The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go

by Amy E. Reichert

The scotch had wrapped around her like a fuzzy blanket. This time was so different from the last.

  “No. I just wanted to let you know right away. I’ll let them know in the morning. There is no reason for them to rush over. I have the gala tonight.”

  Lorraine filled her in on the rest of the details and assured Roza she would call her again tomorrow. Roza always did worry about her.

  She pushed Floyd’s chair to where she always thought it belonged, next to the bookshelf and farther away from the window. That was better. Word would be out. In their small community, where everyone made sure to know everyone else’s business, the grapevine would already be buzzing. She walked upstairs, picking up the shoes she’d left on the bottom step, and went to her room. Holding up the dress she had planned to wear, a beautiful tan gown with lace and crystals—and the right amount of coverage for a woman her age—she hung it back in the closet and pulled out a black gown, embellished with rhinestones, a few at the top, then increasing to a heavily bejeweled hem.

  She couldn’t skip the event and sit home staring at the walls. She had spent months planning, and now she would be the stoic widow who honored her husband’s work ethic by seeing her event through to the end. It was what he would have done. Work always came first, and her job was the social hierarchy. He would have approved, and she would play the role gloriously, cementing the club’s collective memory of him.

  The house already felt too big for one person. The girls and Roza would come in the morning, but for now, she was truly alone.

  No, Lorraine thought now as she lay in the hospital bed. I wasn’t entirely alone like Floyd had been. Her husband had come to her. That was reassuring. She smiled, content to just watch her daughters interact, recognizing their resemblances. Victoria had his strong chin and long, dark lashes. Regina had his eyes. And frown. That same line on her forehead had returned, just like his always had when he worried, though Regina worried more than her father ever did, despite how hard she tried to hide it.

  “What’s that? Is she having another stroke?” Regina directed her question to the nurse, who was still fussing with the computer.

  The nurse studied Lorraine’s face, looking into her eyes and checking her pulse, measuring her for any difference from a few moments ago. Lorraine could have told them nothing had changed—if only she could speak.

  “I think she’s just smiling.”

  Regina studied her face again. Then sat down in her chair, still watching her mother. Victoria paused her flower arranging and glanced over.

  “That’s new,” she said.

  Lorraine barked out a laugh—more of a wheeze. Victoria wasn’t wrong. Her younger daughter always spoke her mind. It was one of her traits she was most proud of, even if she was often at the end of her barbed comments. Victoria had strength and was willing to make the tough decisions life demanded. Regina was the one who floundered, that let her heart choose her path.

  Worry line still intact, Regina returned to her sorting and Lorraine watched, finally realizing what she was going through. It was the accordion file, the one she kept tucked in the safe in her closet, where all her secrets were locked away. She was always careful to keep it covered so a casual glance wouldn’t discover it. She’d often take it out and look at the memories it contained, memories only she and Roza knew.

  The brown cardboard and paper organizer was clearly torn after so many years, edges ragged from use. Regina was pulling each section out and sorting the papers into piles. From where Lorraine lay, one pile looked like it consisted of important documents like her passport. Another pile contained photos—photos the girls had never seen.

  “Hey, Vic, do you know who this is?”

  She held one of the pictures up to her sister, who had been looking out the window. Lorraine could tell which one it was. Joe. In the photo a much younger—though not much slimmer, she was proud to say—version of herself wore a pink fitted polo with elastic-waisted jeans and a white belt. The jeans were all that would fit over her barely growing belly. She hadn’t wanted to start wearing pregnancy clothes yet when she’d just started to fit into her normal size. Standing next to her was a handsome man with short dark hair, a strong chin, and familiar eyes holding a chubby baby girl. He wore a uniform. Lorraine had hated that blasted uniform. The baby had both hands clasped to his face, as if pulling him down for a kiss or making sure she had all of his attention. And she did. He was entranced by her sweet cheeks—they both were.

  “That’s Mom, but I don’t know who the man is.”

  Victoria looked at the picture closer.

