Letters to Mia

“To my Mia, I hope and pray that you read this one day and know that I never stopped looking for you.”

This note, among many others were written in black gel ink on the beige papers in the black notebook under the stairs. In the same room were dozens of paintings of the girl with strawberry blonde curls and a blue polka dot dress, a contact card and a black leather duffle bag.

***

Me and my husband were in search of our forever home. After searching for months, we came upon a traditional three-bedroom, two-bath home located on the backstreets of East Atlanta Village. The home was in foreclosure after the owner passed away without a next-of-kin. We bid on the house and our offer was accepted, we moved in right away.

Me and my husband, Nathan, met with the real estate agent to finalize all of the closing paperwork. “We’re so excited for our new home!” I said with excitement.

“Yes ma’am, this location is very sought after and the house hasn’t been in foreclosure for too long,” said the realtor.

Nathan asked. “Do you know anything about the previous owner?”

“I don’t know very much about the previous owner. The neighbors said he didn’t come out much. No kids, no family. They said he was sick, cancer, I think. But anyways, now it is all yours. Please sign right here ma’am.” the agent handed us a pen to sign the paperwork. We grabbed the keys to our new home.

***

Move-in day was hectic. Although we didn’t have many belongings, there were many things that the previous owner left behind. After a long day of sorting, me and Nathan gathered around the early 1900s living room with our puppy Sadie and shared a bottle of wine. We took a few minutes to appreciate the house and wondered what secrets the previous owner could’ve left behind.

As we continued in the days ahead, we went through all of the owners belongings. We discovered many art pieces, the owner was a painter. Particularly, there were many murals of a young, fair-skinned girl with strawberry-blonde curls and a polka-dot dress. The girl couldn't have been any more than 5-years-old. Me and Nathan didn’t know what to make of it, but we kept a few that we liked, and tossed the others. The paintings were signed, “ALS” at the bottom left corner.

One day, Sadie began barking and scratching a door in the next room.

I called out to her, but she wouldn’t stop. I walked over and discovered a small door located directly under the stairs. I walked over to take a closer look and opened the door. The room opened up as I walked in and I pulled the string light to brighten it up. Sadie walked in beside me sniffing out the place. I called out to Nathan as I scanned the originally hidden room. It was an art studio, filled with more paintings, bottles of acrylic paint and a wooden desk with an easel beside it. On the easel laid a small black notebook with a slick front cover and an elastic band holding it closed. As Nathan entered in amazement, I picked up the book and opened it to the first page. It was labeled, “For My Mia”.

It read,

“To my Mia, I hope and pray that you read this one day and know that I never stopped looking for you. I write to you every week in hopes of keeping your spirit alive in my heart and that one day we will find each other again,” signed Albert Langston Saunders.

I continued to read out loud.

“I’ve lived in this house for the past 30 years after leaving our home in Jackson, Mississippi. I moved to Atlanta to escape the horrible tragedy that took you from me many years ago.

I was born to two freed slaves in Mississippi. My parents worked hard for what they had and were able to provide a great life for me and my siblings, given the circumstances. We grew up in a mostly black rural city, but when I got older, I moved to Jackson in hopes of finding better work.

There, I fell in love with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her name was Margaret, we called her Maggie for short. We met in Fall of 1962 and were married by Spring of 1963. Maggie was a black woman, but she was white-passing. We’d always get funny looks around town because everyone thought she was a white woman and interratial marriages weren’t received well during this time. It was challenging, but we found a way to make a living and support ourselves. We were happy. Our lives changed forever when we had you, My Mia. You were the light in our lives. But after that tragic night in Summer of 1969, you were taken from us.

We were in Battlefield Park enjoying a summer picnic with turkey sandwiches and freshly-squeezed lemonade. An hour or two went by, when five white men appeared across the valley. They were yelling but I couldn’t make it out what they said. As they got closer, I could hear their nasty words.

The men came closer and closer and seemed to get angrier as they charged towards us. They cursed me and your mother, saying, ‘I had no business being with a white woman.’ They attacked and dragged us away, leaving you behind. They beat us and left us to die in an abandoned barnhouse. A young farmer found us days later, untied us and gave us a ride back into town.

