No Return Address

by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

  “You really had it out,” Cody said. “Everyone in the church heard.”

  I felt my face flush. My behavior at the funeral embarrassed me now. “But how did Mom know we would still be distant from each other a year after her death?” I asked.

  “She knew her kids, that’s how,” said Lisa. She cut into the beef. “She knew neither of you was likely to make the first move. With those packages she gave you two an excuse to talk.”

  “Your ugly green yo-yo,” I said to Doug.

  “And your girly music box.” He stood and twirled like a ballerina. We laughed.

  I gestured at the bread basket, and Cody handed it to me. “There’s one last thing bothering me,” I said.

  Cody grinned. “Like, who mailed the packages for Grandma a year after she died?” “Exactly,” I said, pointing a breadstick in his direction.

  Cody held up both hands. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I believe you. You’re not organized enough to pull this off.” I turned to my aunt. “Lisa, don’t you think it’s time you confessed? You and Mom planned all this, didn’t you? You mailed those packages.”

  Lisa shook her head as she finished chewing. “Wasn’t me,” she said.

  I gave her a playful punch in the arm. “Come on,” I said. “We know it was you.”

  “Seriously, it wasn’t me,” she said. “I’m as baffled as you are.”

  I turned to my brother. “Doug?”

  “You really think I’m organized enough to pull this off?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Who then?” asked Cody. “Was it you, Mom? Did you send those packages?”

  “Me?” I put a hand to my chest. “God, no.”

  Doug laughed. “Are you kidding? Rhonda wouldn’t have come over to see me if Mom hadn’t made her.”

  I stuck out my tongue at him.

  “Maybe one of Grandma’s friends sent the parcels then?” Cody asked. “A teacher from the school maybe?”

  Lisa held her wineglass up. “Whoever it was, let’s raise a glass to them. To the mystery person who is responsible for this dinner. She, or he, brought us all together.”

  “Under Mom’s direction,” I said.

  “Here’s to Mom!” Doug said.

  “Yes, to Meg,” said my aunt.

  We clicked our glasses together.

  AFTER SUPPER LISA and I put the leftovers away as Doug and Cody hung out in the living room. Lisa nudged me, and we both watched Doug show Cody how to do the Walk the Dog yo-yo trick. “See, I was right,” said Lisa. “I knew you could fix things with your brother if you had the right motivation. You invited Doug over for Cody, didn’t you?”

  “And for myself. I missed him too. This dinner was for all of us. Let’s make it a regular event, okay?”

  “You got it. But you shouldn’t have to cook every time. We’ll take turns. I’ll host it at my place next Sunday.”

  “Um…okay.” I thought of Lisa’s cooking. Doug was right. Lisa overcooked everything just like Mom had. “I don’t mind helping you make dinner,” I said.

  She laughed. “Don’t like my cooking, eh?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your mom and I were never great cooks,” she said. “We’d get distracted and burn whatever we had in the oven. How about we order in next week. I’m sure Cody and Doug wouldn’t turn down pizza.”

  I watched Lisa put the bowl of leftover peas in the fridge. She had brought her pink bunny slippers with her to wear in my house. Mom had done that. She had even taken slippers to school. Her slippers were always goofy, shaped like cartoon characters or animals. Her last pair had been in the shape of moose heads.

  “You know, Lisa,” I said, “you are a lot like Mom.”

  She laughed. “I’m like Meg?” she said. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Lisa took me by the shoulders and turned me to face the mirror hanging by the kitchen door. “If anyone is like Meg, it’s you.”

  I took a look at myself. For once I had worn something other than gray sweats and a hoodie. I had searched the back of my closet and pulled out a bright blue blouse for the evening. I’d even put on makeup and tamed my hair.

  Lisa was right. I not only looked like my mother, but also shared many of her traits. Like her, I was both stubborn and shy. Maybe I could use my stubbornness to get over some of my fears, as my mom had.

  But then, my brother was also a lot like Mom. Not just in his looks, but in his sense of humor. I even saw my mother in my son. He had her eyes, and her determination, her willpower. I knew he would spend his life in the arts just like she had. I saw my mother in all the people closest to me. Maybe I hadn’t lost her after all.

  I glanced back at my brother and son through the mirror. I could see them in the living room behind me, playing with the yo-yo. Doug was now teaching Cody the Rock the Baby trick. I grinned — they both seemed to be enjoying themselves so much. Then, just for a moment, I thought I saw my mother too. She stood behind them in the dark corner, smiling. But when I turned away from the mirror to look at her directly, she was gone.

  TEN

  MONDAY WAS A beautiful June morning, the kind of morning that always puts a spring in my step. Not a cloud in the sky. I breathed in the scent of the wild roses as I walked down for the mail. I felt better than I’d felt in a long time.

  Susan wasn’t at the counter when I came into the post office. I was surprised to feel disappointed at that. Only the week before she had just been a clerk to me. Now I had started to think of her as a friend.

  There was even less mail than usual this day. But there was a delivery-notice card. Had I received another package from my mother? I hurried to the counter to find out.

  Susan came out from the back moments later, carrying a box. She handed it to me. “How did you know — ?” I asked.

