Address Unknown

A young girl reconnects with her mother over a fantastic distance.

Dear Reader: This story is dedicated to my wife — the mother of my children, and a constant source of faith and love in our family. We would be lost without her.

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Stamps were the last thing Josephine Randall wanted to use as the subject for her history project. She made it perfectly clear to her dad, Charles, rolling her eyes in order to express disapproval. She submitted to his suggestion only because she had no other options. To get the point across sufficiently she might follow up with an overstated sigh. This would tell him it wasn’t an idea worth pursuing, and that he should provide an alternative. Charles tried to make his case before it was too late.

The rolling of the eyes, the sighs, and the nearly imperceptible grunts of ugh, were the signs of a budding teenager. Josephine was only twelve, going on seventeen, a fact that did not escape Charles, and that also terrified him greatly. Because his wife was deceased, he had no one to help him navigate the brutality of watching his daughter grow up into a woman. The idea that some excited, pimply-faced boy would one day become her boyfriend was not a prospect he wanted to entertain.

Charles’s sister had been gracious enough to offer help on more than one occasion. Seeing as how she was on her third divorce, he thought it best that he handled this stage in Josephine’s life.

“You know, Samantha Tessi said her dad was going to let her use his gun collection,” Josephine protested. “He has a musket from the civil war.”

“This has to be something you can bring into school, and I’m quite certain Samantha’s not bringing guns into school,” her dad replied.

“I guess, but stamps? Nobody writes letters anymore.”

“That’s why it’s called history. Come on, humor your old man.”

Ugh, she grunted. He was losing her fast.

Josephine sat at the kitchen table and waited as her dad routed through his dresser drawer, and finally his closet, before exclaiming from his bedroom, “Aha! I found them. I knew they were in here somewhere.”

Walking out of the bedroom he held a thick red stamp album. Josephine didn’t even glance up from her phone as she texted her friends about the sheer torture of having to entertain her dad’s suggestion. Her friend Thomas replied to their group chat, old people stuff… it could be worse, my dad collects trains and is making me bring them to class… snoozer. She smiled. There was something about Thomas that she liked, but couldn’t quite figure out what yet. Josephine wondered what her dad would do if Thomas asked her to be his girlfriend.

“Can we put the phone away, please. Most of these stamps were around long before cell phones, delivering some pretty important letters. Give them the respect they deserve,” Charles said.

“Dad, they’re stamps.” Charles ignored her retort.

“We need four, right? Each one is supposed to describe an event in history, and how it reflects something of significance in that time period. That’s the assignment?”

“Something like that. Are any of these worth money? That would at least make it sort of cool.”

“They have sentimental value. It’s the best kind.”

“That means ‘no’.”

Josephine’s dad started to flip through the pages slowly, trying to gauge Josephine’s reactions. It was true that none of the stamps had any monetary value. Just like his dad before him, collecting stamps was about collecting memories. They were the road signs of his life, reminders of special events or places traveled, cobbled together loosely to make a coherent chronology.

After the death of his wife, Cassandra, he stopped collecting. The last few pages were filled with stamps that postmarked vacation destinations before Josephine arrived. Cassandra was hit and killed by a drunk driver when Josephine was seven years old. Time split into two distinct periods after that happened. If Charles’s sister pried about his emotional state, or the past, he would say it was either B.C. (before Cassandra) or A.D. (after her death). Anything B.C. was off limits. Years of counseling had taught Josephine how to adjust to life alone with her dad, but Charles was still adapting.

“That one,” Josephine said pointing.

It was a stamp with the American flag, waving patriotically in the breeze with a series of clouds and mountains in the background. Charles was surprised she picked it, although he would be the first to admit he was losing touch with her varied interests and tastes. As far as he was concerned all girls liked pink, flowers and dresses. Beyond that he couldn’t say for sure. From day-to-day Josephine’s interests could change drastically. She was trying to find out who she was, and what life was about, and all Charles could do was watch from a distance, trying to impress some moral fiber into her being.

“Oh, that’s a great one,” he said. “When I was in the Army…”

“Wait, you were in the Army! How old were you?” Josephine interrupted.

“I volunteered right out of high school to help pay for college. Papa and grandma didn’t have the money for tuition, so this seemed like the best option. It was not. Let’s just say when I was younger, I had a problem with authority.”

