The Stranger Who Left My Name Beneath the Doormat

For nearly a minute, I stood on the porch holding that envelope, listening to the neighborhood wake up.

A truck rumbled down the street. Somewhere, a dog barked twice. Water dripped from the gutter onto the flowerpots my mother had helped me plant during the last summer of her life.

Everything looked ordinary.

That was the worst part.

The world had no idea that a dead woman's handwriting was sitting in my hand.

I carried the envelope inside and placed it on the kitchen table.

Then I picked it up again.

The paper was thick, slightly yellowed around the edges, and sealed with a narrow strip of transparent tape. There was no return address. No stamp. No indication of how it had arrived beneath my doormat without getting wet.

I turned it over.

Nothing.

The brass key slipped against the table when I opened the flap.

Inside were three items: a folded letter, an old photograph, and a small rectangular card bearing an address.

I unfolded the letter first.

My hands were shaking so badly that I had to flatten the paper with both palms.

The first line stopped my breath.

Nessa, if you are reading this, then someone has finally found the courage to come back.

I read it twice.

Then I sat down.

The letter continued.

*I need you to do something before you decide whether to forgive anyone. Take the key. Go to 18 Bellweather Lane.

Ask for Margaret Ellis. Do not call ahead. Do not tell anyone what you found.*

And, sweetheart, if the man who gave you this letter was kind enough to ask your name, please remember that he did not always have the chance to ask the people he loved.

You have a right to the truth.

I am sorry I couldn't give it to you while I was alive.

Love always,

Mom.

For a moment, I couldn't hear anything except the refrigerator humming behind me.

Then I laughed.

It was a short, frightened sound.

"No," I whispered.

I turned the page over, looking for another paragraph, a date, some explanation that would make the words less impossible.

There was nothing.

My mother had been dead since November 2011. I had watched her lower herself into a hospital bed that she never left. I had sat beside her through the final night, holding her hand while the monitors blinked and the nurse spoke softly about keeping her comfortable.

I had been twenty years old.

She had been fifty-three.

She had left me a modest insurance policy, a box of photographs, and the blanket that had kept me warm ever since.

She had not left me a mysterious letter.

I knew that because I had cleaned out her house myself.

I had opened every drawer, every cupboard, and every box in the attic. I had even gone through the old tins in which she stored buttons and loose change.

I had found nothing.

My phone rang.

I jumped so violently that I knocked my coffee over.

The caller ID read *Aunt Lorraine*.

Lorraine was my mother's younger sister. She lived forty minutes away, called every Sunday, and had a habit of asking questions she already knew the answers to.

I wiped coffee off the table and answered.

"Hey, Aunt Lorraine.""

"Good morning, sweetheart. How are you?""

"Fine.""

"You sound funny.""

"I just woke up.""

"You've been awake for years, Nessa. You had a baby before most people your age had figured out how to pay their electricity bills.""

I looked down at the letter.

"Aunt Lorraine, can I ask you something?""

"Of course.""

"Did Mom ever mention a man named Margaret Ellis?""

Silence.

It lasted less than two seconds, but I heard it.

The slight change in Lorraine's breathing. The tiny pause before she answered.

"No. Why would she?""

"I don't know. It's just a name I came across.""

"Where?""

"Some paperwork.""

"What paperwork?""

I pressed the letter flat against the table.

"Old paperwork.""

"Nessa, what kind of paperwork?""

The sharpness in her voice irritated me.

"Why does it matter?""

"Because if you've found something of your mother's, you should be careful. She kept things private.""

"She also kept old coupons from 1998. Private wasn't exactly her main personality trait.""

Lorraine didn't laugh.

"Listen to me," she said.

"Whatever you've found, leave it alone until I can come over.""

My stomach tightened.

"Why?""

"Because grief makes people imagine connections where there aren't any.""

I stared at the signature on the letter.

"You haven't even seen what I found.""

Another silence.

Then Lorraine said, too quickly, "I'm sure it's nothing.""

The line went dead.

I remained at the table with the phone against my ear.

Lorraine had never hung up on me before.

Not even when I was seventeen and called her from a police station after getting caught driving my mother's old Buick into a ditch.

I lowered the phone and looked at the address card.

*18 Bellweather Lane.*

Underneath it, in the same handwriting as the letter, were five words.

The house with the blue door.

I knew Bellweather Lane.

It was on the other side of town, in a neighborhood of old brick houses, narrow gardens, and tall oak trees. My mother had driven through there once when I was little. I remembered the iron fences and the enormous windows, but not why we'd gone.

