Letter Twenty-Six
Of all the things I miss in jail, you know what I miss most? All those inescapable hours with you.
Especially our last Christmas together.
Your Christmas playlist—the classics, played on violin, heart-rending versions that moved, shimmering through the house like light.
Your “posh” little tin of biscuits—ginger fingers and buttery petticoat tails, clotted creams and chocolate pearl shortbread rounds—all of which you shared with me over our afternoon cup of tea.
(I hesitate to admit this, even now, but they were indeed better than Oreos.
Picture, if you will, a rolling eyes emoji here.) And, finally, our holiday tours around Beacon Hill—my arm looped through yours, spiced lattes in hand, all those festive front doors made resplendent for the season—I miss those with an ache so profound it hurts to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Oh! And the oranges from our last Christmas.
How could I ever forget the oranges?
Anyway, Christmas was yesterday, and we had a whole hour to discuss, which was fifty-eight minutes more than we needed to discuss mine. Christmas in jail is even more bland and depressing than I let on, so I quickly changed the subject, asking about yours.
“It was good. Definitely preferable to having the flu,” you said, cracking a smile.
I smiled back. “What did you do?”
“Claire and Rhys are here, so—”
“Here?” I leaned forward. “In Boston?”
You nodded. “Claire planned the whole visit without telling me. Five days ago, I answered a knock on my door and there they were. It was a huge surprise, and your dad was in on it, because he’d already given me the time off.”
“Oh my God,” I said, sitting back. “They’re here. Wow. That’s awesome.”
“Well, Claire knows how I feel about leaving you—my trips are far more brief than they used to be—so she’s here for three whole weeks.
And it’s been great, it really has. We’ve taken Rhys all over town.
He loves the bronze ducklings in the park and the little Santa hats they’ve put on them for Christmas.
He loves the tortoise and hare in Copley Square, the colorful lights strewn through the trees in the Common, and the little children’s room at the bookshop I told you about.
He especially loves the train that goes round the ceiling—he’s obsessed with trains—but he’s also very serious for a five-year-old.
He stopped me reading a book to him at bedtime last night—he turned to me, very serious—and he said, ‘Uncle Casey, I think I’d quite enjoy living here.
I can see why you like it. But I’d much rather you lived in England with me.
We’d have loads more fun if you moved back.
’ And, oh my God, that just”—you placed a hand over your heart—“that really got me. He’s such a special kid.
I can’t help but think what a shame it is my mum never got to meet him. She’d be proud, you know?”
“She’d be proud of you both,” I replied, blinking back the tears that had unexpectedly leapt to my eyes. “I’m sad I’m missing their visit. I would’ve loved to meet them.” To see you with Rhys. To talk to Claire in person.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll come again,” you said. “Maybe next Christmas. I’ll talk to Claire.”
I forced a smile. “You didn’t get a chance to finish earlier—when I asked what you did for Christmas.”
“Right,” you said, smoothing down the front of your sweater. “Well, we spent the better part of the day at Nic’s, and it was good, you know. It might’ve been a bit awkward at first, but Ryan’s a lovely host. She’s—”
“Lovely?” The word dripped with contempt. “Do you actually like this woman, Casey?”
You squirmed in your chair. “Um—that’s a bit—I certainly don’t dislike her.
She just—she has a way about her that’s—um—you know what?
The day was good. That’s the important thing.
Claire got to meet Tinsley—they’ve met a few times now—and she adores Tinsley.
Rhys, too. He might have a bit of a crush, actually. He thinks Tinsley’s pretty amazing.”
Jealousy snaked its way through my veins. While I trust Tinsley, I definitely don’t love the idea of her spending precious time with you in my absence.
To avoid causing a scene, I chose to focus on something of greater concern instead. “What about John?” I asked, leaning forward. “Claire must’ve met him, right?”
But you merely blinked at me. “Well—no.”
“Why not?”
“That isn’t important, either. It’s—”
“Why hasn’t she met him?” I didn’t like how dismissive you were being. Isn’t important? This was the single most important introduction you could make.
You stared at me for a long time, like you didn’t want to say. Then you gingerly folded your hands on top of the table and said, “Because he isn’t here.”
“Isn’t here? What do you mean? Where is he?”
You dropped your gaze to the steel table.
“Where is he, Casey?” If I sounded panicked, that’s because I was.
“He doesn’t live here at the moment. Not full time, anyway.”
