Silence.
I shake my head. “Whatever it is, she asked you for help. The least you could’ve done was put a damn TV in her room.”
“Do you still have them?” Kathy asks quietly. “The letters?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Kathy glances sideways at me. The look of guilt.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Mim.”
“I mean three weeks ago, I stopped getting letters. Quite suddenly, actually. And wouldn’t you know it, every time I get home from school the mailbox is empty.”
“What are you suggesting, that I’m . . . hiding letters from your mother? Mim, I would never do that.”
“Right, okay. Just like you would never suggest I should stop calling her. Or keep me from visiting her.”
Kathy is shaking her head now, a look of confusion on her face, and I have to give it to her, I hadn’t expected such high-caliber acting. I pull out the sixth letter, the only survivor, and hold it up like an Olympic flame. “Look familiar? Here, let me refresh your memory.” I unfold the wrinkled paper, smooth it out in my lap, and clear my throat. “‘Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.’”
My epiglottis is a hummingbird, my heart matching it beat for beat.
I suddenly remember Beck’s hmm the first day I met him. He saw the envelope with my mother’s PO Box address; then he saw this note and said “Hmm.”
Looking closer, the scrawl of this letter is so different from my mother’s familiar handwriting . . . I recall the first line of the first letter, the core of my epistolary snowball. In response to your last letter, the answer is no. I stare at the letter in my hands, as if seeing it for the first time: Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.
“You wrote this,” I whisper. It comes out inadvertently, in a breath. Kathy is staring through the windshield, into the horizon, her mouth half-open. Her eyes are wet, and I don’t care. I want to hurt her, to punch her, to reach across the car and stick my fingers in her eye sockets.
“We asked if you could visit,” says Kathy. “When Eve said no, I was so mad I couldn’t even write straight.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I say. Terrified as I am to complete this puzzle, I have to see it through. “Why would you still have a letter you wrote to someone?”
She’s all out bawling now, rubbing her burgeoning stomach. “Oh, honey.”
And suddenly, I know the answer. “Say it, Kathy. Why would you have a note you sent to someone else?”
I need to hear it out loud. This thing won’t be a thing until I hear it.
Kathy wipes her face and puts a hand on my leg. “We love you so much, dear. You have to believe that.”
“Fucking say it.”
She pulls her hand away, wipes old tears as new ones come. “She sent it back, Mim. Eve sent that letter back.”
All the air in my body escapes. At once, the crippling effects of my week’s diet and sleeping habits hit me fully. I am, 100 percent, exhausted. I’m beat. No, I’m beaten.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, a lie. I lean my head against the cool-paned window. “It doesn’t change anything.”
The interstate is long gone. We ride in silence through a winding labyrinth of back roads, staring idly at the tall Ohio corn. I focus on the only thing that might keep me from bashing my head against the dashboard: my friends. In the side mirror, I watch Beck’s lips moving. Walt is focused on something in his lap. I can’t even see his face, just his Cubs hat. He’s probably working out his Rubik’s Cube for the bazillionth time. God, I miss those two. It’s bizarre when I think about it. A girl can go her entire life without missing a person, and then, three days later—boom—she can’t imagine life without them.
“That’s what I meant about friends, Iz.”
Kathy looks at me quizzically. “What?”
My cheeks flush. Shit. “Nothing,” I say, staring out the window.
But it’s something, Iz. It’s a huge something.
38
Stick Figure Redemption
MAGNOLIAS!
Of all trees in all places at all times, it had to be magnolias, here, now. And in droves. Lined in perfect symmetry on either side of the lengthy driveway, the Mississippi state trees stand tall like a hundred marines at attention. Kathy’s PT Cruiser rolls between them; through the passenger window, I observe the immaculate lawn, an abundant deep green, each blade trimmed with purpose and care. Like an arrow, the driveway leads straight and true, its tip piercing the heart of an old stone mansion. Or manor, rather. A stately manor: no shutters, no gutters, simple angles. This place would fit nicely in some boring BBC period piece. In fact, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to see Keira Knightley frolicking around in the fields, wrapped in a shawl, crying a little too passionately for the death of her sister’s husband. (They were secret lovers, see. God, Keira, just give it a break.)
We pass a sign written in colorful rainbow:
SUNRISE MOUNTAIN
REHABILITATION CENTER:
HOLISTIC CARE FOR SUBSTANCE ABUSE AND DEPRESSION
My misplaced epiglottis suddenly seems more misplaced than usual. “What are we doing here?”
Pulling into a wide parking space, Kathy shuts off the engine. “You wanted to see your mother.” She checks her makeup in the rearview mirror, then opens her door and slides out. “You coming?”
I flinch as the door slams. For a moment, I consider just living in the belly of the PT Cruiser. I could eat here, sleep here, raise a family. Anything to avoid stepping outside, facing this scene.