  “I saw you coming in and knew you had something waiting.” She peered down at the box. “Another mystery package? I see it has no return address.”

  “It’s from my mother.”

  “Well, open it!”

  I didn’t hesitate. I tore off the brown wrapping. But I was disappointed to find there was no letter from my mother, only another box. Like the one it had come in, it was also covered in brown paper wrapping. Across the top my mother had written For Susan.

  Puzzled, I pulled the second box out of the first. “It’s for you!” I said, handing the postal clerk the box.

  “Me? How can it be for me?”

  “You’re the only Susan I know. You and my mother were friends.”

  “Yes, but —”

  I offered her the box. “Then this must be for you.”

  Susan took the box from me. This time she looked like she was about to cry.

  “Well, open it!” I said, echoing her.

  Susan used a letter opener to carefully open the brown wrapping. Then she folded it neatly and put it to the side. She was being too neat and tidy — like me, I thought.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “Open the damn box!”

  Susan laughed at my impatience. “Okay, okay!” She ripped off the tape and opened the flaps. Then she pulled out a wad of tissue paper. Inside were a delicate teacup and saucer.

  “That’s one of Mom’s teacups,” I said. “I know the pattern. I have the matching teapot and cups to go with it at home.”

  “Then you should have it,” Susan said, offering it to me.

  “No, it’s yours. Mom gave it to you.”

  Inside the cup there was a folded sheet of writing paper. Susan opened it. “It is from your mother,” she said.

  “Read it! I want to hear what it says.”

  Susan lifted the glasses that hung around her neck and put them on. She hesitated a moment and then read the letter out loud.

  “Dear Susan:

  By now my daughter has likely figured out that it was you who delivered my little packages to my family. I hope our plan worked and that Rhonda and Doug are in each
other’s lives again.

  This cup is a gift to say thank you for helping me make that happen. Obviously, since I’m dead, I couldn’t have done it without you!

  I think you know why I chose to give you one of my teacups. Every day when I came in for the mail we had a lovely long talk. And every day we said we should get together for a visit over a cup of tea. But, well, we never did. Still, I enjoyed our friendship so very much.

  I have one last favor to ask of you. I gave Rhonda the teapot and cups that match this one. Bring this cup up to her place, will you? And have that cup of tea with my daughter. I think you may find that you have even more in common with Rhonda than you had with me. You’re nearly the same age, for one thing. And you’ve both had a few hard years. Rhonda could use a friend, and I suspect you could too.

  Give my daughter a hug for me, will you? I miss you both so very much.

  Hugs and kisses,

  Meg”

  Susan didn’t look up at me right away. She fiddled with the letter.

  “You sent all those packages?” I asked.

  “For your mother,” Susan said. “This was all her idea. Mostly. She asked me not to tell you.”

  “Why, that sly old woman. I can’t believe my mother would trick me like this. And you helped her!”

  Susan peered at me over her glasses like she thought I was about to lose it.

  Then I laughed. “But I’m so glad she did.”

  “You are?”

  “Yesterday I had the first Sunday dinner with my family in a year. My brother, Doug, and my aunt Lisa came over. I almost felt like Mom was there too. I hadn’t realized how much my son, Cody, missed being around family.” I picked up the teacup. “Or how much I had.”

  Susan grinned, relieved. “Oh, thank God!”

  “My mom wants us to have tea, does she?”

  Susan waved a hand. For once she looked embarrassed. “We don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t want to impose. I know I’m just a stranger to you.”

  I handed her the cup and saucer. “I’m so very sorry I was rude to you on Friday. I’ve come in here for years, and you’ve always been friendly to me. I could have invited you over for tea years ago, but I didn’t.”

  “I understand.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s time I started letting people back into my life.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. I lost my husband a few years ago in a car accident. Work and kids were everything for a while.”

  “Oh!” I said. “I had no idea.”

  “Your mom helped me through that tough time, just like she helped you.”

  “Then let’s have that cup of tea at my place. You can tell me all about it, in a more private setting.”

  “Sometime next week?” she asked.

  “How about today, after your shift? I’m not putting things off anymore. When I do that, they just don’t happen.”

  “Okay. I’ll pop up to your place right after closing.” Susan slipped around the counter to join me. “But there is one more delivery from your mom, remember?”

  “What’s that?”

  “This.” Susan wrapped her arms around me and gave me that one last big hug from my mom.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  No Return Address was inspired by my own Canada Post story. Continuing a tradition from childhood, my mother gave my sisters and me an Advent calendar every Christmas. Mom did this even after we were grown and had families of our own. The Advent calendar my mother mailed to me always arrived at my rural post office at the end of November.

  In the spring of 2007 my mother passed away. As you can imagine, our family grieved for her all that year. When December approached I felt a new wave of sadness as I walked to the post office. I knew I would never receive another Advent calendar from my mother.

  But when I opened my post box, there was a delivery notice waiting as usual. And when I took that notice to the postal clerk, she handed me a package with a shape I recognized immediately. I pulled the brown paper off and there it was, my Advent calendar.

