Letter Twenty-Five
Since coming back from the hospital, I’ve been drifting through this place in a fog.
As I joined you at the steel table today, you struggled—and failed—not to flinch at the still-grisly sight of my bruised face while I stared, unblinking, at the geometric pattern of your tie.
I don’t know where I belong anymore.
I just know that I’m lost.
“I want to tell you something,” you said.
I closed my eyes. “Please don’t.”
“I’m going to tell you, anyway,” you said, leaning forward. “Because you need to hear it. This year, on my birthday, I didn’t go out. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do anything, apart from having dinner with your dad. For the first time since my mum died, I didn’t spiral. Not one bit.”
“Casey, you already told me this—months ago.”
“Yes, and now I’m going to tell you why it matters.
A few years ago, this angry girl convinced me to get help for my issues, and I’ve been doing that ever since.
And yes, if you must know, I’ve bawled like a baby on more than one occasion, and it was horribly embarrassing every time, but it was worth it, I think, because I’m here.
I’m showing up. And do you know why that’s so important? ”
“No,” I said flatly, “but I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Because everything’s gone to shit. You did what you did, literally everything went to shit, and I so easily could’ve been broken by that—by what I said to you at that party, by the blame I’ve placed on myself for what happened that night, but I wasn’t.
Losing you did not break me. A few years ago?
Everything that’s happened? You leaving?
It would’ve broken me. I would’ve been weighed down so heavily with guilt that I wouldn’t have been able to haul myself back up again.
But I’ve forced myself to keep going to therapy—even more so since you left, even though it’s been really uncomfortable at times, and I’ve hated it—because you needed me to show up, and I wanted to be able to tell you…
I didn’t spiral on my birthday. I wanted to be able to tell you I’m doing right.
I’m going to school. I’m working two jobs.
I’m choosing to focus on the things I can control rather than beating myself up over the things I can’t.
I’m learning to accept that sometimes”—you stopped here, too choked up to continue, cleared your throat, tried again—“my hopes and dreams…will only ever be just that. Sometimes, life just doesn’t work out. ”
The look you gave me made it obvious you were referring, at least partially, to me. To us.
“And that’s okay,” you said. “My whole world doesn’t have to come crashing down if it doesn’t.
I won’t be destroyed if it doesn’t. I’ll be okay.
Not perfectly okay—not perfectly happy, even—but basically alright.
I didn’t trust myself back then. I didn’t trust myself to be strong enough to handle it if things didn’t work out, but I was.
I’m handling it. I’m so much stronger than I ever thought I could be.
And you’ll hate hearing this, but you’re part of the reason I’m still standing.
You’re the best thing that ever could’ve happened to me. ”
“No,” I said.
“Yes. You pushed me to talk about things. You convinced me to keep going to therapy. You made me want to change—to be better, to move on from my past—and because of that, I’ve been able to make it through this.
All that time, I was meant to be the one looking after you, but you were also looking after me.
You were holding me up, so that when everything fell apart around me, I wouldn’t fall, too. ”
I couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come. I could only close my eyes and focus on breathing. On swallowing back the tears. On not breaking down at that table.
“And you know what else? You held them up, too. You made them whole. You won’t let me tell you how they’re doing, but I will tell you this.
They miss you. Your absence has created a hole in their lives.
I’ve caught them sitting in your bedroom.
I’ve caught them staring at your photos on the bookcase in the Garland Room—in John’s study, too—and they ask after you all the time.
They’re greedy for information. Just last week, Eleanor said, ‘You know what I miss most about my granddaughter? She never misses an opportunity to call someone out when they’re being a jackass. ’”
“Eleanor would never say that,” I said, head shaking furiously. “Eleanor doesn’t swear.”
“She did on this day. And she was looking right at your dad when she said it. She isn’t very happy with him.”
I shrugged. “I became his worst fear. Can she blame him? Can anyone? He tried so hard…”
I couldn’t finish, couldn’t look at you, staring instead at the white cinderblock wall behind your shoulder, trying not to cry. I’m so sick of crying over my dad.
“Elliot, look at me,” you said.
I did—and the tears came, anyway.
“You did a bad thing,” you said softly, leaning even farther over the table.