I looked at the brass key.

A small number had been stamped into its bow.

*214.*

At eight, Junie came downstairs in purple pajamas, her hair sticking up on one side.

"Mommy, why are you sitting in the dark?""

I glanced at the clock.

I hadn't turned on the kitchen light.

"Sorry, baby.""

She climbed into the chair beside me and reached for the toast I had forgotten to make.

"Where's the old man?""

I looked at her.

"What old man?""

"The one outside.""

My mouth went dry.

"You saw him?""

Junie shrugged.

"When I went to get water last night, I saw him through the window. He was sitting on the porch.""

"What time was that?""

"Late.""

"How late?""

She considered this.

"After the moon got big.""

I pushed the letter beneath the photograph.

"Did he come inside?""

"No.""

"Did he talk to you?""

"No. But he looked at the house.""

She picked up her toast and took a bite.

"Like he missed it.""

I couldn't move.

"Missed what, sweetheart?""

"The house.""

Junie chewed thoughtfully.

"Sometimes Daddy looks at our old pictures like that. Like he wants something but doesn't know how to ask.""

I swallowed.

"Junie, did the man say anything to you?""

She shook her head.

"Just one thing.""

I gripped the edge of the table.

"What?""

"He asked if you still had the blanket.""

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"What exactly did he say?""

Junie frowned, trying to remember.

"He said, 'Does your mommy still have the blanket her mother gave her?''"

I stared at my daughter.

"Did you tell him yes?""

"Uh-huh.""

"Did he ask you anything else?""

"No. I told him I liked his hat, but he didn't answer. Then he said, 'You have your grandmother's eyes.''"

My hands went cold.

My mother had gray eyes.

So did I.

So did Junie.

I stood so quickly that the chair scraped backward across the floor.

"Mommy?""

I knelt beside her.

"Did he touch you?""

"No.""

"Did he try to come inside?""

"No, Mommy.""

I pulled her into my arms, holding her tighter than I intended.

She patted my shoulder.

"I'm okay.""

"I know.""

"Are you okay?""

I closed my eyes.

"I don't know yet, baby.""

After breakfast, I called my neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, and asked if she could watch Junie for a couple of hours.

Then I showered, dressed, and placed the letter, photograph, and key inside my handbag.

I examined the photograph in the car before starting the engine.

It showed my mother as a young woman standing beside a man in a dark suit. She looked perhaps twenty-five, with her hair pulled into a loose ponytail and a smile that seemed almost too large for her face.

The man beside her had one hand resting on her shoulder.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired. His face was turned slightly toward the camera, but his eyes were unmistakable.

Gray.

The same shade as mine.

On the back, in faded blue ink, were three words.

Elliot and me.

Beneath them was a date.

June 1988.

I had never seen the photograph before.

My father had been a blank space in my life for as long as I could remember. When I was little, I asked where he was. My mother told me he had left before I was born.

When I got older, I asked why.

She said some people were not meant to be parents.

Once, when I was fifteen, I found an old photograph of a man tucked into one of her books. By the time I asked about it, she had already taken it from my hands.

"He's nobody, Nessa," she had said.

Then she had thrown the photograph into the kitchen bin.

I had never asked again.

Now I looked at the man beside my mother in 1988 and realized I had never known whether the story she told me was true.

I started the car.

Bellweather Lane was twelve minutes away.

I found the house with the blue door at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, behind a wrought-iron fence and a garden crowded with hydrangeas.

The house was larger than I expected, with pale stone walls, a deep front porch, and windows so tall they reflected the sky.

A brass plaque beside the gate read:

*M. ELLIS*

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

I could still turn around.

I could take the letter to Lorraine, demand an explanation, and wait for someone to tell me what I wanted to hear.

Instead, I parked beside the curb and walked to the gate.

The brass key in my handbag suddenly felt heavier than it should have.

I pressed the doorbell.

A woman answered almost immediately.

She was in her late sixties, with silver hair cut neatly at her chin and a pale blue cardigan buttoned to the throat. She had a cane in one hand and a teacup in the other.

Her eyes moved over my face.

Then they dropped to my handbag.

"You're Nessa," she said.

I hadn't introduced myself.

"How do you know my name?""

The woman set her teacup on a small table inside the doorway.

"Because I've been waiting for you.""

My heart began to pound.

"Who are you?""

"Margaret Ellis.""

She opened the door wider.

"Come in, dear. We've got a great deal to discuss.""