My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and answered, even though it was a unfamiliar number.
“Hello, is this Kathe Bottero’s husband?”
“Well, I was for awhile, anyway.”
Only 35 years….
“Hi, my name is Gabrielle Morgan.”
“Mike’s daughter?”
“Heh, I was for awhile, anyway.”
I suddenly recalled what I’d heard Gabrielle had said, some twenty years ago now: “I keep thinking, how can my Daddy be dead? I’m only nine years old.”
“Well, um, hi. I’m really glad to hear from you.”
Mike Morgan had been Kathe’s “informal foster son”, a teenaged runaway who had come to Kathe’s door asking for food and wound up staying. He’d been more like Kathe than any of her biological children, which was saying a lot since I’d always seen a lot of her in her other kids. After he died, his wife moved east with Gabrielle to be near her parents. The last we’d heard from them had been Gabrielle’s high school graduation, when we received a card with her graduation portrait printed on it. We’d hung it up and talked about Mike and Caroline, his wife, and admired the photo, glad to see she looked healthy and evidently was doing well in life.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch. I only just heard that Kathe had died.”
“Yes, she did. I’m sorry, I tried to get in touch with you at the time to let you know, but the letter came back.”
“Yeah, we moved.”
“A forwarding order only lasts so long. Even a notice of the new address only lasts so long. They try to get mail through anyway, but they don’t always manage it.”
“Anyway, I wanted to call and let you know, tell you I’m sorry it happened.”
“Well, thanks. It was as good as it was going to be: it didn’t take long, and she wasn’t in any pain-” An exaggeration, but one I usually made, because why magnify grief? “-and she died holding my hand.” I always said that. It was true, and it was one of the things I was glad of.
“Well, that’s good. Anyway, I’m going got be in Portland on business, and I thought I could come see you.”
“Wow, I’d like that.”
I gave her directions to the apartment and we hung up.
“Guess who that was?” I called to my daughter Michu, who happened to be visiting. “It was Mike’s daughter, Gabrielle.”
“The girl whose graduation picture you guys had hanging in the living room?”
“Yes. She’s going to be in Oregon soon, and wants to come visit.”
“Oh, that’s cool! I remember when we met her Dad, soon after we got here from Ethiopia. It made us feel better about living with white people, to know that Mom already had a black kid.”
I looked over at where Michu wasn’t standing and sighed. It would be good if she were visiting, even if we had to refrain from hugging. Just as it would be good to hear from Gabrielle. I doubted I ever would, but it would be good.
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