“You’ve done many bad things. But you are not bad.
You are so much more than the bad choices you’ve made.
Accidentally killing someone does not make you a bad person, nor does it give your dad an excuse not to visit you in here. You deserve so much more from him.”
At this, my face collapsed.
“I need you to be okay, too, you know,” you said, letting your fingers inch across the table. “I need to know you’ll be alright in here. I need you to hang on…for just a few more months.”
“And then what?” I whispered.
“I’ll be here,” you promised.
Your fingers brushed mine, but just barely. You hesitated, waiting for the guard to bark No touching! and dare you to try. But she didn’t. At that very moment, Vera happened to be looking in the opposite direction.
Quickly, your fingers clasped mine. “I’ll help you transition back.”
“Back to what?”
“We’ll figure it out, okay?” you said, squeezing my hand. That brief contact of your skin against mine felt like home, Casey. Like you, gently tugging me back. “We’ll figure it out together.”
Hearing you say so would be such a great relief…if not for the little voice in my head reminding me that, when I get out of here, I’m supposed to give you these letters.
What happens if you can’t handle the truth? What happens if I give you everything, and you want nothing to do with me?
Obviously, my dad didn’t send me away, and I was determined not to make him regret it. Determined to prove Libby wrong.
I could be what my dad wanted me to be. I could be what no one thought I was capable of being. Not perfect. Never perfect.
But good enough to stay.
I went back to therapy. I texted a lengthy apology to Bree, who never texted me back. I wrote letters to Libby and John, asking them to forgive my outburst at brunch and apologizing—more sincerely this time—for defacing Libby’s signs.
A few hours after I’d dropped those letters through their mail slot, my phone pinged with a text from John: I received your letter, and while I forgive you, I’m having a hard time believing you actually intend to do better.
I challenge you to make me believe it. The Elliot we celebrated on your birthday this past summer?
That’s the Elliot our family needs. We love you no matter what, but we also need you to make better choices going forward.
By the way, that goes for me, your dad, and Libby, too.
There shouldn’t be secrets or lies in any family, and I’m sorry you were hurt by ours.
I cried when I read John’s text, cried even harder when he followed that text with another: Also, I’m sorry you had to hear your dad say those hurtful things about you.
He loves you exactly as you are—I know he was telling the truth when he said that, because I know your dad. You’re the love of his life.
I never received a response from Libby. I tried telling myself her new responsibilities as mayor kept her from responding, but deep down I knew she’d finally had enough.
But you know what?
Deep down, I still thought she was a bitch.
That year, we didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving like we normally did. Libby spent her day carving turkeys and handing out meals to the homeless—John, too—so we didn’t eat until much later, and the whole tone of the evening, when we finally did sit down together, felt forced.
Awkward lulls in conversation.
The quiet chink of silverware against china.
My dad and the Harrises, barely able to look at each other, all three of them knocking back the wine.
Michael and Bree picked at their turkey and dressing while you tossed worried glances at our parents, not entirely understanding.
There was no dessert. No nightcap. No lingering or late-night discussions by the fire. The Harrises left immediately following dinner, the first time I could ever recall them rushing off like that.
Before Nic stomped upstairs to bed early, he told you to leave the dishes for Henriette to tackle in the morning, but you rolled up your sleeves, determined to tackle them yourself.
While you gently scrubbed the congealed food from our fine china, Michael and I sat at the kitchen island digging into an untouched pumpkin pie. Feeling reckless, I spooned a huge glob of homemade whipped cream onto the very center.
Michael pulled back his fork. “Seriously?”
“Oh my God,” I said, scraping the cream to one side. “There. Keep to your bland side.”
“It’s not bland,” he argued. “The cream drowns out the flavor.”
“The cream enhances the flavor,” I said.
You made a grunting sound. “Cream or no cream, it’s shit. There’s no actual pumpkin in the pie—you know that, right? It’s just some type of squash.”
I rolled my eyes. To Michael, I said, “I wouldn’t listen to him. He doesn’t even like Oreos.”
“Really?” Michael asked, his fork poised midair.
I snorted. “I offered him an Oreo once and he acted like I was trying to poison him.”