Continued The Correspondent
Sybil Van Antwerp
Oh, Sybil. I have plenty to say to you and I plan to say every bit of it with the understanding that once you’ve read it I won’t expect to hear from you for a while.
July and August have been very full for me, which is partially why I haven’t replied to your (ugly) note, but the fact is that I also needed time to think about what I wanted to be sure to say.
It was obvious you were still angry Fiona had visited me even though you said you were fine, and I tried to give you space to let it go, but clearly you didn’t.
I have apologized to you once already for keeping it from you and I meant that apology, but I’m not going to apologize again.
What is more, I am not going to apologize for things I would do over again without a second thought.
When Fiona came to see me the Christmas after Daan died she was very upset.
She arrived at the house and her face was gaunt, her eyes were gray, her hair flat and the roots growing in.
She looked totally unlike herself, and when she saw me, Sybil, she fell apart.
I thought something horrible had happened, like Walt had cheated on her or she’d embezzled money or something truly capable of destroying her life, that is how bad she seemed when she came to my house.
As I’ve explained already, I didn’t know she was coming until she showed up.
It isn’t as if Fiona and I regularly chat on the phone or meet up.
I’m irritated that I feel the need to report to you on this, but at this point it’s obviously necessary.
Fiona emails me or texts me every so often, and I her, and of course I send cards on holidays and birthdays, and every once in a while we’ll catch up on the phone, but it’d been a while.
I think we had texted around Daan’s funeral, and that was all, so I was shocked at her sudden appearance (I had not seen her in person in more than five years I don’t think) and in such a bad state.
I’m not sure if you are aware of how Daan’s death shook Fiona, and of course after your last letter I am hesitant to inform you of anything you don’t know, but she was deeply, disturbingly grieved.
As a matter of fact, the intensity of her grief reminded me of you when Gilbert died.
It was wild grief. As she started to talk through her sadness a lot of what she told me pertained to her relationship with you or, frankly, Sybil, the lack thereof.
Even though it is not my place to tell you this, I’m going to.
Fiona was hurt that you had not attended Daan’s funeral, yes, but over the course of her visit she seemed to be digging down and uncovering deeper stores of anger toward you from throughout her life.
I want you to know that most of what I did was listen, and when I did speak it was mostly in defense of you, but I was not, I am not, able to speak on your behalf.
Of course I defended you, you’re my best friend, but I did not feel it was my place to explain certain things, specifically things about Gilbert’s death, even though I found myself recalling vivid memories of that horrible day and the days that followed, and thinking over and over again how you just needed to have an honest conversation with each other, for her to lay out her feelings and give you time to respond, to help her understand.
She is selfish—of course she is! We were all selfish at that age, weren’t we?
And she has no idea what losing Gilbert did to you, what the divorce did to you because you have never told her!
For reasons I don’t fully understand, you have pushed Fiona away from yourself, Sybil.
Why have you? What is clear to me, what you are somehow blind to see, is that if you would step toward Fiona you could fix this.
Fiona does not need me, she needs you! Step toward Fiona and be the mother she needs.
You are a wonderful, interesting woman, full of love and kindness, but you are so damn stubborn and determined you know exactly what is right in every situation.
I am willing to sacrifice all that I have with you, my dearest friend, if it means opening your eyes to salvage what you can have with Fiona. Fix it, Sybil. Fix what is broken.
Now, like I said, I won’t expect to hear from you after this, but I want to end by reminding you that I love you.
I wish I had not been the one to tell you about Fiona’s miscarriages; I’m sure that was a painful thing to swallow.
And Paul’s surgery did not go smoothly, it was about six weeks of pure hell, but I do feel that we have turned a corner.
Rosalie