  “No idea. I’m pretty sure that’s you. I’ve seen that dress in other baby pictures of you.”

  Of course it was Regina, and Victoria was there, too, under that white belt set to its last hole. She had been so happy.

  “Mom’s really rocking the bell bottoms.” Regina checked the back for a date, which was written in Lorraine’s hand: 1974, NOV. “She must have been pregnant with you by then. You can kind of see a tiny bump. She looks so happy.”

  Regina held the picture up for Lorraine to see, and Lorraine lifted her left hand to touch it, not sure if she had the strength to grasp the photo. She only managed to point at the blanket on her lap.

  “Who’s this holding me?” Regina asked.

  Lorraine could only blink. Even if she could speak, she wouldn’t answer. She’d kept the secret for so long, it seemed like a long-cherished dream rather than truth. Telling the girls wouldn’t change anything in their lives; it would only create an abyss where their perfect family once stood. They didn’t need to know what they had lost when they had never even known it existed. You couldn’t miss someone you’d never known.

  Once Regina realized she wasn’t getting an answer, she set the picture down and moved on to the next pile, and the document peeking out from the stack caused Lorraine’s chest to clench. She may not be able to tell them anything verbally, but all the pieces were there, if they put them together. She had selfishly kept these mementos rather than store the memories where they belonged: in her head. Fear spread through her body like numbness had hours ago. What would they think of her? Would they forgive her? Could they forgive her? She should have burned that certificate years ago, but it was the last thing she owned that said his name. Everything else of his had been taken from her.

  Lorraine leaned forward with all her might. Perhaps she could grab the page, keep her secret for a few moments longer. Concentrating on gaining forward momentum, she rocked a few inches, then fell back against the pillows. Neither of the girls noticed her movement. She tried again, this time gaining another inch. Her breath was ragged, but fear compelled her to try one more time, gaining a few more inches, then the beeping started. In rushed a nurse, grabbing her wrist then checking a nearby machine. Regina stood and stared, mouth agape. The beeping continued until another nurse followed a cord from one of the machines to where she had pulled it loose from her arm during her pathetic attempt to grab the papers. Exhausted, she let the nurse fix the slack line as Regina thankfully closed her mouth and returned back to her sorting.

  Regina peeled back her marriage certificate to Floyd Price and Victoria’s birth certificate—setting them aside. There’d be no reason she’d find those interesting, of course. Then she picked up her own birth certificate, running her finger over the tiny footprints pressed onto the paper minutes after she was born. Lorraine held her breath as she waited for Regina to see it when another nurse entered, disrupting Regina’s sorting.

  “Okay, Mrs. Price, it’s time to scan that head of yours. Here we go.” The nurse lowered her bed so she was lying flat and made the necessary adjustments so the bed was movable. “We’ll be back in an hour or so. Now would be a good time to get some supper, ladies. Dr. Patel will be back in a few hours to go over the results and discuss her treatment.”

  “Thank you.” Her girls echoed each other, as polite as she’d raised them.

  Lorraine wasn’t paying attention to what the nurse said; ins
tead she watched Regina as she set the birth certificate down and pulled out her notebook, jotting down information. Her Regina, always so diligent. Maybe she’d forget what paper she had held and move on to the next piece of paper in the pile. Maybe she wouldn’t notice the discrepancy. Maybe she wouldn’t ask the questions Lorraine didn’t want to answer.

  The nurses maneuvered the bed toward the door, taking her daughters out of her line of sight. Lorraine threw one last thought out as she was wheeled into the hallway, hoping her eldest could do her this one favor.

  Please stop looking through the file. You might not like what you find.

  HOW DID YOU MEET MY FATHER?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  What if Mom can’t ever talk again?” Vicky said as Lorraine was wheeled out the hospital room door. “What will we do?”

  “She’ll talk again. She’s already talking.”

  “That isn’t talking, that’s gibberish. Stop trying to sugarcoat it. Mom’s probably not going to recover from this. I was googling it just now.”

