Chapter 2

11/26/1999  

Letter #17

This time, Carol went too far. Every year, I’ve managed to avoid her annual Caroling, where she and her family rove through the neighborhood as a pack, accosting anyone foolish enough to open their door.

But this year was different. A few days ago when your dad was out, there was a relentless pounding on our door. And I do mean relentless; instead of letting up, it just got louder. After a few minutes of this, I couldn’t help but assume it must be some emergency, so I opened the door and was met with something which, by all rights, should only exist deep inside the bowels of suburbia. Never the city.

Carol and her whole family, their faces plastered with vacant, forceful smiles, stood with their beady blue eyes locked to my face.

But it was even worse than that. Crouched to my right was a cameraman wearing a Channel 7 News coat. A stunning blonde holding a microphone stood to my left. Baffled, all I could do was stare. Why were they here? Where was the story?

“We’ll be vacationing for the entire month of december,” Carol said, projecting her voice and looking at me but facing the cameraman, “and I just couldn’t bring myself to leave without first sharing our beloved holiday tradition with the neighborhood, even though it means doing it a month early.” She put her hand on my shoulder, her eyes flicking toward the camera, and said, “Especially with everything you’ve been through, Thera. We’re doing this for you, most of all.” At this, the blonde anchor let out a tiny, admiring gasp.

“Theia.” I’d muttered through gritted teeth.

“What dear?” Carol’s infuriatingly blank, smiling eyes loomed toward mine as she leaned in close.

“My name. It’s Theia.”

“Why of course it is!” Her eyes darted nervously from the anchorwoman to the camera. “And from our family to…um, yours, we would like to share our love through singing. Ready everyone? On one, two, three!”

So I was forced to stand there like an idiot as they serenaded me for ten minutes straight. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet and I was being sincerely admonished, over and over, to really make most of this Christmas.

After the singing was over, the anchorwoman turned to me, asking how it felt to have such wonderful, loving neighbors during such hard times.

“Great.” I’d managed to say through gritted teeth. She went on to interview me for a little while but soon gave up when she realized single syllable responses were all she’d get. After they stopped filming, Carol mentioned that the anchorwoman was in her yoga class and they’d gotten to talking about my “plight” and how it would be lovely to air a little piece about helping out struggling neighbors.

Carol’s expression suddenly turned very serious as she reached out to touch the anchorwoman's arm. “I’ve tried to support her in developing the courage to have another baby. I swear, if I lost my child and didn’t have a little bun in my oven right away, I’d just die…”

“You are such a good friend.” The other woman replied, her voice dripping with saccharine sincerity.

That was the last straw. I muttered something about having a stomach ache, and slammed the door.

Oh, but I got my revenge, Evy. It was your 8th grade essay on the origins of Thanksgiving that inspired me. You know, the one based on your grandpa’s historical accounts--the one that disturbed your teacher so much he felt it necessary to call me up and explain how biased, one-sided narratives like yours damage the cultural fabric. You’d been listening on the line from your bedroom phone at the time, of course.

You’d given yourself away by asking him whether he was teaching history or giving cultural knitting lessons. Because only with the latter is fabric more important than facts. How that line raised your failing grade, I’ll never know. But I’ve got to hand it to you. Solid C- work there, young lady.

It only took an hour to convert your essay into a poem I could set to the tune of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” The timing didn’t work at all but that only made it better:

There once was a brave group of pilgrims

Who sailed to a New Pilgrim Land.

Brave, yes, but not shrewd

Enough to bring food

They had to pray, “God, lend a hand!”

God answered their prayers through some natives

So pleased to give Pilgrims their fruits

They made a fine feast

Of corn and roast beast

Thus Pilgrims deigned Harvest with brutes.

But wouldn’t you know it, those natives

Developed such uppity airs.

They grew very rude

And started a feud

By calling New Pilgrimland theirs!

You know our fine brave group of Pilgrims

Should never endure such disdain.

By now they’d been shown

How food could be grown

Which meant the way forward was plain

They chopped off the head of the leader

And set fire to the rest of those beasts.

With loot from the dead,

They humbly broke bread

And so began Thanksgiving Feasts!

