The Summer of Lost Letters

by Hannah Reynolds

  How could O’ma have never have mentioned a surrogate mother? I talked about Mom all the time. She was so much a part of who I was. And why would O’ma have kept her a secret, if they talked every week?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It doesn’t sound easy.”

  Helen Barbanel picked up a rose and snipped it.

  It felt like a dismissal. Maybe I’d overstepped; maybe it wasn’t my place to have sympathy. I should go find Noah, but I hesitated. I wanted to make one thing clear. “I’m a moth, too, you know.”

  “Not to Noah. He thinks you’re the sun. If you’re going to disappoint him, do it now. Don’t let his heart get so invested you shatter it.” She smiled, but humorlessly. “We don’t need another Goldman girl breaking another Barbanel boy.”

  I walked around to the front of the house and sat on the porch steps, hugging my knees to my chest, desperately trying to calm my buzzing mind. The thought of ever seeing Helen again made me want to hide beneath a blanket.

  I hated this. I hated being disliked by an adult, someone who was supposed to have their shit together. How did anyone stand up against the disapproval of their families? No wonder Noah felt pressure to do whatever his family wanted, whether it was studying business or protecting the family’s name and company. I’d known I was lucky to have a low-key, flexible family, but this really rammed it home.

  Yet on some things, I knew Helen Barbanel was wrong. Noah didn’t see me as a blazing sun; he probably didn’t even consider me a light bulb. Helen Barbanel thought I would hurt him? Ha! He was going to hurt me.

  Still—did she have a point? If we weren’t going anywhere, if either of us would end up hurt, should Noah and I end things now? Maybe this wasn’t worth it.

  I pulled out my phone to see if Noah had texted. No dice. Maybe I should go home. I didn’t want to be here. My stomach hurt and I felt small and sick and pathetic.

  And yet, even with Helen casting doubt, even with my own confusion about what we were doing, one overriding emotion made me stay: the undeniable desire to be in Noah’s company. I wanted him to look at me with his steady gaze and take my hand and laugh.

  I took a deep breath. Okay. Noah would probably be free soon, and maybe I could walk my nerves off in the meantime. I got to my feet and set off along the front façade of the house, in the opposite direction from the way leading around back. Piano music floated from one room—Noah’s dad? No; Noah was talking to his dad right now. Edward, maybe. Or Shira.

  I passed another open window, and voices blasted out.

  “She’s a bad influence.”

  “She’s not a bad influence!”

  I froze, a horrible certainty hooking through me and tugging me toward the window. Through it, I could see Noah facing off against his father, two versions of the same mold separated by decades. Noah’s rage boiled high, his fists clenched and eyes bright, while his father’s simmered low, shown only in his tense shoulders and implacable voice.

  “Three months ago, you weren’t talking about plants—”

  “I’m going to see her whether you like her or not.”

  I felt like I’d been sucker punched.

  I turned back toward the porch, walking slowly, each step through a haze. I aimed for my bike, which still looked cheerful and merry, all twined with ribbons. Pulling it upright, I got ready to throw my leg over the seat and escape.

  “Abigail.” My name in Noah’s voice stilled me once more. I turned, letting my bike lie back against the porch’s side. He strode out of Golden Doors and down the steps, tension draining from his face. “There you are. Thank god.”

  I stared at him.

  “Are you leaving?” He frowned and raked a hand through his hair. “God, I’m sorry I’m so late. I’m so glad to see you.” He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, kissing me firmly. Then he drew back, frowning harder. “What’s wrong?”

  I pushed out of his embrace. “Is this a good idea?”

  “What?”

  “This.” I gestured between us. “Us.”

  He looked baffled. “I happen to think it’s a very good idea.”

  My heart pounded so fast I felt like it would burst out of my chest and fall onto the lawn, red and bloody and flat. “Your family doesn’t think so.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know! I’ve never had adults dislike me. I hate it. Your grandmother thinks I’m awful.”

  “Abigail, my grandma disapproves of everything. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you. So she thinks you stress out my grandfather. So what?”

  “What?”

  He hesitated. “You—what were you were talking about?”

  “She thinks I stress out your grandfather?”

  His eyes closed. “Damn.”

  “How? What did she say?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. What were you talking about?”

  “She thinks I’m bad for you. I think she called me a myrtle. But in a bad way?”

  “A myrtle?”

  “Noah. Tell me why she thinks I stress out your grandpa.”

  He sighed. “She said it’s not healthy for him to be reminded of the past so often.”

  I leaned back. “Do you think she has a point? About me stressing out your grandfather?”

  “Honestly, Abigail, I don’t care.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Why doesn’t he want you seeing me? Why are you seeing me? What are we doing?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know!” I yelled, finally at my breaking point, unable to handle my anxiety and bouncing nerves anymore. “I don’t know what we’re doing! Are you just hooking up with me to piss off your dad?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it makes as much sense as anything else I can come up with! I don’t even know what we’re doing. I mean, we’re not serious, are we?”