  Gina set down the paper she was holding and placed her palms on the table in front of her, counting to ten, then twenty. Vicky always insisted the answer was on the web.

  “Of course you googled. Now that makes you an expert on strokes. The doctor has said recovery is possible, even in these cases where it seems like there is far to go. She’ll just need to practice. Knowing how stubborn Mom is, she’ll be back to her usual self in no time. Think positively.”

  “I know you’d rather think it will all be sunshine and unicorns, but you need to accept she might not get better.”

  “I choose to have a different point of view.”

  “I don’t like the idea either—the thought even has me wishing she could complain about how I don’t visit enough, or that you need to dye your hair more.”

  Gina’s hands flew to her hairline, covering the inch of gray she knew was there.

  “Not all of us can get to the salon every six weeks, or have blond hair, no matter how fake, that hides the gray when it does come. I’m thinking about letting it go natural anyway.”

  Vicky gasped.

  “Are you trying to kill our mother? Because that’ll do it. Did you learn nothing from her? Lesson number two, after coconut oil cures everything, is to never let them see your natural hair color.” She tapped her chin with her finger. “Actually, just make sure I’m here when you tell her. I don’t want to miss it. If that doesn’t motivate her to start speaking again, nothing will.”

  Gina rolled her eyes.

  “Stop it. She’s been through a lot since Dad died. Moving out of the house was hard on her, and the club is farther away, so she’s not seeing her friends as much.”

  “She’s better off without them. Trust me, the club ladies are more interested in gossip. You know what they used to say about Dad, right? Mom spent years combating those rumors.”

  Gina chewed her lip. She’d heard the rumors, yes, but they’d never bothered her.

  “It was just gossip.” She shrugged it off. “Mom never even acted like it bugged her.”

  Victoria snorted, such an indelicate sound. Gina loved that for all her sister’s polish, she would still snort.

  “Maybe, but Mom likes to keep her secrets.” She looked out the window, again. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Want some?”

  “Yeah. A lot of cream.”

  “I remember. You like a little coffee with your half-and-half.”

  Vicky left, leaving Gina to return to her piles of documents. She’d found the end-of-life and insurance information and given it to the admitting department, but now she was entranced by the photos and documents that she’d never seen. They pulled at her. She returned to the last piece of paper she’d picked up: a hospital birth certificate—her birth certificate. Her fingers traced the tiny foot and handprints, remembering how small May had looked in Drew’s arms when she’d been born. She’d never seen her own hand and footprints, though, on her copies from Milwaukee County. None of them had the prints, and she didn’t recall ever seeing this version.

  Her eyes scanned the expected information about her weight and height and paused on the lines that said her parents’ names. It read “Regina Ann Sandowski was born to Joseph and Lorraine Sandowski.” She’d never heard that last name before, but all the other information was correct. It was her birthday, July 7, 1973. All the other information seemed right. Except the names. There must have been a mistake by the nurse who filled it out—she was born Regina Ann Price. Her mom probably kept it as a grudge against the hospital after they fixed it. Besides, right below it in the pile was her official birth certificate with her name listed correctly, as well as her father’s, Floyd Price.

  Gina set the birth certificates to the side, picking up the picture of the strange man holding baby her again. The baby in the photo couldn’t take her eyes off the man whose face she was holding between her tiny hands. She had clearly known and liked him, and the smile on his face proved it was reciprocated. He looked familiar, but Gina couldn’t figure out why. His nose had a bump like hers and Vicky’s did. Maybe he was a long-dead cousin who had visited her mom. She set the photo on the birth certificate and returned to sorting and transferring the rest of the documents into the Noah’s Ark box, replacing the lid when she finished. But after seeing the photo and the birth certificate she had to wonder—what other stories had her mother not told her?

  “One cup of cream for you.” Vicky set the cup on the table.

  Gina held up the certificate.

  “Have you ever seen this? It lists someone else as my dad. Weird, huh?”

  Vicky examined the paper and shook her head, her ponytail swaying with the effort.

