and a big window above the sink looks out onto the back garden.

There is a small, black leather-bound notebook on the dining table. It seems old, the cover worn and the edges of the pages yellowed. A quick flick through the pages shows it is filled with handwritten letters. Harriet opens the notebook to the first page and reads:

June 19th, 1968

My dear baby girl,

You entered the world today. It was early morning and it was dark outside, but you opened your eyes wide when I held you. I had felt you move in my belly, but having you in my arms made you so much more real. It was almost enough to make me change my mind.

I wish I could have kept you. I love you so much already, and I only held you for a few minutes. What would it be like to have you in my arms for days? Months? Years? I’ll never know, and it hurts terribly just to think of it.

But you need more than I can give you. You deserve a life as beautiful as your little face, and you could not have that if you stayed with me. You will grow up in a nice house, with good parents. Maybe a dog. They’ll take good care of you.

I pray you’ll come find me one day. I need you to know that I never wanted to give you away, but I had to. For you.

All the love in my heart is for you.

Maman Adele

P.S. I don’t know what your parents will name you, but I have called you Gisele since I found out you were growing inside me. I think maybe you whispered it to me.

Harriet’s heart tightens in her chest and she looks to the ceiling to keep the tears from falling. One escapes and she quickly wipes it away. She turns to the next page, but the sight of her birth date at the top of the page frees a sob trapped in her throat. She leaves the notebook on the table and retrieves her bags from her car, promptly pulling out the bottle of wine she brought with her.

The back garden is sheltered from the outside world by a wooden fence and the shade of old maple trees. A wooden pergola, a stone bird bath and several kinds of white flowers make the place look like it was tended to by elves. While she waits for her husband to answer, Harriet wonders if the flowers glow once the sun goes down.

He answers on the third ring. “Hey Hun, how was the drive?”

“Long,” Harriet says. “But you should see this place. I’ve landed in a postcard. The house is cute. What I’ve seen of it, at least.”

“It’s that big?”

“No,” she sighs. “She left me a notebook with letters she wrote me. I read the first one, the one she wrote on the day I was born. And now I’m drinking wine.”

“That bad?”

“I think she was just too young.” Harriet silently thanks her husband for not breaking the silence that follows. “And you will never believe what she named me. Gisele.”

“Are you serious? Like our daughter?”

“Like my favorite name in the world, yes. What are the odds? I wish I’d had the chance to know her. I don’t understand why Mom and Dad never told me I was adopted.”

“They must have had their reasons,” Harriet’s husband says.

“Another question with a missing answer.”

Harriet pours herself a second glass of wine and wanders through the rest of the house. Adele Marchand’s bedroom is a tropical seascape of blues, with a sand-colored carpet and paintings of beach scenes. The bathroom is navy blue save for the white-tile floor and an old clawfoot tub. The second bedroom was converted into an art studio.

Adele Marchand had taught at the local elementary school all her life, until illness had forced her to retire a couple of years before. She had never married and was known in town for her kindness and generosity. The paintings hanging in the house were made to please the eye: a calm lake, joyful beach scenes, horses and wildflowers. Images of moments that could have been captured by a camera.

In the studio, Harriet discovers paintings that show the inner life of Adele Marchand was made up of colors of a very different shade. The pieces are larger, the brush strokes dynamic, the emotions vibrating off the canvas and into Harriet’s chest. So much brewed below the surface of Adele Marchand. She poured herself in her art like blood in a chalice.

Her earlier paintings lacked the finesse of the newest ones, but the anguish in them is palpable. Harriet fights back tears as she looks at a dark painting depicting a void inside a person while a fire burns behind them. On the easel, the last work of Adele Marchand awaits completion, but the transition from anger to serenity is unmistakable. In her last days, at least, Adele Marchand had found peace.

Harriet returns to the notebook. Tethered to the bottle of wine like a drowning sailor to a lifeline, she reads the second letter Adele Marchand left her.

June 19th, 1969

My dearest little Gisele,

You turn one today. You have been alive for 365 days. And you have been away from me for just as long. I have not seen you walk or clap your hands. I have not seen you smile. I have not even heard the sound of your voice. Do you love to dance? What is the name of your favorite doll? I don’t know what your name is.

I miss washing your hair, wiping your tears, being your mother. Things I’ve never done. I never knew it was possible to miss something you did not know so deeply. My life was over the moment I gave you away. I know it was the right thing to do, for you, but my heart broke into so many pieces the day you left that I fear it can never be put back together again. I shall live an incomplete life without you.

I made you a present. It’s a painting of us together, the way I see us in my dreams. As a child, I dreamed of painting all day, every day, but your Grandpapa kept reminding me that painting does not put food on the table. He was right, but it feeds something deeper than my stomach. I’ll keep painting until the day I die.

Painting, and remembering how you clutched my finger with your own every time I hold a paintbrush.

I miss you and I love you.

Maman Adele

The notebook falls on the table. Harriet hugs herself as a deluge of sadness overcomes her. Sobs rake her body, her vision blurs through the tears. She looks down at her hands, stained in the ink of her latest project, and clenches her fists around the ghosts of Adele Marchand’s hands. Harriet remains without answers, but she can begin to see the invisible pieces of her heart she always knew she had.

Harriet dials her husband’s number once more. “I’m keeping the house,” she says when he answers. “We can sell it or rent it out eventually, but for now, I need to keep it.”

“Whatever you decide, Honey. She left that house to you.”

“And I know what I’m going to do with the $20,000 she left me. I’ve been talking about working less for years, it’s about damn time. I’ll call Eddie on Monday, tell him I’m done. I can finally have the time to finish my graphic novel.”

“I think it’s a great idea. The kids are grown, it’s time you put yourself first. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I need to stay here a little while. Her spirit is still in this house. I feel her around, in her paintings, in this garden. And this notebook… She wrote me a letter each year on my birthday.”

“That’s 52 letters.”

“And 52 years I missed. I have a lot of time to catch up on.”