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Delivered with Love

By Sherry Kyle

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The hum of well-wishers’ voices swirled around Claire James as she stood numbly in front of the brick fireplace in her mother’s cramped Los Angeles apartment. Her black dress, size six and at least two years old, squeezed the oxygen out of her lungs. Claire attempted to take a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. One minute at a time. That’s how she would survive.
She looked down at her feet to avoid eye contact with the so-called friends and family who came to pay their last respects. Where were these people when Mom was sick? Claire pushed the cynical thought to the back of her mind.
The scuffs on her black sandals were a sad reminder of her life the past few years since her mother had been diagnosed with cancer. They had spent all her college money on chemo, radiation, and natural remedies to keep her mother alive. But in the end it hadn’t mattered.
She walked across the room and stood next to the small circular table in the corner that held the punch and dessert. Haley, her older sister, had insisted on a reception, saying that their mother deserved a party. Party? Yes, Mom loved parties, but today was not a day to celebrate. Claire bought the punch, while Haley baked a homemade chocolate cake with vanilla icing. The sweet smell turned her stomach. Her sister topped each of the two tiers with daisies, their mother’s favorite flower. Claire picked one off the top and held it to her chest.
“I’m sorry about your loss.” Geraldine, the elderly lady from down the hall, startled her back to the present. She patted Claire’s hand. “She suffered a long time.”
Claire nodded and blinked back tears. She hadn’t seen her neighbor in quite some time.
“Well, it’s probably time for me to go.” Geraldine straightened the pillbox hat perched on her head. “I need to feed my cats.”
Claire forced what she hoped resembled a smile. Geraldine’s cats were fed better than some humans—including her. What she would do for freshly baked salmon instead of frozen dinners. The smell permeated the hallway every Thursday evening.
“Bye, Geraldine.”
Claire glanced at the clock. Only half an hour more and she’d have the place to herself again.
Each minute was an exercise in patience. The condolences, hugs, and empty words wore on her. She rubbed her moist forehead and swallowed. Suddenly, the room spun and her hands trembled. She needed to get out of there.
Claire wove through the maze of people and out the back door to find privacy in her mother’s old Volkswagen. The seventy-plus-degree weather hit her in the face as she slid inside the car resting by the curb. She opened the windows, leaned her head against the headrest, and sat in a crumpled heap, wishing her mother was there to remind her to sit up straight.
“Claire,” Haley’s saccharine voice called through the passenger side window a few minutes later. “Please come out. The Thompsons are leaving.”
Mr. Thompson and his wife made a striking couple. Wealthy. Happy. Put together. A life her mom never had.
“Claire? Answer me,” her older sister demanded.
“Thank them for the casserole. And tell them good-bye for me.” A moan escaped her lips.
“All right, but come out soon.” Haley tapped the front window with a manicured fingernail. “Mr. and Mrs. Morris and the Williamses are ready to leave too. I don’t want to stand at the door by myself.”
Haley never did anything by herself. The sound of Haley’s stilettos clicking against the pavement grew distant. Her sister had handed over their mom’s care to Claire and eloped the summer after the cancer diagnosis. It broke their mother’s heart. Mark, her sister’s husband, didn’t even come to the funeral.
Neither of the girls had her father. But why would she expect him to come? Dad hadn’t been around since she was a baby.
Claire’s throat tightened as the tears cascaded down her cheeks. She dug through the glove compartment looking for a tissue. Something white caught her eye.
Claire fingered the old envelope. Her mother’s maiden name was scrawled across the front with her deceased grandparents’ former address in San Diego. She ran her fingers over her mother’s neatly penned name and mentally calculated how old she would have been in 1972. Seventeen. It was hard to imagine her mom as a teenager—young and vibrant—a contrast from the way she looked in her last days.
Strange. Why would her mother keep an old letter?
Claire shuddered and her eyes filled with fresh tears. I miss you, Mom.
She pulled the letter from the envelope. Would her mom want her to read it? Her pulse quickened as the words drew her in.
“Dear Emily . . .”

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