Our lives were dictated by my work schedule and Ashton's games and concerts. As full as our lives seemed, we knew that something was missing. However, I wasn't sure he and I were missing the same thing.
Nothing changed until an oddly chilly October day in 2008 when I received a call from Gracie:
"June, you and Ash have to come to my house tonight."
"It's Thursday, Gracie, I have work in the morning. Can we come tomorrow?"
"Nope, it has to be tonight. Also, you left your photo album with me right?"
My photo album? Mom's photo album? "Yes, I did."
"Good. I'll see you at eight."
Before I could say "Okay" or "Goodbye," I heard a "click" on the other end.
When I told Ashton about Gracie's call, his eyes widened and a ballpark-sized grin spread across his face. He was thirteen then.
"Now, we don't know if it's good news or bad news," I reminded him, "so don't get your hopes up."
Ashton furiously shook his head, "Too late!" he responded, and he took his notebooks to the table to do his homework. To be honest, I was excited too. Something in Gracie's tone indicated that whatever was happening at her house at eight was going to be good.
We took the bus to her street and walked down the narrow sidewalk to her house. Ashton had grown tall enough to reach the doorbell with ease. As we heard Gracie's light footsteps approach the door, a familiar pale, freckled face peered through the curtains.
Molly began to cry as soon as Ashton ran inside. He reached her before I did; they were the same height now. Gracie locked the door and went to her room as the three of us melted in each other's arms.
When we finally pulled apart, I noticed Molly's hair. "You're blonde now," I said.
She laughed, her hazel eyes still holding tears, "Yeah, I've dyed my hair a few different colors, actually. But I like blonde best." She gently touched my face. "You haven't changed a bit."
That wasn't completely true; I certainly looked older. Molly, on the other hand, looked wonderful. She had put on some weight, making her look less like a twig. He face resembled that of a young woman, not the girl I'd left in Philadelphia. She was wearing one of Mom's old dresses, the yellow one with the black stripe down the right side.
We spent hours catching up. There was a university in Worcester that allowed Molly to take a few classes in exchange for work in the theater department. She helped choreograph musicals while she took writing and journalism classes. Mom scored a job as a waitress at one of the few upper-class restaurants in the city (most of the city, Molly said, is absolute trash).
As Molly honed her skills as a writer, she began to writing reviews of local theater productions and posting them online. An editor from a Boston newspaper read her reviews and contacted her. He offered her a column in his paper, where she could review shows in and around Boston. It paid decently, so Molly began commuting to Boston every weekend to see as many shows as she could. She'd send two or three reviews to the editor every Monday, and a check would come in the mail every other Friday.
After spending a year living with Mom's friend, both Mom and Molly moved to an apartment close to the train station to make Molly's commute easier, and they've lived there ever since.
While Ashton told Molly about school, baseball, and chorus, I tried to imagine myself living Molly's life: running all over Boston and coming home to Mom at the end of the weekend. She was leaving something out, I could tell, but I wasn't sure what it was.
Gracie told us we could spend the night so we could keep catching up. I thanked her as she pulled an old, oversized shirt out of her closet for Ashton to sleep in. It was about ten o'clock, Ashton's bedtime.
After I argued with Ashton about sleeping (it was a school night, after all), he finally hugged Molly and I goodnight and went to the guest room. When I was sure he wasn't listening, I moved closer to Molly. "So tell me more about Mom," I said. "How's she doing?"
"She's good, actually. Really good. She likes her job, even though it's difficult. She's befriended a ton of our neighbors and is even tutoring a kid who lives on our floor. She's also drawing. I didn't know she could draw, did you?" Before I could answer, she continued, "Everyone loves her, like always, but she's livelier now. She's gotten so much attention, especially from men..."
"Papa wouldn't like that," I chuckled.
Molly paused and looked at the floor. "Frankly, I'm not sure he cares all that much," she said quietly.
I was taken aback. "How could you say that, Molly?" I didn't understand how she could be talking about our father, who was so present in our lives and loved us all so much. How could she think he didn't care?
"You have Mom's photo album, right?"
"Yeah, but I couldn't find the..." Molly reached into her bra and pulled out a tarnished silver key.
"Go get the album," she whispered.
I tip-toed into the guest room where Ashton slept, took the album from under the bed, and returned to the living room. When I handed it to Molly, she swiftly unlocked the album and flipped to the back. Just as I remembered, there was a piece of paper in the back pocket of the cover. Molly took the paper out and unfolded it. "Mom told me about this letter," she said solemnly, "He gave it to her a few months before I was adopted."
The letter read:
Dear Allison,
How can I make it so that there's no doubt in your mind that I not only love you, but do not regret choosing to spend my life with you? While it's possible that if we were young in a different time that I would have chosen to marry a different dear friend, it does not mean that you aren't, by far, my best friend. I only trust you with my secrets, my struggles, and to co-raise our two remarkable children, who I believe are only remarkable because of your superb parenting. I desperately hope that you stay and co-parent the third. With any luck, he or she will grow up to be just like you.
Love always, Christopher
Molly shook her head. "He was talking about Benjamin, you know. Mom saw them together one day towards the end of a Pippin tour, too close for comfort. She was so angry she threatened to leave him and take you and Andrew away with her." Molly handed the letter to me. "Mom told me she sometimes wonders what her life would've been like if she had just left him then. Obviously she didn't, but she almost did, and never stopped thinking about it."
To be honest, I believed everything in Papa's letter. I believed that he could love someone, perhaps Benjamin, as much as he loved my mother. More importantly, I believed that he chose Mom. The things my sister was saying, though, didn't seem accurate.
"But Molly," I said, "Why would she still think about leaving, after everything Papa wrote in this letter?"
"Because it's not true! Papa had to be involved with Benjamin in some way, it doesn't make sense otherwise."
"What doesn't make sense is why you think Papa would lie to Mom, or to any of us. C'mon, Papa was always straightforward with us, right to the end. And besides, we all lived together in the apartment; no one could keep a secret there, especially one as large as an affair. Maybe there was a misunderstanding."
Molly got up and walked to the window, reaching to open the curtains but then stopping herself. "All those nights on tour," she said without looking at me, "the one's they'd spend without the rest of us..."
"You've got to be kidding me." I stood up and marched towards her. "Papa would not cheat on Mom."
"What makes..." She glanced down the hall at the guest room door and lowered her voice. "What makes you so sure? Why is Mom the untrustworthy one? Why are you siding with Papa?"
"Don't put words in my mouth, Molly!" I grasped her shoulders. "Mom can be angry at Papa, but not for an affair that didn't happen. Just because he loved someone else at one point doesn't mean he doesn't love Mom most." I let my arms fall to my sides. "Remember, Papa didn't need to marry anyone to create Pippin. Pippin would have happened regardless, but he chose to marry Mom. Even if he only had two options, to marry Mom or not marry at all, remember that he chose her." I paused. "He wasn't careful enough. She can be angry at him for that. You can too." I touched her arm. "Also, you can be angry at..."
I didn't even have to say his name. Molly took a pillow from the couch and threw it on the ground. She sobbed, "Why didn't that fucking asshole just jump? Why didn't he jump into the fucking fire..." I covered her mouth with my hand and nervously looked down the hallway. Molly's eyes widened. When I was sure Ashton didn't hear, I lowered my hand. Molly said, "You haven't told him yet, have you?"
