The lounge lights were lowered as Moss Point drew closer. Leonie saw Nia at the window with her water bottle and a narrow paper bag from the counter. She had put space between them since Leonie told Ada about the meeting. Leonie had no reason to close it merely because the port was near.
Nia waved her over. “You can sit,” she said. “I'm not ready to talk about what you told Ada.”
Leonie sat. The bag held a roll Nia had broken in two. She offered half. Leonie took it, surprised by how hungry she was.
“What was Miriam like on the ship?” Nia asked.
Leonie set the bread down. She had been prepared for a question about the meeting place or Ada's plan. “In 2018?”
“Unless you've sailed with her since.”
“No. She came aboard by herself. One case, a coat she didn't put on. She asked me when we'd reach Moss Point. I told her the scheduled time. She asked whether the deck would be crowded.”
“Because she didn't want to be seen?”
“She didn't say why. I thought so then.” Leonie remembered Miriam's hands around the case handle, the way she had counted other passengers instead of watching the water. “She was careful. When I offered to call someone for her, she said she had one person she trusted. That was Inez. I helped make the call.”
“Did she say thank you?” Nia asked.
“She did. She asked twice whether the person at the ramp would know her name. I told her Inez would. Then she apologized for asking twice.”
“She did that at home when she was trying not to cry. Ask the practical question, then apologize for needing the answer.” Nia broke another piece of bread. “She also left the oven on once and laughed because I found it. I don't know if I'm supposed to remember the woman who made a plan or the woman who forgot dinner.”
“You can remember both.”
“That's a nice thing to say. Did you see her laugh?”
Leonie thought back to the deck. She had seen Miriam hold the case while the boat turned. She had seen a mouth set to keep an answer in. “No. I didn't.”
“Then don't tell me she was always careful. Tell me she was careful with you.” Nia chewed slowly. “Was she frightened?”
“She looked frightened. She also made a plan and followed it. I don't want to give you a picture in which she couldn't do anything for herself.”
Nia pulled a piece from the roll without eating it. “My father says she made plans when she was afraid to stay for an answer. Did she keep asking the same questions because she was making sure no one could stop her?”
“I can't tell you why she asked twice. She needed to know when we would dock.”
“That's what I mean. You saw a passenger with one case. When I think of her, she's in the kitchen telling me where to put my wet shoes. She had a piece of paper stuck to the fridge with three things we needed from the shop. If I crossed one off, she'd say it was done even if she still wanted it.” Nia looked at the crumb in her hand. “She could be kind that way. She could also make me feel I'd finished a conversation when I hadn't said the thing I was trying to say.”
Leonie had no scene aboard that could correct a daughter at her own kitchen table. “Did you want to tell her she frightened you?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I wanted to ask whether she was leaving because of me. I didn't ask that plainly. I asked if she'd be home when I got back from school.” Nia lifted her hand from the table, palm open, showing how small the question had been. “She said yes on Tuesday. On Friday she was gone.”
Nia put the crumb back in the bag. “Cal hears me remember something good and thinks I've forgotten she left. I haven't.” She looked back from the port lights. “Did she say my name?”
Leonie looked at the black window. She could make a comforting memory from the fact Miriam had a daughter; Nia was asking whether Miriam had spoken of her while choosing the stop. “Once,” she said. “She asked how long it would take a letter to reach Nia in Bellhaven if she sent it from somewhere else. I said it depended where she mailed it. She didn't tell me where she meant to go.”
“You didn't ask why she wanted to write?”
“No. I thought I knew.”
“You thought she meant me.”
“I did.”
Nia looked at the roll she had broken. “And if she had asked you to carry it?”
“I don't know what I would have done. I was helping her leave, and I knew your father would ask questions. I had already crossed one line for her. I might have crossed another without thinking enough about what it would mean for you.”
“Everybody tells me a different part of her.”
“That's the part I saw.”
“Cal says she was good at making people feel needed.” Nia looked at the unbroken half of the roll. “He says she left me because she knew I'd ask questions she didn't want to answer.”
Leonie could hear Cal's phrasing in it, and could also hear a daughter testing whether it fit. “I don't know what she told herself about leaving you,” Leonie said. “I know she asked for help getting away from Cal. I didn't ask her what she planned to tell you.”
“You didn't ask a lot of things.”
“No.”
The ship gave a small change of pitch under their feet. Through the glass Nia could see the lights of the port becoming separate buildings. She pushed the bag toward Leonie. “He told me she never wrote. Not one letter, not even on a birthday. I want to see the rest more than I want a dramatic meeting. If she comes and only says she's sorry, I still won't know where the years went.”
“Inez told me Miriam sent a letter early on,” Leonie said. “I never saw it. I never heard what happened to it.”
Nia turned from the window. “You knew that before I called you?”
“Yes.”
“When I phoned your office, you asked what I wanted from her. I said I didn't know if she'd kept trying. You could have told me then that Inez said she wrote.”
“I could have. I thought telling you an unverified thing while you held three real envelopes would sound like I was trying to defend Miriam.”
“You chose what it would sound like before I heard it.” Nia picked up the narrow bag and flattened its open edge. “If you'd told me, I might have asked Inez what year she meant. I might have put the letters in order before I got on a ship with Cal.”
Leonie looked at the bread on the table. It had gone dry.
“I should have told you,” Leonie said.
“You keep saying that after I have to ask.” Nia took the bag and folded it shut. “Did Miriam ask you to check if I got it?”
“Not that I know of. Inez told me it had gone to your home. Later she said there had been no answer. I made that silence mean you didn't want contact. I didn't ask you. I didn't know you.”
“You knew my name.”
“I did.”
Nia stood and moved to the window. Leonie remained at the table, close enough to hear if she spoke, far enough not to turn her silence into a demand. Nia watched the terminal lights. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.
“The letters I found have dates. Some are years apart. I keep trying to put myself on the day each one arrived.”
“Will you show me?”
“Not yet.”
“All right.”
“That's not a test. I don't know what I want you to do with them.”
“You don't have to decide what they mean tonight,” Leonie said.
“Not tonight.” Nia picked up her ticket. “After we leave, I might ask you more. If I still want to.”
“I'll be here.”
Nia walked toward the attendant to ask where she should wait while Cal disembarked. Leonie could see her pointing to a seat near the window.