“Months ago.”
“Why?”
“The house was being cleared. I called one of the women your father grew up with. We still had her address from the Christmas cards.”
“And she still had his chair?”
Mom nodded.
“She laughed when I asked.”
“What did she say?”
“‘We still have the silly thing.’”
I looked down at the worn blue paint.
Mom wiped her face.
“I thought if he saw it here, maybe he’d finally understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That he hadn’t disappeared from them just because he’d stayed away.”
Her plan had been to put the chair at our kitchen table.
Then ask Dad one more time.
Go home.
See them.
Stop waiting for some imaginary year when returning would finally become easier.
The chair had been shipped three days before the accident.
Dad never knew it was coming.
I looked at Mom.
“Then why did you tell me to throw it away?”
Her face crumpled.
“Because he was supposed to sit in it.”
Neither of us spoke.
The delivery label was still attached to the torn cardboard.
Below the shipping information was a contact number.
Hawaii.
I reached for my phone.
“Annie.”
“Someone there thinks Dad just got his chair back.”
Her eyes moved toward the number.
I dialed.
It rang four times before an older woman answered.
“Hello?”
I stared at Dad’s name carved beneath the blue seat.
“My name is Annie.” My voice nearly failed me. “I’m Gilbert’s daughter.”
There was a long silence.
Then the woman whispered, “Gilbert had a daughter?”
For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That silenced both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
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