We went to the police station to report their crimes and to file a missing persons report on you. The police responded that there was no trace of you or evidence that led to your disappearance after the attack that horrible summer afternoon. The police told us they would ‘look into it’ but couldn’t guarantee an investigation since there were no other witnesses and our memories were too foggy to rely on.

We looked night and day for you, but the hope that we would find you kept diminishing every day. One night, I went back to the police station to plead with them to continue the search for you. As I walked in, I saw two men speaking to one of the police officers supposedly involved in my case. I recognized these men, it was them! My memories flooded back. The police officer, the two men standing in front of them, were the men who attacked us and took you.

I began to yell, ‘That’s them! You took my daughter, where is she!?’ I was going ballistic and lost all of my control. A police officer grabbed me and escorted me out of the station. When we were outside the officer professionally stated,

‘Mr. Saunders, I know you are scared, but be careful of who you accuse. The truth will reveal itself in time. I will take another look at your case and call you if we find anything.’ The officer handed me his contact card. I left hurt and confused, no one believed me.

Me and your mother searched for you for years, but she lost hope. She got sick in ‘72 and passed away from a broken heart. I never stopped looking for you, but after years of nothing, I had to move on from my pain. I moved to Atlanta and started a new life.” ALS

I flipped through the pages to find weekly entries of letters to Mia. One read “I’ve had this image of you from the ‘69 picnic in my head since you disappeared. I’ve seen it a million times, every day of my life. I began creating paintings of that afternoon and the many sunny days we spent together. You will live in my paintings forever,” ALS wrote.

I continued to flip through and read aloud the stories of ALS. One of the writings I came across was most interesting.

“Dear Mia, today I called the officer Hatchback who handled your case many years ago. He now works as a private investigator. I asked him if he could help me in finding you. He told me he’d take my case, but given the circumstances, he had to charge a high price of $20,000. Today I will take the cash from the bank and I’ll be one step closer to finally finding out what happened to you.”

I looked at the date on the entry. It was only a couple of months old, I read on.

“Mia, I’m not doing so well. I was diagnosed with lung cancer three months ago and the doctors say I don’t have much time left. I’m saddened that I haven’t been able to see you again, but I hope that you are alive and safe. I have the money for the PI, but I’ve been too sick to meet with him. I want you to know that I never stopped looking for you, I love you forever my Mia, Your father, Albert Langston Saunders,” wrote ALS.

That was the last entry.

I closed the book and sat in my sorrow, reflecting on what I read. Nathan and I both looked at each other when Sadie started tugging at something in one of the dark corners of the hidden room. Nathan went to release the item from her mouth. As she kept tugging, out came a black leather duffle bag.

“Babe,” Nathan said from across the room, “you need to see this.” I walked over to him.

He unzipped the bag, and there lay a bag full of cash money. We both looked at each other in awe and excitement. “It can’t be,” I said in disbelief. Nathan looked back at me, “Let’s count it.”

We brought the cash and the book to the living room and counted the money. It was there, all $20,000. The money ALS took out to send to the PI. I grabbed the black notebook again and out fell a small piece of paper. It was the number of the Private Investigator that was looking into the disappearance of Mia.

Me and Nate contemplated our next move. We didn’t know whether to keep the money, or to go looking for the PI. We dialed the number and set up a meeting. The next day we grabbed the cash, the little black book and one of the many paintings of the young lost girl. We headed to meet with the former police officer.

“Yes, I remember his case. No one believed him, but I always did. Over the years this case has circled in my head. I saw the pain their family went through in search of their only child. When I heard from him a couple months ago, I agreed to take the case. I just wish he was here to meet his daughter,” said Officer Hatchback.

Me and Nathan looked at each other and gasped. We turned around to see a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties with strawberry blonde curls and freckles for days. She looked like the girl in the paintings. It was her, it was Mia. The lost girl from all the portraits was found. And now we faced the truth, that she was finally here, but he was not.

The woman walked into the office where me, Nathan and Officer Hatchback sat. She knew from the look on our faces that something was wrong. We broke the news to her about her father’s death. She broke down in tears and as the water flowed from her eyes, I handed her the sleek black book we’d read cover to cover.

She stopped, dried her tears, took a seat and started reading the first page,

“To my Mia, I hope and pray that you read this one day and know that I never stopped looking for you.”