Chapter 7: Ruth Calloway
I called the number.
It rang four times.
Then a woman's voice, cautious and low.
"Is this Nora?"
"Yes.
Who is this?"
"My name is Ruth Calloway.
I was your mother's cousin." A pause.
"I've been trying to find a way to reach you for three years.
I didn't know how."
I sat down on the front step of my grandmother's house without meaning to.
"How did you get this number?"
"Your grandfather called me this morning.
He said you'd been to see Margaret and that you had my name." Another pause.
"He thought you might need to hear what I know."
"Tell me."
Ruth's voice was careful, like someone who had been waiting a long time to say something and was now choosing each word deliberately.
"Diane came to me in Portland when she was seventeen.
She had almost no money and she was frightened.
She stayed with me for eight months.
She worked two jobs.
She was trying — she was genuinely trying to get stable so she could come back for you."
"What happened?"
"Margaret happened." Ruth's voice tightened.
"About six months in, Diane got a letter.
No return address, but I recognized the handwriting.
It said that you had been legally placed in your grandparents' care.
That the arrangement was permanent.
That any attempt by Diane to make contact would be considered a disruption to your welfare and would be handled accordingly."
The morning felt very quiet.
"Margaret sent that letter," I said.
"I believe so.
Diane believed so.
She had no money for a lawyer.
She didn't know her rights.
She was eighteen years old and she had just been told, in official-sounding language, that her daughter was gone." Ruth paused.
"She fell apart after that.
I tried to help her but I had my own family, my own problems.
She left Portland about a year later.
I lost track of her.
I have been carrying that for thirty years."
I looked down at the address book in my hand.
"She never tried to come back," I said.
"Not once in twenty years."
"She tried once.
When you were about nine.
She came back to the city.
She went to your grandparents' house." Ruth's voice was very quiet now.
"Margaret called the police.
Had her removed from the property.
Told her that if she came back, she would file for a restraining order."
The address book felt heavier than it should.
"Does Diane know you've been trying to reach me?" I asked.
"No.
I didn't want to give her hope and then have it not work out." A pause.
"Is she — how is she?
Your grandfather said she was at your wedding."
"She's alive," I said.
"She's safe.
She's with my grandfather right now."
Ruth let out a breath that sounded like it had been held for years.
"There's one more thing," she said.
"The letter Margaret sent — Diane kept it.
She kept everything.
I don't know if she still has it after all this time on the streets, but when she came to me in Portland, she had a small box.
Letters.
Documents.
A copy of your birth certificate with both your names on it." Ruth paused.
"If she still has that box, you'll have everything you need."
I thought of the small bag Diane had been carrying at the wedding.
May you like
The photograph that had been inside it.
"I think she might," I said.