Your dad was dubious about our ability to pull it off, insisting it was so unlike me. I told him I was painfully aware of that; that was precisely why we had to do it--it’s something only you would have done.

Our caroling at Carol’s couldn’t possibly have gone over better. We showed up on their doorstep just before dinnertime on Thanksgiving. Before we were even halfway through the song, Carol’s face froze into a smiling, dead-eyed mask. She pinched that husband of hers--Chad, I think--hard enough he actually yelped. Hastily, he scuttled the kids off into the nether regions of their nauseatingly festive house, muttering something about a turkey emergency.  

To her credit, Carol powered through our whole song. She was the picture of poise, except for the throbbing vein in the middle of her forehead. Toward the end of the song, I worried it might pop.

After we finished, her smile grew into a snarling parody of itself as she said, “Well! That was…something. Happy Than--Have a good day.” And slammed the door in our faces.

Honestly, I hadn’t even expected her to make it through the song. Your dad being half native, half black was probably the only reason she didn’t slam the door earlier. We always knew his heritage would come in handy eventually. I mean your heritage. His and yours. Of course it’s still yours.

Oh but what a day. For the first time in a long time, things almost felt normal again. You would have loved it, Evy.

But honestly, none of that stuff is what I really wanted to tell you about today. I’m pretty sure I’ve just been stalling. Because I don’t quite know how to say it. I haven’t mentioned this to your dad yet. Considering my history, I’m sure it would only worry him. But I promise you don’t have to worry.

I think there’s a way I can find you.

I know. It sounds crazy but there is no doubt in my mind--I know you’re still out there. I’m not saying I’ve found religion or anything like that. I just…

Okay. So I had this dream last night.

Death was chasing me so fast and close his scythe kept nipping at the back of my neck. No matter how hard I ran, crashing through the trees and underbrush of forests and leaping across ravines, I couldn’t manage more than the slightest lead on him.

Finally, we reached a drop off. But this cliff didn’t overlook some faraway ground, it led to…nothing. Just emptiness. I didn’t hesitate--I jumped as fast and far as I could.

Death reached out and caught me, turning me around to face him. He’d lept too, I saw then, watching the cliff recede behind us.

The farther we got from the cliff, the tighter he held me and the more he changed. His empty, grinning skull filled out with flesh and became your face. But not your face like it was toward the end of your life. You looked older. A woman, glowing with the kind of health you hadn’t possessed since childhood.

You kissed both of my cheeks, which made the skin melt from by bones. It melted from your bones again too, but it wasn’t scary, like it sounds. It was…beautiful. Because through everything that rotted away, new green life sprouted, threading through us both. I was in that new baby green grass--and I realized I’d always been. And you, Evy, you were, too.

We sang through the grass. And not just that grass, but all green life everywhere. Suddenly, I felt an utter reversal--the countless animal lives of the earth were buzzing through us now. Such blustery, busy things they all were. Impossible to keep track of with their frenzied, chaotic music.

We listened to all the songs--or rather, we felt them, since we had no ears. We were so happy to finally be able to sing and feel the melody again--that great song which everything was part of--that harmony which is so hard for animals to feel, gripped, as they are, by their frantic, confused lives...

I know what you’re thinking. It’s complete nonsense. Of course it is. That’s not the point. The point was the feeling. I wish I could convey it. Shit, I wish I could just feel it myself again. But that feeling...it was like distilled, pure you. I felt the reality of you in a deeper way than I ever felt even when you were alive.

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to justify it. I know can’t explain it. You’ll just have to trust me when I say that I know you’re still there in the same way that I know you were always meant to be my daughter. And I know I’ll see you again. I’ve never been more sure of anyth

“Theia, I-”

“Eek!” I shriek, jumping halfway out of my chair at the sound of Joshua’s voice. Indignant, I turn toward him. “Why do we even bother living in a rickety house if it refuses to creak when you need it?”

“What?” He squints at me from the doorway.

“You crept up on me.” I accuse, glaring. “You’re not supposed to be able to sneak around these old brownstones. Creakiness is basically their whole point. It’s the only reason I never sold this place.”

“We never moved just because our house is...creaky?” He lifts his brows in perplexed amusement.  “It’s got absolutely nothing to do with your growing up here or the fact that the housing market is so ridiculous that we could never afford to live in the city without this place?”

