It was too dangerous to keep going. He’d end up in a ditch. His eyes drifted back to the envelope. He reached over and picked it up. The paper was heavy, old-fashioned bond, yellowed at the edges.
“Alright,” he sighed, blowing a cloud of steam into the air. “Nothing else to do.” He opened the envelope carefully and found several pages of handwritten notes. The handwriting was elegant, the kind of cursive they stopped teaching decades ago—perfect loops and steady lines.
The ink was smudged in places, as if it had been written over a long night. Nick unfolded the first page, and the scent of old paper hit him—something like a library or a grandmother’s cedar chest. *“My name is Eleanor Thompson, and if you are reading this, I am likely with my daughter now.”*
Nick felt a jolt in his chest. *“I don’t know who you are—perhaps the kind soul who gave me a ride. But I want you to know my story. I want someone to know that I lived, that I loved, and that I mattered.”*
Nick took a long sip of coffee, his hands shaking slightly. *“My story began in Pittsburgh, 1945, the year the war ended. My father came home a hero, my mother baked pies, and I was just a baby.”*
*“I remember him lifting me up and saying, ‘Everything’s going to be alright now, Ellie.’ That’s what my mother told me later.”* Nick read slowly. Outside, the storm raged, but he didn’t hear it anymore.
*“My father was an engineer, a good man. My mother taught school. We lived in a small house on the South Side, and we were happy. I had a big brother, Bill. He called me ‘Birdie’ because I was so small.”* Nick turned the page. The writing was getting tighter, more hurried.
*“It all fell apart in late 1950. I remember the men in suits coming to the door at night. Three sharp knocks. My mother opened it, and I saw the badges. My father was accused of ‘subversive activities’—part of the Red Scare that was sweeping the country back then.”*
*“He didn’t even have time to grab a coat. My mother was hysterical, and Bill held my hand, whispering, ‘Don’t cry, Birdie.’“* Nick set his coffee down. *“He was convicted on a lie. A neighbor had reported him for something he’d said at a union meeting. It was enough back then.”*
*“He was sent away. We were branded. My mother lost her teaching job, and we went from being a respected family to outcasts overnight. Bill couldn’t get into the trade school he wanted. My mother just faded away. By the time I was ten, her heart simply gave out.”*
*“Bill and I were alone. Then he was drafted and sent to Korea, and I was sent to a state home.”* Nick took a breath. The air in the cab felt thin.
*“The home was a cold place. But I found an escape—art. I carved wood, I molded clay, I made things out of whatever I could find. It kept me sane. A teacher there saw my talent and helped me get a scholarship to a small art college in Ohio. It was a miracle.”*
Nick turned another page. *“In college, I met him. Andrew. He was an architecture student, tall, with kind eyes and steady hands. He saw my work and said, ‘You have a gift.’“*
*“We started dating. He knew about my past, about the ‘traitor’s daughter’ label, but he didn’t care. ‘You aren’t responsible for the world’s mistakes,’ he’d say.”* Nick rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw.
*“We married in 1965. A small wedding, but we were happy. I became Eleanor Thompson. We lived in a tiny apartment, worked hard, and dreamed. Andrew designed houses, and I did freelance sculpture. For three years, I thought the darkness was finally behind me.”*
The page ended there. Nick picked up the next one, but he hesitated. The wind was screaming now, rocking the truck, but Nick felt a cold sweat on his neck. He looked at the remaining pages. There were a lot of them.
He folded the pages he’d read and set them on his lap. He lit another cigarette, his hands trembling. Something told him the story was about to take a turn. The ash fell on his jeans, but he didn’t notice.
He reached for the next sheet. Time had stopped. The storm, the schedule, the bills—it all vanished. There was only the ink on the page and a life that was demanding to be heard.
*“The happiness ended in 1967. Andrew got involved in the anti-war movement. He went to meetings, brought home pamphlets. I was terrified. I begged him to stop.”*
*“‘Ellie, I can’t just watch,’ he’d say. ‘If everyone stays quiet, nothing changes.’ I understood him, but I was scared. I remembered the men at our door when I was a child.”* Nick swallowed hard. His coffee was cold now.
*“In November of ’67, they arrested him at a protest. I was four months pregnant. When I got the call, I collapsed in the hallway.”*
Nick ran a hand over his eyes. *“He was held for months. I went to the jail every week with clean clothes and letters. I stood in line with other wives and mothers. We were all the same—pale, quiet, waiting.”*
*“My belly grew. I sent him socks and pictures, but I never saw him. They wouldn’t allow visitors for ‘political agitators.’“* The heater in the cab hummed, but Nick felt a draft.
*“The trial was in December. Five years. I went to the courthouse, but they barred the doors. It was a closed session. I stood in the hallway, clutching my stomach, praying. They took him away, and they wouldn’t tell me where.”*
The paper crinkled in Nick’s grip. *“On January 6th, 1968, I went into labor. I was alone. A neighbor called the ambulance. I gave birth to a girl, Sarah. She had dark hair, just like Andrew’s.”*
*“I held her and I cried—for joy and for the sheer weight of it all.”* Nick set the page down and rubbed his eyes. They burned like he’d been driving for forty-eight hours straight. *“I wrote to Andrew about Sarah. I sent letters to the federal prison, but no answer came.”*
*“A month passed, then two, then three. I kept writing. I told him how she smiled, how she held my thumb with her tiny fingers. Silence.”* The storm outside was a roar now. The truck swayed, but Nick didn’t flinch.
*“In July of 1968, a telegram arrived. Official. ‘Inmate Andrew Thompson deceased June 18th. Cause: pneumonia.’ That was it. They didn’t even send his body home. He was buried in a prison plot.”*
*“I held that paper and I couldn’t breathe. Sarah was six months old, cooing in her crib, and I was standing by the window realizing I was completely alone.”* Nick stacked the pages neatly on the dash.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke stinging his throat. He looked out at the white void and picked up the next sheet. *“I don’t know how I made it. Sarah saved me. If it wasn’t for her, I would have just stopped.”*
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