Waiting for the Mail

The bus didn't come out to my house, but every day I waited for the mail. Papa had built a wooden bench beside the mailbox, years ago, when I was a child. Back then, the bus did stop here, to take me to school.

More often than not, when the bus came, I was nowhere to be found. I was off, running along the shoreline, fishing in the shallow water with a net, slipping into the sea to swim as far as I could before, tired, I allowed the gentle waves to carry me back to shore. Papa and I were fine, just fine, thank you very much, and I saw no need for schooling.

I always knew that I would live right here forever, aboard the Kindred Spirit, with Papa, and Shark, our cat.

The Kindred Spirit was our house; our boat; our houseboat. She offered us shelter, and the sea and the shore offered us everything else we needed: fish, crabs, oysters and clams, seabird eggs, seaweed, and wild oats, and beach roses just for pretty.

I couldn’t imagine wanting more from life.

Well, I did wish that Mama would come back - for Papa’s sake. He missed her something terrible. I did my best to take care of him: I could collect our food, cook it, and clean up. I could weave a net from cotton string, and mend it when it tore. I could set a crab trap, and collect the crabs, and cook them just the way Papa liked them. I could even make pretty things from what I found on the beach: seashells and driftwood, smooth stones and shark teeth. I created beautiful scenes with them, and I would take them into town and sell them to the tourists. I didn’t make much money, but it was enough.

I was happy. But still, Papa missed Mama.

I didn’t remember Mama very well. She had disappeared from the Kindred Spirit many years ago. One day, she got on the bus and rode out of our lives. We never heard from her again.

Papa had done all he could to find her and bring her back to us: he tacked posters to the sea fences, went into town and asked questions, reported her missing to the police. And he wrote letters: to lawyers and private investigators, to reporters and newspapers and magazines, schools and hospitals and town halls. So every day, I sat by the mailbox, waiting for a response that I feared would never come. If she wanted to be found, if she wanted to come back to us, she would, I thought. And would she really stay away? If she was still alive? In my heart, I knew she must be dead. But Papa never believed it.

“She’s out there somewhere,” he would say. “And someday she’ll come back.”

The mail truck finally came, late as usual.

“Afternoon, Sandy,” the mailman greeted me. Then he smiled. “I got something for you today,” he said. “Big envelope. Lotsa stamps on it. Maybe it’s what you and your Papa been waiting for?”

He handed me a large envelope, with the return address of a faraway place, in another country. The top right corner was covered in colorful stamps bearing words in a foreign language that I couldn’t read. I felt a stirring of excitement. Could this be it? Word of Mama, after all these years?

“Thank you, Mr. Brooks, thank you very much.”

“Aren’t you gonna open it?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I replied, “it’s not addressed to me; it has Papa’s name on it. But I’ll take it right to him. Bye!”

Pressing the envelope to my heart, I tore down the sandy path to the Kindred Spirit.

“Papa! Papa!” I shouted excitedly. “There’s a letter! A big letter! From far away!”

I raced up to Papa where he waited in his deck chair, waving the envelope at him. Hope blossomed in his eyes. He held out a shaky hand, and I handed him the envelope. He examined it, noting the many foreign stamps, reading the addresses. I waited anxiously for him to open it, my fingers on both hands crossed for luck.

He pulled out his pocket knife and carefully slit the top of the envelope open. He slid out the papers within: a large, heavy sheet of white paper; a curled up photograph; and a note written in delicate script on a yellowed, faded scrap of paper. When Papa saw the note, tears filled his eyes. He held it gently between his fingers, reading it, then pressed it to his chest. The white paper fell from his lap, and I retrieved it before the wind could blow it away.

“Dear Sir,” it read.

“I discovered your notice in Sea Breeze Journal, in which you were searching for your wife. It reminded me of a note I found among my grandfather’s papers when he passed away. I believe it may have been written by the person who you are searching for. I’m sorry I don’t have better news, but I hope that this note may bring you closure.

Regards,

Joseph R. Ellingsworth”

I turned my attention back to Papa.

“Papa?”

He looked at me, tears streaming down his face, and handed me the note.

“My Dearest Edward,

“I hope someday this note may find its way to you. I will place it in a bottle and give it to the sea, with all my love, with all my hope, with all my prayers for you and our darling Sandy. I fear that I will not be able to come back to you, though that has been my dearest desire. But the boat I took out - a lovely little sailboat that I purchased just for you - has foundered in a storm and sunk. I washed up on this island, but I am alone here, and fear that I will die here. Know that I have always loved you, will always love you, and I trust that I will live on in your heart, as you live on in mine.

All my love,

Always,

Sarah Veronica Chelsea McKenzie”

Papa handed me the photograph. It showed a woman, laughing, standing on the deck of a pretty little sailboat. The wind ruffled her long blonde hair, and she was smiling. I could just make out the name of the boat: Kindred Spirit Too.

I fell to my knees beside Papa, and we hugged each other tight, our tears streaming together, splashing like rain on the photograph.