“It’s the creakiness. Nothing else about this place is worth a damn. Well, okay. The 50 layers of paint coating everything could be said to hold a certain charm.” I realize I’m babbling. But I can’t seem to stop myself. If he asks to read what I’m writing...I don’t even want to consider what might happen. “Pretty much all the paint’s the good old stuff, too, if you know what I mean.”

“Theia.” He lifts both his hands palms up in a gesture of utter helplessness. “I never know what you mean.”

“Lead based. The paint. I bet a single chip could knock your IQ down 30 points or so. A lot of people pay top dollar just to feel fuzzy in the head for a little while. Imagine the value of making that high permanent.”

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “I don’t get it. Is that supposed to be funny?” He’s lost a lot of weight, but somehow his arms are still thickly corded; his chest still broad enough to fill out his v-neck shirt. My weight loss hasn’t been nearly as kind.

I swallow thickly and shrug. “It might be funny after a couple paint chips…”

He snorts. “Okay, well, sorry for bypassing the only thing you like about this house, besides...uhh...the notion that living here might cause brain damage. I’ll make sure to announce myself with a creak or two next time. I promise.” The corner of his mouth turns up just enough for his left dimple to show and for a second, I see the beautiful artist I met so long ago.

I almost ask him why he doesn’t paint anymore but the moment passes and he continues, “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow’s session got moved up to today. We need to head out in a few minutes.”

“Wait. What? Since when?” Panicked, I take a quick inventory of myself. I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth. Hell, I haven’t even run a comb through my hair. A stained, smelly robe is all I’ve got to show for myself. Dr. Miller is definitely going to have something to say about my level of self care. I run to our bedroom, hoping against hope for a single clean outfit. Of course there isn’t one.

As I throw on a pair of scrubs with only a few stains, Joshua reminds me that the doctor started emailing rather than calling. I’d gotten too overwhelmed by the phone, didn’t I remember? I need to start checking my email regularly if I was going to insist that it be my only form of communication with the outside world.

Too overwhelmed to use the phone. To do laundry. To take basic care of myself. I suspect that a list of everything I’m overwhelmed by these days could fill pages. Luckily I’ll never have to confront such a list since the idea of making one is, well, overwhelming. I brush my teeth, throw my hair into a sloppy ponytail, and head down our wobbly staircase.

“I’m sorry about the wash.” Joshua says, gently shooing me past his tidy front room office--the only neat space in the house--and out the front door. “I’m out of practice but I’ll throw in a load when we get back.”

Our alley is a dark canyon of old brick. The heavy fog has dragged the slate sky all the way down to the pavement.  

The city doesn’t just crowd out the sky--it sterilizes it. I never realized how bad it was until Joshua took me to visit his dad’s farmhouse in Kansas. The nearest neighbor was over twenty miles south. It was the first time I’d seen a completely unbridled sky; the first time I’d really felt the word vast.

We’d sneaked out of the farmhouse at night and didn’t stop walking until everything disappeared but field and sky. In the dark, his warm lips found mine. The smell of clean sweat against the sweetness of clover made my whole body buzz like champagne. As we lay twined together beneath the milky way, I swear I caught hold of forever, just for a second…

We’re at the curb now. He opens the passenger door of our old maroon station wagon and nods for me to get inside. I don’t move. I hate--so much--being treated like a child. I hate that I’ve forced him to treat me that way.

I look up at him, searching for the boy with almond chocolate eyes that swim with heat whenever he looks at me. All I find is a man with tired eyes filled with resignation.  

I feel a sudden, desperate need to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his. To find out if the people in that endless field really are gone. Dimly, I notice a sweet, floral scent.

I hesitate. We haven't been this close in weeks. Maybe months. And lord knows I’m not at my best right now, physically or otherwise. If I lean in to kiss him, will he back away? Will those eyes fill with pity? I couldn’t take that.

“I don’t want you to.” I finally say, ducking into my seat.

“Don’t want me to what?” He sighs heavily and leans over me, one elbow on the roof of the car, his other arm resting on the edge of the door.

“Don’t want you doing the laundry. It’s my job and there’s no reason I can’t do it.”

“Fine.” He shoves the door closed.

Chapter 3