Letter Twenty-Six #5
“Um—” You laughed, the sound both husky and, frankly, adorable.
“I wasn’t especially cool for a while, alright?
Bit obsessed with the violin, quite studious, and yes, I actually liked spending time with my sister, but I played rugby and football, too.
Did a bit of everything, really—but then I had to, since my dad was a PE teacher who forced the issue. ”
“Did you have any friends?” I shot you a mini death glare. “Besides Jake, I mean?”
You frowned. “Yes, Elliot, I had friends. Not many, I admit, but I didn’t have much free time, either.
Until I quit violin, that is, and then I had nothing but free time—which I filled with some not-so-savory activities.
Overnight, I became the brooding kid whose mum had died, then suddenly I was much cooler, or maybe more interesting, and everyone wanted to be friends with me.
I went to all the parties and got shit-faced like everyone else, and I was up for most anything—”
“Like hooking up with teachers and moms?”
You stopped slicing to fix me with a vexed look. “It was one teacher and one mum—and I’m not proud of it. The way I acted back then? It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to tell John who I am. I’ve done some properly sordid shit—while Michael and Bree have only ever been perfect.”
“Only because they had to be—for living in the spotlight,” I pointed out. “Which Michael resents, by the way.”
“I guess so,” you agreed.
“Hey,” I said, reaching over the counter to touch your wrist. “I used to think John was perfect, but this is a man who got two girls pregnant in college and is currently hiding a secret throuple that would blow up his entire life if the media caught wind of it. You’ve heard the stories about him and my dad—all the trouble they got into growing up?
Plus, John’s the first Harris—in a long line of Harrises—who didn’t get into an Ivy.
When he took a gap year to care for his illegitimate child, his family practically disowned him. ”
“Which is awful and shitty of his family—and another reason I hesitate, more every day, to bring shame on him,” you said, letting out a sigh that sounded like defeat. “Can we please go back to talking about what a nerd I was?”
Several hours later, the orange slices were dried and tucked into the magnolia-and-pinecone garland over the fireplace, some hung from the tree with jute twine, and the whole house smelled of oranges—the Garland Room especially, those orange pomanders sitting in an antique silver bowl on the coffee table next to the potted green poinsettias. We sat back, admiring our work.
“They really liven the place up, don’t they?” I said, turning my body toward the fireplace. “It’s amazing how something so simple can make me so happy.”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For remembering I told you about the orange slices that day—and for thinking I might like a reminder of her at Christmas.”
“I almost didn’t,” I admitted, “because I don’t like making you sad.”
“It does make me sad,” you said, expression nostalgic as you glanced around the room, “but it also makes me happy. She loved the little things—like fruit tucked into greenery and candles burning when it rained and fresh flowers from the market every Sunday—and I didn’t realize how much I loved that stuff, too, until she was gone…
and all those wonderful little things vanished with her. ”
Your face, Casey—it broke my heart. I wanted to climb in your lap, wanted to kiss the sadness and longing away.
Why didn’t I do that? What the hell was stopping me?
“So then we’ll burn candles when it rains,” I said, “and buy fresh flowers every Sunday. If you love something, and it makes you happy, you should keep it in your life.” The new look of longing on your face—different and more intense than before—made me feel something dangerous, so I added, “And, hey, I’m sorry I called you a nerd today.
If I could really travel back in time, I’d go visit thirteen-year-old Casey. ”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Because he makes you all mushy inside?”
“Yeah. I’d like to tell him it gets better. His mom may be gone, but her death leads him to discover he has this whole other family. And in the not-so-distant future, when he travels to America to meet them, they welcome him with open arms—”
“With open arms? Really?” you asked, mouth parted in disbelief. “This is what you say to a sad young boy who’s just lost his mum? You lie to him?”
“Okay, he’s grieving, so I’d obviously sugarcoat it a bit.”
“A bit? The man who might be his father slaps him with a background check almost immediately upon his arrival, and the girl who might be his sister not only threatens to castrate him but tries getting rid of him.”
“Listen, if I tell him the truth—that, years later, the girl is still giving him a hard time and he still hasn’t told his real family that they’re his real family—he might never come find us.”
