She smiled sadly. ‘I know I’m not the right person to talk to you about this. I know that, I really do. But I know how things used to be between you two. I know how special your relationship is. If you ever need a friend to listen, I’m here.’
I folded my paper napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. To be honest, I’d found it surprisingly pleasant to talk to Rosemary about a lot of things-gardening, New York, books, music-but when it came to my father, I just couldn’t. It felt cheesy, like an invisible eye was somewhere above us, looking, chuckling. ‘I’m okay,’ I mumbled.
‘I found something in the apartment that you might want.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a tattered white envelope. The Brooklyn apartment’s address was written on it in what looked like my handwriting when I was younger, letters that weren’t quite so slanted and rushed. There was a twenty-nine-cent stamp in the corner, but no postage marks to show it had been mailed.
I slid my finger under the paper and pulled out the envelope’s contents. It was a single sheet of lined stationery, addressed to me.
Thursday, December 16, 1992
Dear Summer,
Thank you for your letter and your concern. It’s nice to know that someone takes an interest in science these days; so few people do. I’m glad you like my theories, and I can only encourage you to read more and more so you can form your own. The only way we’ll know the whole truth to everything scientific is to keep questioning and testing.
As for further evidence supporting DNA and your family, I’m sure things will work out as they are supposed to work out. Your mother is a good person. So is your father. Try not to be hard on him if he forgets to buy popsicles at the store or throws his red shirt in with your white laundry. He loves you very, very much, and he is very sorry for any and all mistakes he makes in advance.
And last, you are a good person. You are the best person in the world. Please don’t forget this.
Sincerely,
Your teacher, Mr Rice
I set the letter back down and raised my eyes to Rosemary. We watched each other for a long time. ‘He has been keeping something from me,’ I finally said. ‘And not even the secret about you, I mean. Other secrets. He keeps secrets from everyone.’
Rosemary shifted in her seat. ‘Maybe he keeps secrets for your own good. To protect you. Not all secrets have to be told right away…or at all. But you should talk to him. You two should sit down and air everything out. I know you both want to.’
‘He keeps secrets from you, too,’ I snapped sharply. A big secret, maybe. One that might unravel everything.
Rosemary tilted her head. Some of her hair fell over her face. Outside, a gust of wind kicked up, blowing trash around. We remained there for a few moments, saying nothing, letting this sink in. Then, I felt a hand on my arm.
‘Summer?’
My father was standing above me. Next to him was a woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length brown hair, pink, glossy lips, stark freckles. She wore a down coat, a black dress, opaque tights over her slender thighs. Something about her looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure why.
‘Summer, this is Josephine,’ my father said. ‘Josephine, this is Summer. Josephine was good enough to take some time away from her conference to come out to Brooklyn.’
Josephine stuck out a small, pale hand. ‘It’s really, really nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’ Her hands were cold and chapped. She had an open, friendly face, with one incisor crossing over the tooth next to it. There was a thin wedding band on her finger. A map of the New York City Subway system peeked out of her coat pocket.
Josephine. The name sliced through me. ‘Hi,’ I said back, more a question than a statement.
‘Richard.’ Rosemary stood up abruptly, her voice quavering. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s okay. Summer and I talked about this.’
‘You…did?’ Rosemary looked startled.
‘Wait, what?’ I tossed my eyes from Rosemary to my father.
The woman, Josephine, looked down at the table and pointed at the letter from Mr Rice. ‘Oh, that’s Richard’s handwriting, isn’t it?’
‘Can I talk to you for a second, Richard?’ Rosemary took my father’s arm, nudging her chin at Josephine.
‘It’s all right,’ my father repeated. ‘Summer and I were talking about it this morning. Stella told her.’
Josephine’s eyes darted back and forth. She drew her bottom lip in her mouth. ‘Maybe this is a bad time?’ she asked slowly.
‘Stella told me what?’ I couldn’t remember my father and I having a conversation this morning about Stella. What had Stella told me? I examined Josephine again, my thoughts half-formed, like I’d just woken up from a dream.