“Wow, I mean, did mom know?”

“Yes, she knew. I guess I never told you this story, but it’s how we met. I was stationed in Georgia, and that’s where I met your mother, my Georgia peach.”

“I remember that. I mean, I remember you calling her that.”

Josephine’s dad wasn’t surprised she would remember. Him and Cassandra were always very affectionate, even when Josephine was in the room. They both wanted her to understand the love they had for each another and feed off the security it provided. For all of their effort they were rewarded with a tragedy.

“The stamp was from a letter grandma saved. Even though I could call often, she wanted me to send a handwritten letter every week. You would have thought I was away at war. Papa said she spent a lot of nights crying herself to sleep, afraid I was going to be called to some foreign country to fight on the front lines. This stamp was from the letter telling her I had met a girl, your mother, and that we had fallen in love. I was going to ask her to marry me.”

“So did you ask?”

“Yes, and at first she said ‘no’.”

It dawned on him that through all of Josephine’s therapy and their adjustments over the years they had talked a lot about her mom. Yet, never did he consider his daughter would be interested in stories about his relationship with Cassandra.

Josephine’s face brightened, and within the glow of her cheeks, for only a moment, he saw Cassandra, looking back at him, a piece of her bubbling up from beneath the surface of Josephine’s world. It hurt too much, even after all this time, it hurt so deep, and Charles realized he had never considered this situation, or what he might do.

“Hey, let’s try and find another one along with this one, or else we’ll never get your assignment done," Charles said. Before Josephine could protest, he started flipping pages until he came to a single page with one significant stamp dead center. His stomach sank, and his heart raced, but Josephine pointed to it before he could turn the page quick enough.

“That one is pretty. How about that one?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t we keep looking, and we’ll come back to it.”

Josephine let out a sigh, but instead of retreating, she had gotten a taste of a world she wanted to know more about, that was calling to her intimately.

“I like that one. Besides, this is my project. Dad, tell me about it,” she demanded.

“Okay, you’re right. It’s a stamp from our honeymoon. We were in Jamaica, and as always, your mom wanted to go off the beaten path. Explore restaurants, shops and the culture away from the tourists — that sort of thing. She was a lot more adventurous than I was at that age. We found a roadside stand selling religious trinkets, potions, magic books and curiosities down some dusty old road. The vendor saw me coming, and knew he had a sucker in his midst. He pulled out this stamp and proceeded to tell mom a story about how it had magical properties. If we were ever separated, and our whereabouts unknown, one of us could write a letter, put this stamp on the envelope and it would find its own way, guided only by the power of our love.

Another thing about your mom is that she was a hopeless romantic, and that story had her hooked immediately. Of course, I bought the stamp. No man wants to have his new bride mad at him on his honeymoon,” he finished.

Instead of the same delightful glow, Josephine’s face turned down, and she started to cry. It wasn’t the reaction he wanted or expected. He went to close the album and comfort her, but she stuck her hand in the page.

“No! That’s the most wonderful story I’ve ever heard. Don’t you get it? We have to send the letter,” she said through tears. “We can reach mom.”

“Oh, Josephine, it was just a story he told us to get me to buy the stamp. It’s not really magical. It’s worthless,” he said. Charles knew immediately that he had made a terrible mistake when the words left his mouth. Cassandra and Josephine were exactly alike in one regard. Not seeing the subtle beauty in moments like that, and in moments like this, was an almost unforgivable indiscretion that they recognized immediately. If he didn’t give it the consideration it deserved, then Charles would have to hear about it. In this case it was through the slam of Josephine’s door.

Josephine finished her handwritten letter in purple ink, drew a heart over the letter i in her name, folded it up in thirds and stuffed it inside the envelope. She had never written a letter in her entire life, reflecting on the significance of this being her first. So foreign was it to her that she had to do an internet search regarding the location of the from and to addresses. The from would be her current address and the to would be a single name — Cassandra Elizabeth Randall. She thought it best to use her mother’s full name just in case. The stamp, a very special, magical stamp, would go in the top right corner.

The album was still on the table, closed, but beckoning to her in this late hour. She quietly pried it open to the right page, slowly pulled back the protective cellophane and then gently peeled the stamp off the sticky page backing. After a single lick she placed it firmly on the envelope, the taste of glue penetrating her taste buds. Now came the trickiest of parts — sneaking it out of the house and walking it three blocks down the street to the nearest post office box at 2am.

