Part 2: The Invitation

Mira read the note aloud when I asked. It said that I had found a letter from our mother among the papers at the bindery and wanted Daniel to see it. There was no explanation of where the letter had been or why we had thought it was lost.

Our mother died eight years earlier. Daniel and I had sorted her apartment together, disagreeing over what to keep and what to donate. We both remembered her saying she had written letters for us. We found mine in a drawer. Daniel's was missing.

He believed I had overlooked it. I believed he was accusing me of hiding it. The argument grew until the missing letter became a name for every disappointment we had not discussed. After he moved away for work, our calls became shorter, then stopped.

Mira did not tell me what to do with the invitation. She asked whether I wanted her to contact the bindery and find out if the letter was there. I said yes, but I wanted the staff to know I was recovering and could not answer every question immediately.

My colleague Jo called that afternoon. The bindery had remained open with help from two part-time conservators and a neighboring shop. She had found a labeled folder in my work cabinet, but she had not opened it because it contained personal papers.

“Can you keep it safe?” I asked.

“Of course. Do you want me to bring it?”

“Not yet. I need to understand what the doctors want me to do first.”

The rehabilitation team discussed my energy, mobility, and the tasks I wanted to return to. They suggested breaking activities into manageable steps and checking with them before making changes to the plan. They also explained that feeling frustrated did not mean I had failed at recovery.

I asked Dr. Lane whether forgetting the letter meant something was wrong. He said the team would continue to assess my recovery and that he could not predict exactly which memories would return. He encouraged me to tell them about changes or concerns rather than testing myself until I was exhausted.

The next day Mira helped me write a list: contact the bindery, confirm the exhibition's status, ask Jo to keep the folder safe, and decide how to reach Daniel. We stopped there. I wanted to add ten more tasks. Mira reminded me that the list was meant to help, not measure how quickly I could return to my old life.

At the bottom of the invitation I found a phone number in a different pen. It was not the old number Mira had tried. I did not remember writing it down.

“Could it be his?” I asked.

“It could. We should check before sending personal information.”

We called from Mira's phone. A recorded greeting gave the name of a small repair shop in another town. No one answered. Mira left a message asking whether Daniel Bell worked there and offered her number without explaining my medical situation.

That evening the phone rang. Mira answered, listened, and handed it to me.

A man's voice said, “It's Daniel. Mira said you were looking for me.”

I had imagined a hundred versions of our first conversation. In none of them did I feel so uncertain about what I could remember. I held the phone and said the only thing I knew was true: “I'm glad you called.”