  He rocked back on his heels. His voice went flat. “You said you didn’t want anything serious.”

  “What?” I felt thrown, like I’d suddenly gone from the attack to the defense.

  “You’re looking for a summer fling, right?” His expression didn’t change. “Something casual.”

  My throat went dry, though my eyes did not. I blinked rapidly. Really shot myself in the foot there, hadn’t I, spending all summer talking about flings. Of course he thought I’d be fine with one. “I don’t want a fling.”

  He looked at me sharply. “What?”

  My throat was too clogged to speak, so I shook my head instead.

  “You said you wanted a summer fling.”

  “I meant in the abstract.” Blinking hard, I looked down at my feet, my pink nail polish glinting in the light. “Not with you.”

  “Be a little more clear, Abigail.”

  “How much clearer can I be?” I cried. “I don’t want a fling with you, or to be your revenge hookup to get back at your dad. I like you! I want to spend all my time with you and I wish we were serious and it’s tearing me apart not knowing what we’re doing!”

  He looked stunned.

  Hot shame rolled over me. I was an idiot. Stand your ground, I told myself, even though I wanted to cry. No one could be mad someone liked them. It was flattering, even if they didn’t return the sentiment—wasn’t it? “Don’t worry,” I said stiffly. “I won’t be a bother about it.”

  “A bother?” He closed the space between us. “God, Abigail. It’s not a bother.”

  “It’s not?” I looked at him warily.

  He let out a disbelieving laugh. “Why would it be a bother?”

  My whole body trembled from trying to hold myself together. “I don’t have any interest in being with someone who isn’t into me, or who thinks I’m being clingy.
If you thought I’d be a chill hookup because I said I wanted a fling, I’m sorry. But I’m not feeling very chill. Honestly, I think hooking up isn’t going to work for me because I want more.”

  “Abigail. So do I.”

  “You—what?”

  “I like you.” He swept the hair out of my face, hand lingering on my cheek. “You did notice we’ve been going on dates, right?”

  “Um.” I starred up into his warm brown eyes, feeling utterly confused and uncertain and a tiny bit wonderfully hopeful. “Maybe?”

  “We went out to lunch and we went to the party and we’re picnicking today?”

  “But—it’s August. You leave for school in two weeks.”

  “Cambridge isn’t so far away from South Hadley.”

  “You shouldn’t go to college with a partner. Everyone knows that.”

  “Who’s this everyone?”

  “You know. Everyone.” I lifted a shoulder. “College is for making new friends and experimentation and reinventing yourself. You don’t want to be tied down. Didn’t you break up with your ex because you didn’t think a college student should date a high school kid?”

  He studied me. Then he picked up my hand and started tracing the lines. “I broke up with Erika because we’d outgrown each other, not because of some arbitrary college/high school thing. And besides. Here’s something I’ve learned from a very smart girl.” He smiled at me, steady, serious. “Sometimes you should do what you want to do, not what everyone else thinks is correct.”

  I let out a strangled laugh. “Practical advice for majors and life goals. It wasn’t about—I don’t know, feelings.”

  “I’d argue feelings are practical. Emotional well-being matters, doesn’t it?” He cupped the back of my neck. “I want to date you, Abigail Schoenberg. Do you want to date me?”

  I swallowed. There were so many reasons this didn’t make sense and would fall apart, but right now, none of them mattered. “Yes.”

  “All right, then. We’re dating. Why are you fighting this so hard?”

  “I don’t know,” I said despairingly. “I mean, I do. Honestly, your family freaks me out a little. And I’m nervous you might mean it now but you won’t mean it in a few weeks when you go to school.”

  “Then we check in and if we want something else, we want something else. We don’t stop ourselves because of what we might want, in the future.” He smiled at me. “We live in the present, Abigail Schoenberg. We commit.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I breathed out. “I want that. I want you.”

  “Yeah?” A small smile curved his lips and grew, and grew.

  “But what about your family?”

  “My family isn’t dating you.”

  “Your grandmother thinks I’m going to break your heart. She thinks we’re going to repeat the mistakes your grandfather and my grandmother made.”

  “I have a solution, then,” he said lightly. “Don’t break my heart.”

  A sudden, horrible premonition rose in me. You couldn’t promise not to break someone’s heart. I knew that. And I also knew Noah believed, absolutely, if you loved someone, you did anything to make your relationship work.

  “We’re not going to make the same mistakes as our grandparents,” I said. We weren’t. We were going to get a happy ending.

  He pressed his lips against mine, soft at first, then hot and undeniable. “All right, then. Let’s make our own.”

  * * *

  When I got home, I sat cross-legged on my bed and called Mom.

  “Noah’s grandma says the woman who raised O’ma called her once a week for the rest of her life,” I told her without preamble. “Is that true? Have you ever heard of her?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mom sounded startled.

  “Seriously? How can you not have known?”

  “Don’t yell at me!”

  “I’m not yelling at you! I’m just surprised.”

