Dear Marcie

Julia McCoy

Marcie’s mother was gone. Dead. Doornail. Marcie saw her in the coin. Put her hand on the mahogany. Tossed dirt into the hole. And yet, she was still sending her postcards. Marcie found the irst in the heel of her boot, the paper worn and ink running from sweat. Greetings From Des Moines, it said on the front, bubble letters illed with landmarks.

Dear Marcie, Here in Des Moines. Spent most of the day at the botanical gardens. Wasn’t my jam. The dome overhead keeps everything alive even during winter. Didn’t feel real. Ran out of money for bus fair, but remembered people leave change in fountains. Anyway, sorry for leaving. I’ll keep in touch. Love, Mom

She told Dziadzia immediately. That was his rule before, too. When her mom came for sudden weekend road trips or midday school pickups, when she ripped the stable fabric of Marcie’s life, she must tell him. “Dziadzia.” She held out the card. “Mom sent me a postcard.” He held the card to the light and squinted, though she knew he struggled with written English. She waited for him to ask before she read it out loud. His chest rattled. “She never let go easily.” “Should I write her back?” “I suppose. But keep your hopes low.” Marcie sat at the table that night, postcard facedown. It occurred to her, even though her mother’s body was decomposing in the earth, her soul may not know that it was gone. It would be mercy to tell her.

Dear Mom, Thanks for the letter. I’d like to see the botanical gardens. I wouldn’t mind the

dome. It keeps the plants safe. Mom, do you know you’re dead? I don’t want to frighten you. But I think you’re supposed to move on. Love, Marcie

Marcie stuck the letter in her boot, but didn’t check until the next morning to conirm it was gone. When she’d asked Dziadzia what to write, he suggested the hard truth. Sometimes the situation called for it. Marcie wasn’t sure. Did her mother need the hard truth two years ago when she came home and asked to live with them? Did Dziadzia need to kick her out and tell her never to return? Marcie was nine then, small enough to listen under doorways. Dziadzia always spoke Polish to Marcie’s mother, her mother responded in English. Marcie understood her mother was not right, was a little violent, and that Dziadzia was losing his strength as he aged. But still, what if he let her stay? One day could change everything. Maybe softer truths were required. It wasn’t a week before the next postcard arrived. She found it wedged in a tree on her walk to the park. Greetings from Wyoming.

Dear Marcie, I’m sure that’s what he told you. I’ve been dead to him for years. Remember, you can’t trust a word he says. Wyoming was a lot of lat space. I found a statue of Abraham Lincoln on a rock formation. Not a full statue. Just his head. Seems disrespectful, given how he died. Listen, you keep up with your grades. I’ll come by soon and get you. Hang tight. Love, Mom

Dziadzia rubbed his bad knee as Marcie read the postcard that evening. “She is dead, right Dziadzia?” “She is, myska. We saw the body.” She saw the other one, too, though she hadn’t mentioned it to Dziadzia. A picture in the newspaper of the man her mother hit driving the wrong way

in the dark. Dziadzia told Marcie her mother was drunk, the man was not, and both were killed instantly. He hadn’t shown her a photo, though. It was probably the right choice, as she dreamt about the dead man now. “I’ll write her back again.” She kissed Dziadzia’s forehead. “I’ll tell her how I know.”

Dear Mom, Dziadzia didn’t tell me you were dead. I saw you in the coin. We had to cover most of you up because of how you died. Again, sorry, but I know you are dead. You should try to move on. It’s like Lincoln, mom. He doesn’t care that his statue is just a head because his ghost isn’t here to see it. Ghosts are supposed to move on. I will keep my grades up, though. Promise. Love, Marcie

She left the postcard in the crook of the tree and kept walking.

The third postcard came to her on the bus, shoved in the hood of Anthony Cummings, who sat in front of her. She did her best to snatch it without him noticing, and then slouched down into the bus seat, digging grooves as she pressed herself into the foam padding. Greetings from St. Augustine.

Marcie, I think I’d know if I were dead. It’s ine. You’re my daughter. I know daughters get this way with their mothers. I did. You know I once cut holes in your babcia’s favorite dress because she wouldn’t let me go out with a boy? St. Augustine is ine. Humid. They have a museum of midieval torture. I won’t go into details, but it’s pretty gruesome. But really, no one should be shocked by what one human does to another. Love, Mom

Marcie bit the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from shouting, and

understood hard truths. She scribbled a response in the margin, hoping to inish before Anthony got of at his stop.

Dear Mom, You are dead. You hit a man with your car. You were drunk. I think you might be in hell. Love, Marcie

She hoped her mother’s spirit could read the cramped writing. She shoved it in Anthony’s hood, and when he turned around, he smiled at her. Marcie blushed.

She found the reply on her pillowcase the next morning. Greetings from Carson City. The writing was large and jagged, the words squeezed at each end to it. There was a scent of alcohol.

Marcie, I don’t know why you are telling such lies. Only bad girls tell such lies and you are no bad girl. I would know if I hit a man with my car. These are stories that he’s told you and you believe them. I would know If I was in hell because I was once. I was a teenager and pregnant and he sent me away. Couldn’t have a pregnant girl in the house he was so ashamed. So I know I’m not in hell because I’ve been there and this isn’t it.

Marcie waited three days to share the postcard with Dziadzia. She hid it in her coat pocket, bending the corners until they ripped clean. He didn’t ask if she received another one, but she thought he knew. The third night, she confronted him on the porch while he smoked his cigar, shaking as she read it aloud. “Did you do it, Dziadzia?” Dziadzia let the cigar hang loose. “Tak. I did, myska.” Marcie thumped down on the sidewalk, too heavy to hold her own weight. Dziadzia eased next to her. “I made many mistakes. Your babcia was dead. I didn’t know how to care

for my daughter, so I sent her to a school for girls like her. I thought it would be a good place, but it wasn’t. I’ve always regretted sending you both away from me.” Marcie curled her ingers. “But you brought us back.” “I was there the night you were born. I held you, and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. But these things cannot be undone. I couldn’t ix my daughter.” “Why’d you send her away? When she wanted to be with us?” He patted her hand. “I could not help your mother anymore. But I had to keep you safe.” They sat until the irelies burst into the darkness. “Will you let me write the reply, myska? I know what to say.” Dziadzia had to read the words to her. Idź do naszego ostatniego miejsca. Tata. Go to our last place. Dad. She wanted to see the postcard vanish from her pillow, but she yawned, and it was gone by the time she opened her eyes.

The next morning, they drove out to Michigan. Marcie watched corn pass until she fell asleep. When she woke, they were at the family cemetery. Dziadzia took a bottle of water and a trowel, and Marcie followed him to Babcia’s grave. They visited on the anniversary of her death, but this was not today. Still, as he always did, Dziadzia cut the grass from around the plot, washing away the dirt. “Your mother will be joining us.” They waited for long hours in the shade of a nearby tree. “This is our last place.” Dziadzia split a sandwich from his pocket. “When we buried your babcia, we held each other and we both loved one another. The last time we knew for sure.” Marcie watched ants swarm around a piece of bread that had fallen from his pocket. The sun stretched the shadows from the headstones and they waited.