LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 3

       Dear Marion

       I am sure this letter must come as a total surprise to you, or at least a shock. I’ve been debating for some time whether I should write and I have started this letter so many times only to scrap it and start again. I mean, what do you say to your mom when you haven’t seen her for twenty years? I didn’t know if contacting you was the right thing to do, but not contacting you seemed the wrong thing.

       You may wonder why I haven’t written to you before, but up until recently, I’ve not had your contact details and it’s not been something I’ve been able to discuss with my father. It was just something I knew right from an early age I wasn’t to ask about. I was so young when I came to America, I only have a few fragmented memories of England, but the ones I do have are precious to me.

       I can remember baking cakes with you, those butter-cream ones with multi-coloured sprinkles, and being allowed to lick the bowl afterwards. Being read a bedtime story, my favourite one was about a cat who didn’t like fish. I have a strong memory of being pushed on a swing, squealing with delight as I begged to go higher and higher. I wanted to kick the clouds with my feet, which I imagined would be soft and squidgy like marshmallows.

       I remember your smile, such a lovely smile. In my mind you laughed a lot and always wore pink lipstick. Not a bright, vivid colour, but a pale pink, which shimmered when you spoke. Sometimes, when I played dressing-up with Clare, you’d let us wear your lipstick. I would make an ‘o’ shape with my mouth, just as I had seen you do every day.

       I’ve really tried to hang onto these memories, they have always been very special to me. My father didn’t like me talking about England and as the time passed and the time apart from England grew, so did the distance in my mind. I don’t know when I stopped thinking about my home in England every night, when the days in between those thoughts stretched into weeks and then into months but the memories have always been there, I just stopped visiting them.

       I hope you can understand that I haven’t ever forgotten you or Clare, I was just so young and my life was being steered in a different direction. I always secretly fantasised that one day I would find you or you would find me and now that I have, I hope so much that we can be in touch.

       I don’t know if you are aware but my father, Patrick, died last year and your address was given to me by my stepmom, Roma. She said it was the right thing to do, that she had always wanted me to be able to contact you, it’s just that my father had prevented this. I don’t know what happened between you and my father, as I say, it’s always been a taboo subject. But whatever happened, I want you to know that I have always had this sense that I was very loved by you and, ultimately, this is what has convinced me to write to you.

       I hope this letter isn’t too painful – I’m sorry if it has opened up old wounds.

       I would LOVE to hear from you and Clare, even if it’s just to have closure for us all, although in my heart, I hope it will be more than that.

       Your daughter

       Alice

       Xx

       P.S. It wasn’t until my father passed away that I found my birth certificate and realised that my name wasn’t Kendrick as I thought, but Kennedy. It seems Dad changed our surname when we came over here and, as I’ve never had need of a passport before now, I’ve never been aware of this. It might also explain why you’ve not found me if you’ve ever looked for me. x

      I run my fingers over the page, the piece of paper that has been touched by my beautiful little sister. The name change explains everything. No wonder we could never find her, we weren’t looking for the right person. All along we had been giving the name of Patrick Kennedy to the private investigators. I remember one of them feeling quite confident he would find my father. Although Patrick Kennedy was an American citizen, the PI thought it would be easy to track him down. When he couldn’t be found, the investigator had given the excuse that there were lots of Patrick Kennedys in America, given the number of Irish people who had crossed the pond, and that he couldn’t identify the one we were looking for. God, I wish we had somehow known about the name change!

      Thinking about it now, it makes sense. My father hadn’t ever meant to be found. He must have planned it all before he left. I can’t mourn his passing. How can I when I think of the pain he has put us through – put Mum through? What he did was unforgiveable.

      My father had duped everyone and that was the mark of the man; nasty, spiteful and devoid of empathy. Still, it’s no use tearing myself to ribbons about it now. We have a letter from Alice and that is the most amazing thing ever. Whatever he did I don’t care about; I only care about the future

      I look up at Mum and can see her eyes shining with tears. The lump in my throat grows bigger and in two strides I’m across the room, on my knees in front of her, hugging her. The tears flow as twenty years of anguish pour out of us like a tidal wave.

      ‘Oh, Clare, she’s come back to us,’ says Mum through her sobs, her mouth pressed into my hair. ‘We’re going to get her back.’

      I’m not sure how long we cling to each other but eventually I pull away. I smile at Mum and she smiles back. She cups my face in her hands and rests her forehead on mine. ‘This is all I’ve ever wanted.’

      ‘I know, Mum. I know,’ I whisper. ‘She’s found us. After all that searching we’ve done, all those hours, days, months and years of heartache and now she’s found us.’

      Mum sits back on the sofa and I move myself from the floor to sit next to her. Mum takes the letter from my hand and flattens out the creases caused by our embrace. ‘Kendrick,’ she says and shakes her head sadly. ‘If only we’d known.’

      ‘Let’s not focus on that, Mum. We can’t change the past,’ I say. ‘What happens now is what’s important.’

      ‘I know and you’re right. I just need a little time to digest that. You did note that bit about your father, didn’t you?’ Her finger points out the line.

      ‘I saw that. He’s dead.’ I give a shrug. I have no feelings of attachment to the man Alice talks about. All I can remember is being scared of him and of his big booming voice, but I don’t know him. I cannot grieve for someone I don’t know. I don’t remember caring when he left, I just remember caring that Alice had gone. To me, my so-called father has never been alive. Maybe that’s why I attached myself so readily to Leonard, who was as close to a father as I was getting.

      We spend the rest of the morning discussing how we’re going to reply to Alice. We’re both keen to let her know how much we have thought about her over the years and how much we have longed to hear from her and how much we love her. Have never stopped loving her.

      ‘I’ll draft a reply,’ says Mum. ‘And then I’ll show it to you. You might want to add something yourself.’

      ‘That sounds good. I’ll give it some thought.’

      Satisfied

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