“Why? Because I can. Excuse me.”
Naomi stood. Her hands were trembling badly. She had the message, the folded sheet of hotel stationery, to present to Dawn Dunphy.
She said, “This is for you. I’ll be right back. I need to use a restroom.”
She went away, pushing through double doors into the corridor. Her ears were ringing. She felt as if both sides of her head had been smacked with boxing gloves.
In a restroom in a panel of mirrors was a pale excited face, she did not recognize at first.
Dear Dawn—
I did not tell you the truth the first time I met you.
The truth of why I have come to see you.
I am the daughter of Gus Voorhees. I am Naomi Voorhees.
I am sorry to deceive you. I did not know how otherwise it would be possible to meet you.
I will return in 10 minutes. I hope you will still be here.
If you are not, I will understand.
We are the only two who will understand. But maybe that is not possible.
If you would like to see me some other time but not right now, I will leave my phone number here. My email address.
If you do not wish to see me again I will understand & I will not make any attempt to see you.
It is true, I am a documentary filmmaker. I am just beginning this project of women boxers. I would like you to be a part of it but I don’t know how it will go.
My life has been like that—I have started projects, and I have started courses in college, and not finished them.
I used to think it was because my father was killed when I was a young girl. But now I am wondering if that is just an excuse for my life that is broken in pieces and some of these pieces lost.
Or maybe that is just everyone’s life. & I am no one special.
I hope that I will see you again. But if not, I understand.
Sincerely,
Naomi Voorhees
Her head was aching as if she’d been punched repeatedly. Her mouth kept twisting into a foolish smile.
She could run outside, she didn’t have to return to the banquet room.
Except she’d left her expensive camera there. She had no choice, she would have to return.
But she could snatch up the camera, whether Dawn Dunphy was still there, or had left.
Her camera she would grip in her fingers. Anxiously she would check the lens. She would check what the camera had just recorded. Someday, it might be stitched into a documentary film. It might be screened in a darkened room. Strangers would stare at the battered faces of women boxers. Strangers would strain to hear their halting voices.
Strangers might cry—You have told my story! You have touched my heart. Thank you.
Boldly Naomi pushed through the double door, and there was Dawn Dunphy on her feet, in her gray hoodie and sweatpants looking shocked, irresolute.
The expression in Dunphy’s face! Beneath the bruises, cuts and swellings you could see astonishment and wonder breaking.
Naomi would wonder: had Dawn Dunphy been about to slam out of the room or had she been about to come look for Naomi in the corridor?
“Hi . . .”
Naomi’s heart was pounding tremendously. She could not believe that Dawn Dunphy was still standing before her and had not walked away without a backward glance.
So quickly it happened. The decision had been made for them.
In the consolation of grief they held each other tight and wanted never to let go.