Letters to Hank

Chapter Fifteen

Rose took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Scout gripped her clammy hand in his, her fingers shaking.

"It'll be alright," Scout whispered.

"I know."

She did know. She knew this was the end of her mystery, the end to her searching, and the prelude to her summer's conclusion. She knew Scout was beside her, she knew he wouldn't leave. Yet the growing pit of fear in her stomach paralyzed her quivering body.

Anne answered the door with a warm smile. "Good to see you two again," she said, stepping inside. "Come on in."

James Kroyer's home was small and quaint, and strangely welcoming. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, like a melody of greeting. Anne led them to a living room lit completely with natural light. The sun spilled inside like a river of white, its rays bouncing off the silver picture frames scattered around the room.

Rose smiled at the images. In one, Hazel stood behind a young Anne, her hair seasoned with gray strands. In another, Anne wore a graduation cap and gown; one showed her beside three young men, all of which shared her features. Yet after glancing at all of the pictures, Rose's shoulders dropped.

Hank was nowhere to be seen.

"Dad?" Anne called out.

"In here," a low voice rumbled from the kitchen. Anne followed the sound and disappeared behind a swinging door.

"Hank isn't in any of the pictures," Rose whispered to Scout. She looked around again, hoping to see Hank somewhere.

Scout pulled her closer, his hand on her waist. "I don't have any pictures of my uncles hung on my walls. This isn't Heidi's home. Hank and James might not have been all that close."

Rose's stomach sank. Something was off about Scout's suggestion, though she couldn't quite name it. "I don't know..."

Scout turned to face her and rested a hand on each of her shoulders. "You'll get your answers today. Just be patient."

"I don't know if I want the answers anymore." She pressed into Scout until her chest collided with his. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, she held him closely with one hand, the old shoebox in the other. "Maybe I should have listened to you from the start. I shouldn't have even bought the postcards in the first place."

Scout smiled and shook his head. "And miss out on all this? Rose, this is a summer you'll never forget. We'll be able to look back on this day years from now and remember that one time we finally found out who Hank and Hazel were. We'll look back on it and laugh because some stupid little postcards brought us to Virginia and back." He lifted her chin with his index finger. "We'll always remember this."

Rose shook her head. "I want to remember the journey, not the final destination."

"The best stories have the most unexpected endings."

She couldn't argue with that. She smiled at him, at the wonder in his eyes, at the smiles caked onto his lips. "Maybe you're right."

Anne entered again, this time with an older gentleman walking beside. He was nearly her height with white hair and wrinkles caverning his face. He wore a gray t-shirt and blue jeans, and on his feet were brown house shoes. He smiled at the sight of Scout and Rose, their arms around each other.

"Hello," said he in that booming voice that rang from the kitchen just minutes ago. "Did you bring the postcards?"

"Yessir," Rose said, holding the box out.

"Sit, sit." James sat in his recliner and motioned for Scout and Rose to find a seat on the black, leather couch. Anne pulled up the piano bench and sat quietly.

"I also found some things from his house." Rose shifted her weight as she handed the box to James.

The man dug through the box with shaky fingers. He smiled at the pictures and clutched the pin in the palm of his hand. "My mother's home. She was a beautiful woman, wasn't she?"

Rose nodded, her heart pounding in her ears. "What I can't seem to figure out is when Hank died. His daughter said he died in 1944, but Anne says he didn't die until after Hazel did."

James's face grew cold. That warm smile fizzled into a straight line of ashes and his relaxed posture stiffened. He sat in his seat like a statue frozen in place. "Heidi, right? His daughter?"

Anne tilted her head. "You knew he had a daughter?"

The man nodded, his eyes glued to a photograph. "I haven't met her, but I know she's out there."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

James shook his head slowly. "There's a lot I haven't told you, Annie. I never wanted you to see your grandmother in a negative light." He looked up at Rose with a minuscule smile twinged with grief. "How did you find these?"

Rose rattled off the story like it was a poem she had memorized—the antique store, the graves, the old home, Heidi, then Anne. She'd gone over it all a thousand times in her head, never once being able to put all the pieces together to reveal a masterpiece. She sighed as she drew to a close. "Nothing makes sense."

James was quiet for a long moment. He looked at the pictures and read the postcards ever so carefully. He ran his thumb over the pin, his lips sealed shut. His eyes were filled with many emotions, none of which anyone could identify. Slowly, he took in a deep breath and held it for a moment.

"My mother," he said, his face falling grim, "was diagnosed with trauma-induced schizophrenia shortly after Hank died in 1944."