“What? Why?” I cried, causing Vera to shoot me a look of warning from her post against the wall. My mind raced through the possibilities, none of them good. If Nic’s engaged and John’s moved away, what the hell is going on out there?
“Can we move on to something else?” you asked, averting your gaze. “Please?”
“But I want to know where he is. Tell me.”
“No. You told me you didn’t want to know about them. I shouldn’t have told you that. So we’re finished with this topic.”
I gripped the table. “The hell we are.”
“I’m not saying another word. You’ll just use it as an excuse to hurt yourself again.”
“I probably will, anyway! This whole conversation makes me want to hurt myself!”
“You do that,” you said, voice deep and foreboding as you leaned in, “and the next time you see me, it’ll be outside these walls on the day you’re released.”
I went still. “You don’t mean that.”
“Fucking try me,” you warned, holding my gaze.
“I will not come back and subject myself to the sight of your face all beaten to hell like it was last time. I get that you’re hurting.
I get that it probably feels as if your whole world’s fallen apart, but that’s where I draw the line.
You want to get yourself beaten again? Go ahead.
But bear in mind that seeing you all battered and broken hurts me, too, so if you choose to keep getting yourself hurt in here, I’ll choose to protect myself from the very real, physical pain that kind of behavior causes me. ”
The expression on your face—hard, serious, intense—scared me into submission.
Tuesdays are ours. I can’t give them up.
“Fine,” I whispered. “Tell me what your plans are for the rest of Claire’s stay.”
That December, as glittery white lights shimmered from all the trees and bushes in the park and fresh wreaths with bright red bows hung from every lamppost around Beacon Hill, it wasn’t Christmas cheer I felt, but an overwhelming sense of gloom.
After therapy one day, we sat with Garland, a fire crackling beneath the magnolia-and-pinecone garland over the mantle, a Christmas movie playing on low.
Miracle on 34th Street. The version from the 90s.
You held a book cracked open in your lap, and on the cocktail table beside the sofa, steam curled up from your tea.
“You know,” you said, eyes on the screen, your expression thoughtful, “the guy in this reminds me of Nic.”
It was the scene where Bryan and the little girl, Susan, are sitting in the window seat, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade from Bryan’s apartment. “I can totally see that. Except my dad’s way more handsome.”
You chuckled. “You’re right. He is.”
“I used to wish I had a mom like Susan’s,” I confessed. “Not some woman stepping in to be my mom, but my actual mom. Still with my dad. Totally chic. Confident…but sweet. I already had the house and the dad—all I needed was my mom back. But I wasn’t stupid enough to tell Santa that.”
“Why’s it stupid to ask for something you really want?” you asked softly.
“Because he never brought me the dog I wanted. If he couldn’t bring a dog, he sure as hell couldn’t bring a person back.
I used to think I never got what I wanted because of how bad I was.
So this one year, from Halloween on, I worked really hard to be good, and I still didn’t get the dog.
Then I figured out he wasn’t real—that my dad was actually Santa all along—and I thought, No wonder I didn’t get the dog. ”
I turned my head and caught you watching me, your gaze tenderly skipping over my face.
“What?” I asked.
“It makes me sad to think of you trying so hard to be good and still not getting something you’ve always wanted.” Your mouth lifted up at the corners. “And for two whole months? That must’ve been quite the feat for you.”
I nudged your thigh with my socked foot, fighting back a smile of my own. “Shut up.”
You laughed, lifting your tea and going back to the movie.
I studied your profile: the glasses, the gray cardigan with its notched collar, the chinos that were just a smidge too tight. “You know what I miss?”
“What?”
“Your first Christmas here. Everything seemed…so much simpler then.”
You gave this some thought. “I agree,” you said, then slipped off your glasses. “What’s the matter? Why’re you crying?”
“I don’t like this Christmas. It doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything’s all wrong. My dad isn’t happy. The Harrises aren’t happy. We aren’t happy.” I swatted at my face. “Everything’s screwed up this year, and it’s all because of what I did to Libby’s signs.”
You deposited your glasses and tea on the coffee table, then slid over until your knee touched my leg. “That’s not true.”
“It is, Casey. If our dads are fighting, that’ll make it even more difficult for you to tell John the truth.”
“Hey,” you said, laying a hand on my arm. “I should’ve told John a long time ago—back when all of us were in a better place. When everything was simpler, like you said. My current problems aren’t because of you.”