  There was no note. For just a moment I wondered, could Mom have sent this? No, of course she couldn’t have. And then it occurred to me to look at the return address on the wrapping. My oldest sister had sent me the Advent calendar. She continues to do so every Christmas.

  And there you’ll find the idea behind this short novel. A mysterious package arrives in the mail, bringing with it a voice from the past. In this case, though, the sender is someone who has passed away. In trying to figure out how this is possible, the woman who receives the parcel finds it is a bigger gift than she could ever imagine.

  I hope the story will inspire you to send your own letter to family or friends. Perhaps, as it was for the character in this book, that letter will be the first step toward a reunion.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I offer my heartfelt thanks to my oldest sister, who sends me an Advent calendar every Christmas. That act of kindness is the seed that sprouted into this short novel.

  Check out the National Post story titled “Canada Post takes 45 years to deliver letter to Calgary woman living just 215 kilometres away from sender.”You’ll find it on the National Post website.

  For a discussion on why brother-and-sister relationships are so important, go to the Globe and Mail website article “Adult siblings are seeking therapy together to heal old wounds and to strengthen their bond.”

  Here’s to our brothers and sisters and the impact they have on our lives. May we keep them close.

  By the age of eighteen, Gail Anderson-Dargatz knew she wanted to write about women in rural settings. Today Gail is a bestselling author. A Recipe for Bees and The Cure for Death by Lightning were finalists for the Scotiabank Giller Prize. She also teaches other authors how to write fiction. Gail lives in the Shuswap region of British Columbia. For more information, visit gailanderson-dargatz.ca.

  I BRUSHED FLOUR off my apron as I stepped away from the kitchen area and up to the bakery counter to serve Murray. He was a widower a few years older than me, in his early forties. He still dressed like a construction worker even though he owned his own antique business now. He sold old dishes, toys and art online, through his website. “You know what I’m here for,” he said, grinning.

  I did. Murray turned up at the end of my morning shift almost every day. He always ordered the same thing. I handed him a cup of coffee and two oatmeal “doilies.” I called these cookies doilies because as they baked, the dough spread out into crisp circles. They looked like the lace doilies people put under vases to protect their furniture.

  “Thanks, Cookie,” Murray said as he took the plate. He was the one who gave me the nickname Cookie. Now every regular at the bakery called me that. My real name is Eva.

  “You ever going to give me the recipe so I can make these cookies at home?” he asked me.

  I shook my head as I smiled shyly at him. We didn’t use packaged mixes at this bakery. We baked everything from scratch. I made these cookies from my own recipe.

  “Probably better if you don’t tell me,” he said. “I want a reason to keep coming in here.” Murray held my gaze just a little too long, as if he liked me. But I wasn’t sure. More to the point, I found it hard to believe he could be interested in me. He was such a handsome and accomplished man, with a business of his own.

  And me? I just worked here, at this bakery. My hair was tucked in a hairnet because I’d been baking that morning. My apron was covered in flour and butter stains. I never wore makeup to work because it got so hot around the big commercial ovens. I always worked up a sweat. If I did wear mascara, it smudged. What could Murray possibly see in me?

  Diana elbowed me as Murray went to his usual table by the window. “Like he needs another reason to come in here,” she said. “He’s got you.”

  She grinned at me, but I tried to ignore her. I wiped the counter to hide my embarrassment.

  Diana was the owner of the bakery. She was in her sixties now and had owned the bakery-café in this stri
p mall for more than twenty-five years. The café looked a little dated too. The place could have used some fresh paint and new tables. But the big windows filled the space with light, and the room always smelled of sweet baked goods. The bakery-café was a favorite hangout, the only place to meet for coffee in this rural area just outside of town.

  I had worked at the bakery since my daughter Katie was little. Katie had worked here summers as a teen. Now she took cooking courses at the college in town. But I had never gone to school to learn how to bake. I had learned all that from Diana, on the job. Then I practiced baking at home, making up my own recipes.

  “Come on, Eva, when are you going to do something about that?” Diana asked me, nodding at Murray.

  “What?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

  “He likes you. And I know you like him.”

  I felt my face heat up. Were my feelings for Murray that obvious? “Murray is only being kind,” I said.

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Diana said. “Your cookies are truly wonderful, but you’re the reason Murray comes in here every morning. I see him watching you when you aren’t looking.”

  He glanced up now to see us watching him. Caught, he quickly looked away.

  “I don’t have time for romance,” I said. “I’ve got a kid, and I’ve got work. That’s more than enough to fill my day.”

  “Katie is a grown woman now,” said Diana. “She’s in college. It’s time to start thinking about yourself.”

  “Katie is still living at home. On top of paying for rent and food, I have to pay for her tuition now, the cost of her schooling. After I pay the bills on payday, I have hardly anything left over.” I stopped when I saw the look on Diana’s face. “I don’t mean to complain,” I said. “You’ve been good to me, letting me work overtime when I need the cash.”

  Diana sighed. “I wish I could give you even more hours, for my sake as well as yours.” She rubbed her sore knee. She was about to have an operation on that knee. Standing on her feet for hours each day year after year had taken its toll on her. She looked tired and often winced in pain. “But with the economy the way it is…” She didn’t finish her sentence.