Never had Josephine considered sneaking out of the house. Even as a preteen prone to the occasional bout of disobedience, the act of leaving while her dad was asleep seemed to break some unwritten rule of trust. Certainly, there was a curfew the city enforced, which would lead to a police escort in the dead of night that could have unpleasant consequences. The worst of which would be that the letter could never make it to its destination. With dutiful planning she mapped her route to avoid any major roads and hoped there were no night owls spying her from their bedroom windows.

The time passed quickly, even though at the start of her journey a great chasm stood before her and the mailbox. When she reached the metal blue container with the eagle insignia on the side she froze nervously, doubting that the stamp was at all magical. Maybe her dad had been right. Besides, what if it were returned back to the house because it had no address? How would she possibly explain that?

Looking at the letter in her hands, fidgeting with the envelope, she decided at last it had to be done. This was too important to give way to any known laws of the universe. She quickly opened the swivel door at the top with her other sweaty hand reaching out to drop the letter inside. A spark of electricity ran through her arm and her whole body, not one of shock, but one of warmth and comfort. When the act was done a great burden was lifted, as if the letter were weighted down by its importance.

Josephine ran home as fast as she could, dreaming of the moment her mother would open the letter, smiling at the correspondence from her distant daughter.

The pair stood silent, looking down at the letter in disbelief. Not only had Josephine’s correspondence been sent, it had arrived and then elicited a response. Charles was unable to comprehend what transpired, believing in his mind that Josephine had concocted the scheme to prove a point or to deal with unresolved issues. That worried him the most, that she would go to this length to perpetuate the lie.

“I mailed it a few days ago,” she said, careful not to specify a time. “I knew mom would get the letter. I just never expected her to respond!”

The envelope had a single illustrated stamp on it. The warm, picturesque scene displayed a field of golden wheat grass, blue skies with a tinge of white puffy clouds and a rainbow beyond the horizon. There was no monetary designation. There was also no return address. It only had Cassandra’s full name, surprisingly enough in her handwriting. This troubled Charles, that Josephine would go to such great lengths. He needed to tread carefully under the stormy sea of her emotions.

“Dad, you open it,” she said.

He picked up the letter slowly, getting the faint smell of his wife’s hair and clothing. It relaxed him tremendously, lifting his spirit, bringing a smile to his face. It just couldn’t be possible this was happening. It wasn’t conceivable for Josephine to trap his deceased wife’s smell. Being pragmatic was getting Charles nowhere, so all he could do was stand and stare. It was too late to go back, to question this reality, but it was just as impossible to move forward.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” Josephine asked.

“I think you should open it,” he said.

He handed the letter over to his daughter and she carefully slid her finger delicately under the flap, treating the evidence with the utmost care. Josephine pulled out the letter, a single page, and showed it to her dad. All of it, the handwriting, the spacing, the way each letter i had a neat circle above it instead of a dot — that was all Cassandra’s doing. The sound of Josephine’s voice startled him, sounding so much like her mother, the words elevating themselves off the page.

Dear Josephine,

What a surprise it was to receive your letter. I suspect this was your own doing. You’ll need to forgive your dad. It took me a great while to convince him that the mysteries of the universe are just as relevant and beautiful as anything you can see or touch. You can help him with that now. Thank you for including the picture. You’re growing into such a lovely young woman. I would like you to know that whoever you are, and whatever you become, you are more than enough for the world. You are sufficient, capable and true. If your friend Thomas doesn’t see that then you’ll just need to wait for a young man who can. I waited, and the man I married was worth waiting for all eternity. He can do anything he puts his mind to, including raising a daughter alone. In truth, neither of you are alone. Although we can no longer write, a part of me will always be written on your hearts.

Mom

Josephine looked up at her dad. She expected him to be angry or upset because she had done irreparable damage by opening an old wound. Worse yet, she wondered if his disbelief could be suspended long enough to accept this had really happened. Instead of disappointment, he was looking down at her with gentle fondness. Charles started tearing neatly at the corner of the envelope, careful not to rip the stamp. He opened the album to a now empty page, then held the stamp up to show Josephine.

“Would you care to do the honors?” he asked.