  Mom was silent a minute. “I remember she used to get these phone calls when I was a little kid from some woman named Eva, who I’d never met, and whenever she called, your aunts and I knew to get O’ma. But we didn’t think about it too deeply.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Mom made a tsking noise. “And what do you ever ask me?”

  “I don’t know! Do you have any secrets about surrogate mothers you haven’t told me?”

  Mom laughed. “I don’t think so. Do you have any secrets?”

  I hesitated, then decided to throw her a bone. “Don’t freak out. But Noah and I are dating. It’s not a big deal.”

  Mom freaked out.

  And I didn’t hate it.

  Twenty-Four

  From: The New York Jewish Archives

  To: Abigail Schoenberg

  Hi Abby,

  Thanks for your interest in our archives! While our records aren’t searchable, we do have an intern currently working on a digitalization project, and she’ll be scanning and digitizing the 1938–39 records from the Holtzman House soon—we can have her send you a link when it’s all online.

  Noah and I spent the next week all over Nantucket.

  We walked across the moors as storms threatened, the heavy air carrying the particular fresh scent preceding summer rain. Dramatic lighting scored the sky: dark, striking clouds, and white light on the horizon. We walked through Nantucket’s protected forests, where golden rays filtered through tall trees and swept across the oceans of ferns blanketing the forest floors. We went out in his boat and, out of sight of everyone, he pulled me into his lap, and we kissed and kissed until we fell flat on the boat’s floor, laughing.

  I could say things to Noah I couldn’t say to anyone else, inane, incomplete things. I plucked unfinished thoughts straight from my head and gave them to him. We stood at the edge of the water and talked about the vastness of sky and sea, of feeling infinite and small. We played keep-away with the waves, dashing as close to the water as possible, then back before the inward tide could touch our feet.

  It felt like the island belonged to us.

  On rainy evenings, we curled up in Mrs. Henderson’s living room with Ellie Mae at our feet. Noah browsed through Harvard’s biological-diversity-related classes and looked up their professors. I combed through German censuses, searching for my great-grandparents’ names. I checked my email intermittently, in case the records had arrived from the Holtzman House.

  Interns! Who knew!

  “Have you talked to your dad again?” I asked one day. Humidity hung in the air and painted a sheen of sweat across our faces, even though today wasn’t intolerably hot. I was scrolling idly through yet another census, and had found I could hold a conversation while scanning for O’ma’s parents.

  “I mentioned one of the classes I’m thinking of taking. He grunted instead of saying anything, which I’m taking as a win. I figure if I plant the seed and keep mentioning it as a possibility, at least it won’t come as a surprise.”

  “Do you feel better having mentioned it?” I opened another town’s census: Lübeck, Germany, from 1912. Germany had done minority censuses in 1938 and 1939 to help them locate Jews; I’d looked at the 1938 census before, but to no avail, which had made me think my great-grandparents might have headed for Luxembourg by then (perhaps immediately after putting O’ma on the train to Paris). 1912 seemed a little too early, but it was accessible, so here we were. Like most of the other documents, it was a PDF and not searchable, so I scrolled endlessly with an eye out for Goldmans.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  Herman Goldman.

  Sara Goldman.

  I gasped.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I found them.” My great-grandparents. My mother’s grandparents. I swiveled my laptop so Noah could see. “Look!”

  “Wow! Excellent sleuthing.”

  I took Noah’
s face in my hands and smacked a loud, triumphant kiss on his mouth.

  In painstaking German, crafted mostly through Google Translate, I wrote to the organization through which I’d downloaded the censuses to see if they had any related paperwork. And I looked up Lübeck, the town where my grandmother had apparently been born. It was a German port, with inhabitants since Neolithic times. Jews weren’t allowed inside, so in the early 1700s they set up in a nearby town of Moisling; when Lübeck annexed Moisling in 1806, they came along. By the early 1900s, over seven hundred Jews lived in Lübeck.

  How hard could it be to find a handful of Goldmans among a mere seven hundred Jews? I wrote to the Lübeck city hall to see if they had my grandmother’s birth record, or my great-grandparents’—then shot off a similar request to the Lübeck synagogue, which had been around since 1880, and was apparently the only still-functioning pre-war temple. It looked like it, too. Quite a lot of red brick.

  Three days later, the synagogue sent me birth certificates for O’ma and her parents, as well as a marriage certificate for the latter.

  “I’m shocked,” I told Noah next night, when he picked me up as I finished closing the Prose Garden. “I felt like I was looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “But you said they didn’t tell you about any relatives?”

  I sighed. “No. And I tried googling, but nothing came up. Still, it’s proof they existed. Proof they had a life.” I looked out the car’s window at the moon. It was ten thirty, and usually I’d go home and to sleep, but Noah had been insistent I come out. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  He leaned over and kissed me. “Tough luck.”

  We drove up North Beach Street, but instead of turning toward Jetties, we took a slight right, then turned up Cobblestone Hill. We drove along a road I’d never been on, passing land with massive dark houses, and parked along an empty lawn in the center of a cul-de-sac.