The Correspondent
Rosalie Van Antwerp
Dear Rosalie,
Harry has been here for just over two weeks.
He got here looking awful, as gaunt as can be and dark circles under his eyes, his hair looking like he’d run a stick of butter through it, pimples all over his face.
When James brought him to the door I nearly gasped.
He’s huge, as tall as Daan, but lean as a pole.
It’s painfully obvious the child is in need of a mother.
He was about as limp as old lettuce and I could see James was holding his breath, hoping I wouldn’t change my mind.
James is positively thriving in his career, but wretched in the way of his family going to absolute shit.
To hell in a handbasket, as they say. What a mess.
There were tears in his eyes. He’s blaming himself for the whole thing, and you know I don’t blame him for all of it, but one does have to do a bit of self-reflection.
The boy is sullen for the main, and he does sleep a good deal, though James said this has to do with his medication and he used to run on five hours a night.
He’s got his schoolwork, but he stays on top of that on his own and I don’t have to make him.
He is funny about eating and he doesn’t talk to me much.
From his letters I’d assumed he would be more talkative, but either these past months have killed off something in him or all along he was finding confidence behind the veil of ink on the page, as many people do.
He spends a lot of time upstairs in the bedroom.
I think he is doing puzzles or reading (child loves puzzles and reading; he is obsessed with fantasy and science fiction) or he’s on his computer a good deal.
He plays World of Warcraft, which is a game about magic and battles.
He also does coding, which he tried to explain to me, an exercise in futility.
He goes out for a walk sometimes—I failed to mention he’s brought his dog, a massive creature called Thor shedding hair I’m having to vacuum twice daily.
He drives himself to therapy twice a week (Harry, not the dog).
I don’t think he’s suicidal now. We have conversations about it.
I ask him outright at least every other day.
‘You won’t try to kill yourself, then?’ I want to make sure everything is very cut-and-dried, and he says he won’t try it again and I believe him.
He’s a quirky child, but truthful. Very practical.
I can usually get him to play a game or two with me in the evenings.
He’s sharp as a tack with cards and things.
He’s teaching me mah-jongg. We are watching a documentary series on a man who free-climbs steep rock faces.
I’m trying to get a sense of what will motivate him.
He’s flat as a pancake. I’m glad he’s here, though.
You know, it makes me happy knowing he’s here, and I guess that about answers your inquiry on how things are going.
It’s hard to find time to write with a child in the house again, but I’ll do my best. I’m still reading The Round House (Louise Erdrich).
Sybil