I didn't like how much power one name had acquired over my thoughts.
Wayne.
Before I met with Carol, it had been a name in a letter.
Now it was connected to questions about the settlement, the attorney, and the insurance company.
I still didn't know why.
That uncertainty was beginning to wear on me.
I wanted to reach a point where I could sit down and read my mother's letter without wondering what Carol had seen in it.
I wanted to remember my mother without questioning every choice she had made.
I wanted to stop feeling as though I had missed something important.
But I couldn't force myself back into the certainty I had before.
Too much had changed.
Not in the facts I knew.
In the way I understood them.
I had always thought that the past became easier to live with as time passed.
For some things, that was true.
Memories softened.
Pain became less immediate.
You learned to carry what had happened without thinking about it every hour.
But time could also make details harder to recover.
You forgot names.
You misplaced documents.
You remembered conclusions without remembering the conversations that had led to them.
That was what had happened to me.
I had lived with the settlement long enough to forget how little I knew about it.
I couldn't change that now.
I could only stop pretending my memory was complete.
I returned to the list of questions I had written.
The first was simple.
Why had Wayne's name made Carol stop reading?
I couldn't answer that.
The second was about the settlement.
Why had she immediately wanted to know who had represented me and which insurance company had paid?
I couldn't answer that, either.
The third question concerned my mother.
Had she ever discussed the settlement with Carol?
I had no reliable answer.
The list looked short.
It didn't feel short.
Each question opened into others.
If Carol knew something about Wayne, what did she know?
If the settlement mattered to her, what connection did she see?
If my mother had known something about the settlement, why had she left me a letter rather than explaining it directly?
And if she had not known, why had she kept the letter?
I had to remind myself that these were questions, not conclusions.
I didn't know whether all the pieces belonged together.
I didn't know whether some of them were unrelated.
I couldn't assume that my mother's reasons were the same as Carol's.
I needed to keep that distinction clear.
I was grieving.
I was also curious.
Those feelings were becoming tangled, and I didn't want either one to take control of my judgment.
I thought about the moment I had first opened the tin.
I had expected something personal.
Perhaps a memory.
Perhaps a few words from my mother that would help me feel close to her.
Instead, I had found a letter that sent me searching through parts of my past I had neglected.
I couldn't say whether that was what she intended.
But I couldn't ignore the possibility.
I wondered whether she had spent time deciding what to leave me.
I wondered whether she had considered telling me more.
I wondered whether the note was the only explanation she felt able to provide.
Those thoughts made me sad.
There was no way to know what she had been thinking.
I couldn't ask her to clarify a sentence or explain a decision.
I couldn't tell her that the letter had left me confused.
I couldn't ask whether she had expected me to understand its significance immediately.
I could only work with what she had left.
That was one of the hardest parts of losing someone.
You were left with their words, their belongings, and your own memories.
You could study those things for hours.
You could still never know everything they had meant.
I didn't want to turn my mother's memory into an investigation.
I wanted to understand what she had done without assuming the worst about why she had done it.
That meant being patient with the unknown.
I put the list aside.
I needed a break from thinking about Wayne and the settlement.
For a little while, I tried to focus on ordinary things.
I answered messages.
I dealt with responsibilities that had nothing to do with the letter.
I went through parts of the day without consciously thinking about the meeting.
But the questions kept returning.
Sometimes they came back when I was doing something simple.
Sometimes they returned because I remembered Carol's expression.
Sometimes I thought about the settlement papers I couldn't find.
Each time, I reminded myself of the same thing.
I didn't have enough information to decide what had happened.
That was not a satisfying answer.
It was the only honest one.
I had to accept that I might not learn everything at once.
I might have to speak to Carol more than once.
I might have to find records that had been stored away for years.
I might discover that some details could no longer be recovered.
I didn't know.
For now, I could keep looking.
I could keep asking questions.
And I could refuse to let my fear of an uncomfortable answer become an excuse to stop.
That was the promise I made to myself.
I wasn't promising that I would uncover a secret.
I wasn't promising that I would prove anyone wrong.
I was promising that I would stop pretending I understood something I had never properly examined.
There was a difference.
I wanted the truth, whatever it turned out to be.
I also wanted to be fair to the people involved.
Those two things would have to remain together.
I thought again about Carol's first question.
She had wanted to know whether my mother had told me to bring the tin.
At the time, I had been confused by the question.
Now I wondered whether Carol had expected the tin to appear for a reason.
I couldn't know that.
I had to be careful not to make more of her words than they supported.
Still, I remembered how she had looked at the container before I explained anything.
That moment remained in my mind.
I had thought I was bringing her a letter.
Perhaps, to Carol, I had brought something else as well.
I didn't know what.
And until I did, I would have to live with the uncertainty.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: I Had Wanted Carol to Explain My Mother’s Letter, but I Was Beginning to Understand Why She Needed to Know More About Me First
I Thought My Mother Had Left Me Nothing but Old Memories Until a Small Tin Forced Me to Question Everything I Believed
Part 10 of 20