You considered this. “Honestly? He still would. This is a boy who practiced violin up to four hours per day. He was never one to back away from a challenge. Besides, he would’ve been insanely curious to learn more about this beautiful young woman who pops up randomly to hug him and talk nonsense about his future. That alone would’ve sealed his fate.”
I smiled really big, and you smiled back.
Then you picked up my braid, stroking it between your fingers. “I’ve never stopped to consider that before now.”
“Consider what?”
“That, ultimately, my mum’s death is the only reason I’m here at all—in Boston. If she were alive today, I probably wouldn’t know that any of you exist. You and I might never have met.”
“That’s true,” I said, trying to imagine it—this alternate world where you and I had never met—but couldn’t.
The thought of living my whole life without you—without ever knowing you existed at all—filled me with sorrow.
How wrong—how empty and much darker—that life would be.
But would you have been better off…without me?
I grabbed a button on your cardigan and toggled it between my fingers. “Will you tell me more about her? Your mom? I like hearing you talk about her.”
It took you so long to respond I thought maybe you wouldn’t. But then you did, and your voice held so much love and admiration and reverence, Casey, that it stretched to every corner of that room.
“My mum had this curly mass of white-blonde hair, a little mole on her right cheek, and amber eyes that looked like liquid gold when the light hit them just right—very rare. She was a wonderful person. Completely selfless. Always doing nice things for people, like going out of her way to do household chores for the little old lady down the road and paying for a family’s groceries once at the supermarket because they didn’t have enough money to pay the bill.
She loved old movies, old TV shows, old music, the crooners especially—Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby were two of her favorites.
Every night, she’d make herself an old fashioned and play their music while she cooked.
Sometimes she’d sing along—really belt it out—in this mortifying, off-key voice that made me laugh.
She loved that Judy Garland movie you like to watch round the holidays.
Meet Me in St. Louis. Her favorite Christmas song was the one Judy sings in the window because she’s sad about moving: ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ She made holidays special…
and birthdays, too. Every year, on my birthday, I’d wake up to balloons on my bedroom ceiling.
The morning of my thirteenth birthday, I woke to thirteen blue balloons.
The last thing she ever said to me was—” You stopped here a moment, too choked to continue.
“She said, ‘Happy Birthday, Casey—my darling, beautiful boy.’ She died a short while later, and it was all my fault.” You swiped a fallen tear from your face and whispered, “All my fault.”
Pretty choked up myself, I wanted to ask how that could possibly be, but that’s when my dad walked in the room, yanking at his tie and saying, “It smells great in here. What is that? Oranges?”
And the moment was lost.
“Yeah,” I said thickly. “We tucked them into everything—like Casey’s mom used to do at Christmas.”
Nic dropped down beside you on the sofa, his gaze roaming over the room. “I love that,” he said, smiling. “I really love that.” He patted your knee, then glanced over, noticing the tears you hadn’t yet managed to blink away. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You forced a smile. “Nothing.”
I grabbed your hand, squeezing the part between your thumb and forefinger where your tattoo was—the C for Charlotte.
The morning of Christmas Eve, while my dad disappeared down the street to “visit” the Harrises, I tilted a cup of tea up to my mouth and temporarily blacked out. Hot liquid sloshed down the front of my Harvard sweatshirt. I yelped, yanking the soiled fabric away from my body.
You rushed over with a dishcloth. “Jesus, Elliot. I told you to be careful.”
By then, I’d had it with the constant hovering, the dizzy spells and occasional blackouts, the tears that came of nowhere, the dull headaches that remained long after I’d taken a pain pill. For the second time that morning, tears leapt to my eyes.
“Here,” you said, and in one rapid movement—which I didn’t have time to process, let alone stop—you lifted my sweatshirt. And froze.
I shoved it back down, face burning so hot I’m pretty sure my tears evaporated.
“Um,” you said, eyes huge. “Okay. Wow. I didn’t—wow.”
“Oh my God. Why would you do that?”
“In this particular sweatshirt, I can never quite tell, but I assumed you were wearing a bra.”
“You assumed wrong!” I cried, pressing an arm to my chest.
“Well, stop pressing the fabric to your skin,” you said, gently tugging my arm down. “You’re red and blotchy as it is. You’ll only make it worse.”
“I can’t believe you just saw my tits,” I whined.
“Why’re you embarrassed?” Your voice had turned to hot gravel. “They’re very nice tits.”