  “Do you think it was a joke? Or maybe Mom had an affair and this is your real dad?” Vicky waggled her eyebrows. “You’re a love child from our mother’s torrid affair.”

  “Can you see our mom doing anything torridly? Let alone an affair.”

  “I don’t know. It was the seventies; lots of crazy stuff happened. Maybe Roza knows.”

  Gina pictured her father. They’d never been close. He was older than their friends’ dads and definitely from the “children are to be seen but not heard” school of parenting. Growing up, they were allowed only in the kitchen, the playroom, their bedrooms, and their bathroom. On special occasions, they were allowed in the dining room to eat with their parents, but everyday meals were adults in the dining room and kids at the kitchen table with Roza, keeping the noise to a minimum.

  Her dad always had short gray hair circling his head, creeping back from his forehead with each passing year, and tiny ears. Gina could never figure out if his ears were truly small, or if his head was just that large. He looked like every other dad to her, not particularly special; soft in the middle, glasses he wore for reading, and a loud laugh he saved for other adults. Her most vivid memories of him from childhood were few, but they had made an impression. She remembered standing in front of him with her report card. If he was satisfied, she got a pat on the shoulder and a dollar for each A. For a C grade or lower, she would owe him money. She was still proud that she had never owed him a dime.

  Or the summer she had her first lemonade stand. She was eleven and it was screaming hot, the kind of hot where she couldn’t eat a Popsicle fast enough while outside before it melted down her hand in cherry-red rivulets. She had been saving up for a Cabbage Patch Doll like Tracy Bernard, one with a tuft of blond hair and a tiny tooth. She had only collected $5.64 from spare change she found in the couch and vending machine coin returns.

  On that hot summer day, genius struck. She would start a lemonade stand and sell it for the high price of fifty cents a glass. She would make a killing. She spent the morning making batches of lemonade, setting up a chair and table, and decorating a sign that read BEAT THE HEAT! ICE COLD LEMONADE FOR 50¢! She sat down and waited for the crowds, but the streets were empty, everyone either at a nearby pool or hiding in their air-conditioning, until her dad came out w
ith a crisp one-dollar bill.

  “I’ll take two glasses, please.”

  Gina poured the cups and pushed them to the edge of the table.

  “That will be one dollar, please.”

  Her father handed it to her.

  “You know what you need to do with that, right?”

  Gina shook her head. She had planned for it to go into her doll fund.

  “That’s your first sale. You need to save it.” He pulled a black pen from his chest pocket and wrote a few words on it. “Here. This is the first dollar your business has earned. It’s important to save it as a reminder that everyone starts with a single dollar.”

  He patted her head and took the lemonade into the house. Gina looked at the bill. He had written the day’s date, July 1, 1984, and “Dad” on it. At the time, she was disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to use it to buy the doll, but now it was one of her favorite Dad memories. She still had that dollar in a box somewhere.

  Vicky was probably right about Roza. Growing up, she and Vicky had been the only kids she knew who had a nanny. Nannies were something from Mary Poppins, not Milwaukee. Their nanny, Roza Wisniewski, was an older Polish woman—she wasn’t really from Poland, but she was born and raised in Milwaukee’s Polish neighborhood, south of downtown, where you could stand between neighboring houses, stretch out your arms, and touch both buildings. In all of her childhood memories, Roza hovered on the edges with her short white hair, large nose, and gentle hands, making sure to remove the girls from their father’s line of sight before they annoyed him.

  Roza’s children were grown when she had started watching them. She always looked much older than their mother, more like a grandmother. She still lived in the house where she had raised her own family, renting out the lower flat to young couples getting started. Gina and Lorraine had tried to convince her to move closer to them, but she insisted the old neighborhood was the best. On most days, she would arrive at their house with a red kerchief wrapped around her head and a covered plate of something delicious, often pierogi. Her husband had run a small store not far from downtown Milwaukee, and one of their sons helped him manage it. Roza had started working as their nanny when Gina was a baby to earn money on the side.