“No. I’m not a cop,” I say turning around to face him. He looks just like pictures of my dad at this age.
“Well then, how can I help you? Are you Gretchen’s dad?”
“No.”
“Thank God. I am not ready to meet the man,” he says, extending his hand. “Chase Reynolds.”
“Malcolm Reynolds,” I say taking his hand. It’s a firm grip.
“That’s my father’s name,” he says, dropping my hand.
“Yes. That’s me. I was just informed by your mother. She said you’d want to meet me.”
“Holy shit. I was not expecting this today.”
“Bet you wish I was Gretchen’s dad now, don’t you?” I say, making us both laugh.
“No. This is better. It’s nice to meet you. I haven’t heard a lot about you, but to be fair, I don’t Ma knew a lot about you, to begin with.”
“No, she didn’t and that was my fault,” I admit. It was. I knew what I had with her was special.
“Well, come on in, dad. Is it okay that I call you dad?” he asks.
“Sure, son,” I say following him into the kitchen. Despite it being noon here, there are still bodies sleeping everywhere, even on the staircase.
“I don’t think we have anything other than beer to drink. Can I offer you one?”
“Should you be drinking those?” I ask, knowing he’s only nineteen.
“No.”
“Why don’t I take you out to lunch and we can talk?”
“Sounds good. Let me grab my phone and wallet. Be right back. Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“It really good to finally meet you,” he says as he climbs the stairs in the kitchen.
“You too,” I reply. Better late than never.
Lunch with Chase was great. He reminds me a lot of me when I was his age. I didn’t get a lot of time with him as he had class, but he’s about to finish up the semester and go home to Baltimore to be a part of the campaign. He’s bringing Gretchen with him to meet his mother. Even meeting him one time, my life feels fuller. I have a son and he has my name.
Now that I know what Larissa has been up to thanks to her official biography, it was easy to find out the rest. I opened my parent’s house this afternoon and got everything turned back on. Now I’m sitting in the little home office, in the dark, nursing a warm scotch, devouring everything ever written about her: news articles, press releases, laws she signed as first the mayor of Baltimore and then the governor of Maryland. Then I found the personal stuff. She’s never been married nor photographed with anyone other than Chase or her family.
I learn about her politics and find that they line up with my own beliefs. I meant what I said when I said I’d never turn down the opportunity to serve my country, but it’s nice to know that I won’t have to lie while doing it.
I also meant that I was collecting what I left behind.
I searched the house high and low and found most of the letters from Larissa in the attic. The oldest letter was opened and read what appears to be several times. Inside the envelope is a sonogram printout. It’s the only envelope opened. The rest are neatly sorted into three plastic shoeboxes in the order in which they arrived.
March 1st, 2000
Dear Malcolm,
I wish I didn’t have to write this letter, but I have no other way of getting in contact with you. Your phone is disconnected or out of the service area or something. I don’t know. Maybe you give all the girls that number when you are done with them. Anyways, my reason for writing is that I’m pregnant and of course, it’s yours. I am due September 10th. I don’t want anything from you, I just thought you should know. You can be involved as little or as much as you want. I had a sonogram done; it’s enclosed. I don’t for sure if it’s a boy or a girl yet, but I don’t care as long as they are healthy. The night we spent together meant everything to me and I know that makes me naive or whatever but it mattered and I’m afraid it always will. You made an impression on me. Don’t die.
XOXO,
Larissa MacLaine
410-200-5959
P.S. I think it’s a boy. He looks strong, like you.
I look up from the swirling cursive handwriting, written in bright purple ink, blinking away tears. I torture myself by opening and reading the letters. Pictures of Chase as a boy fall out of each envelope to the desk as well as pictures he drew or colored for me. News articles about him scoring touchdowns or goals, a homerun. First place in a science fair. I missed it all. Nothing can ever replace these memories fully, but the fact that Larissa continued to write me even though she wasn’t getting a response helps. After ten or so letters, I realize she’s signed each one with “don't die” making me laugh. Twenty years of updates that can be read in a matter of a couple of hours is overwhelming. The last letter is from a week before my mom died. Where are the last hundred and five letters or so? I never had the mail stopped. I run downstairs to the mailbox. It’s a combination mail and package drop box so they can’t be stolen. I sort through the keys on the keychain I grabbed from the hook by the front door. I open the box and two years' worth of mail falls out and onto the ground. I scope them up and take them inside. Most of it is junk mail, but the letters are there. I open the one from last week.