Monica returns from the car with a battered cardboard box in her arms, and I jump up to help her with it.
“It’s probably not much worth keeping, just things I couldn’t throw away at the time,” Sue explains.
Monica and I open it together. Inside are a few well-thumbed books, mainly thrillers and murder mysteries. School certificates, a journal of handwritten recipes, and a small tin of baby teeth, which makes Monica and me both grimace and then laugh.
“Why do people keep these?” I ask, shaking my head.
“What’s that?” asks Sue.
“Teeth,” says Monica wrinkling her nose. “Hedgehogs have flat teeth like humans, you know. Some people think they have sharp teeth like rodents, but they don’t. They’re just like us.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling, imagining Monica with tins full of hedgehog teeth hidden all around her house.
This box feels like the remnants of a room thrown hastily together. Beneath the paperback books is a plastic file with an “A” written on the front. It is full of letters, some typed, some handwritten. There are clippings from the Jersey Evening News, articles about the coin that I have seen before, and then, unmistakably, my mother’s handwriting. Monica pats my shoulder.
“We’ll leave Laura in peace to have a looksee, shall we, Sue?” she says, taking her sister by the arm and guiding her through the sliding door, out into the garden. “Birds need feeding in any case.”
In the file I find letters my mother sent my father, the bones of their breakup drawn in ink, clipped neatly together. Why would Dad have kept these? There are also letters from him, which she returned unread. He kept everything. The words I read fill the holes in the narrative that no one would explicitly say: Dad did not want me.
As I read, I feel a weight settle on my shoulders. Now I truly understand why Mum lied, why she wanted to paint me a prettier picture, why she didn’t stay in touch with his family.
Not only was I not wanted, but the coin I wear, the symbol of their “fairy tale,” is in fact what tore the family apart. But if they fought so bitterly over it, how did I end up with both halves?
I fold the letters away. I’ve read enough. I stretch my arms above my head and look out into the garden, where Sue and Monica are still refilling a bird feeder, one seed at a time.
“Anything of interest?” Monica asks as I walk out to join them.
“They hated each other.”
“They didn’t,” says Sue, as Monica puts an arm around me.
“That summer—I’ve never seen two people more in love. It might not have lasted, but there was certainly love there,” says Monica.
I rub my palms over my eyes, feeling them prickle with emotion.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I thought I was coming to Jersey to write an epic love story. Instead I’ve found—I don’t know—some fantasy my mum invented.”
“Right, I think we might need something a bit stronger than tea for this,” says Monica, patting me on the back, then she calls toward the kitchen. “Sorry, Kitty, you haven’t done the trick this time.”
I laugh and wipe my eyes. Aunt Monica helps Sue back inside and then strides through to the kitchen and pulls three glasses from the cupboard. She decants a slosh of dark brown liquid into all three and then tops them up with a splash of ginger beer from the fridge. Trotting through to the living room, she hands one to me and the other to her sister.
“Now, take it from two women with over a dozen decades of experience between us, there’s no such thing as a ‘happily ever after.’ Maybe a ‘happy for now,’ if you’re lucky.”
Sue nods in agreement.
“People fight, people break up. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t real and it doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth having, Laura. All these films where people walk off into the sunset at the end and you’re led to believe all their problems are over . . .”
“I quite agree,” says Sue. “It’s a dangerous myth to peddle.”
“I prefer action and adventure films myself. Have you seen Lethal Weapon? Oh, I do like that series. If you’re going to sit down and watch a lot of unrealistic hogwash, it might as well have explosions in it, that’s what I always say. Wasn’t Mel Gibson such a dish in his day? I was so upset when he died—I lined up all my ornamental pricklers, and we had a Mel movie marathon to mark his passing.”
“I don’t think he’s dead, Monica,” says Sue.
“Isn’t he? Who am I thinking of then?”