Letter Seven
We’ve run out of things to say.
There’s only so much I’m willing to tell you about the horrors of life in here, and there’s only so much you’re allowed to tell me about life out there without mentioning the others.
Today, you said, “Why don’t you ask me about them?”
I shook my head. “I don’t deserve to know how they’re doing.”
“But they ask after you all the time,” you said softly. “Tinsley’s hurt when you don’t answer her letters.”
“Please don’t talk about them,” I begged.
What I didn’t say was: Not knowing is part of my punishment.
Your gaze fluttered over me like a caress, from my eyes down to my hands, where my fingernails pressed into my palms. And that’s all it took for the tightness in my chest to loosen.
In here, your gaze is the only touch I’m allowed, and I cling to it. So much harder than I should.
“How’s Garland?” I asked instead, assuming it would be easier to talk about the nonliving.
You smiled. “Still creepy as ever.”
“I miss him,” I said. “I miss sitting in that room. Sometimes I sit on my bed in here and pretend I’m there.”
Your face blurred then, hot tears burning at my eyes, threatening to fall. This is another reason I can’t talk about them. Even talking about Garland—some creepy dead ancestor in a painting—hurts too much.
You reached across the table for my hand. But the guard barked, “No touching!” before your fingers could grasp mine, and we both jumped.
You know what I miss most about the Garland Room?
How cozy it is at Christmas.
The warm glow of the Fraser fir in the corner, its white lights twinkling, their reflection caught in the picture frames on the bookcase.
The thick magnolia-and-pinecone garland draped across the fireplace mantle.
The paperwhites blooming on the windowsill, tied together with blue velvet ribbon.
The green poinsettias potted in the large blue-and-white bowl on the coffee table.
I can’t think of the Christmases I’ll miss in here without crying. My tears are splashing on the page right now.
Your first Christmas with us, you often sat with me and Garland while I did my homework, keeping me company, just like Nic said you would. I even tried your tea once—black with a splash of milk, no sugar. You smiled as I wrinkled my nose and handed the tea back.
“I’ll add a bit of sugar next time,” you said, “and we’ll have biscuits. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t see that happening,” I said.
But the next day, you called me into the kitchen, where a freshly poured cup of tea sat waiting for me on the island. You added a splash of cream to it, then a spoonful of sugar.
“Try it now,” you said, pinching at your bottom lip.
Seeing you like that—eagerly waiting, hoping I’d like it—how could I not?
So I did, and the tea wasn’t half bad—the sugar cut down on the bitterness, but not quite enough. I grabbed the spoon from the sugar bowl and added a bit more (approximately half a spoonful), and somehow that made all the difference.
“Here. Try it with this.” You handed me a rectangular chocolate cookie—I mean, biscuit—with chocolate cream in the center. A bourbon cream, you called it. One might assume this biscuit contained actual bourbon, which sounded…questionable. But one would be wrong. It tasted delightful.
“Nice,” I said, nodding appreciatively. The biscuit mellowed the bite of the tea, and together, they slid down easy. Sweet, but not too sweet. Simple. Comforting. The perfect afternoon snack. “I could definitely get used to this.”
“Yeah?” you asked, hand dropping from your mouth.
“Yeah.” Even if it had been awful, how could I say no to the smile that burst across your face? One so big it reached your eyes, making them all glittery and bright? Like sunlight skipping across the surface of the ocean?
“Great,” you said. “We’ll have it every day.”
And we did. From that day on, afternoon tea became part of our routine. You put the kettle on the second I got home from school.
We watched nothing but Christmas movies the whole month of December, and like me, you loved the older ones best. It’s a Wonderful Life.
White Christmas. Miracle on 34th Street.
I put on one of my favorites—Meet Me in St. Louis—but you grew weirdly stiff during the part where Judy Garland sings her heart-wrenching version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” You left the room with tears pooling in your eyes, only coming back to tell me Nic had brought home takeout for dinner.
One Sunday after brunch, Bree practiced the violin for an upcoming holiday concert at school. When she had trouble tuning the instrument, you surprised everyone by asking her if you could try.
“I used to play,” you said by way of explanation. Bree handed the violin over, and you slowly—but expertly—readjusted the pegs, then handed it back to her, the issue fixed. She asked if you wanted to play something, but you said, “Oh, no. I haven’t played in years. I’d rather hear you play.”
Bree played “Silent Night” while you sat next to Michael on the sofa and listened, nodding along to the melody, your eyes drifting closed as her bow moved gracefully back and forth. I don’t know how else to describe the expression on your face. Just this: rapturous.
Five days before Christmas, you mentioned flying back to England to spend Christmas with your family.
“You’re leaving?” I asked, dropping my fork. You’d scrambled eggs for my breakfast, insisting my daily bowl of cereal wasn’t an acceptable form of nutrition. No protein or fat to keep me full until lunchtime.
“Well, look at you.” Across the kitchen island, you leaned against the sink with both hands, a dish towel slung over your shoulder, grinning wide. “Are you disappointed to see me go?”
“What?” I scoffed. “No. You caught me off guard, that’s all.”
“Right,” you said, still smiling.
“I’m sure your sister will be happy to see you.”
“Very,” you said. “She’s just had a baby and I’m dying to meet him. I’ve got a nephew now.”
This bubbly feeling oozed straight through me. You, excited to be an uncle. You, excited to meet a little baby.
“Do you have pictures?” I asked.
“Loads.” You slipped out your phone and rounded the island, then pulled out the stool next to mine.
Leaning close, you swiped through photos of a sleeping baby with round pink cheeks, a tiny Cupid’s bow mouth, and little bowlegs curled up close to his body.
You paused at one of him dressed entirely in knitwear—matching bloomers, booties, and, most precious of all, a little cable-knit sweater with wooden buttons.
“This baby,” I said, “is wearing a cardigan.”
“Yes,” you said, beaming proudly. “A gift from me.”
I fought back a smile. “Of course it was.”
“He’s the most adorable thing,” you said, gazing down at the photo. “Just look at his little nose. And his hands—I can’t get over how tiny his fingers are.”
My heart melted—literally melted—inside my chest. I had trouble finding my voice again. “He is adorable. What’s his name?”
“Rhys.” You’d pronounced it Reese.
“After you. Your middle name.”
You glanced up, both surprised and confused. “How did you—? Oh, right. That time you snooped on my laptop.”
I went back to my eggs, then asked when you left.
“Tomorrow,” you said, the word sending a stab of disappointment through me.
But I played it really cool, only nodding as I stabbed at my eggs.
“Your earrings,” you said, prompting me to lift my gaze. “They’re a little surprise every day. I like seeing what you’ll wear next.”
“Thanks,” I said, reaching up to toggle a stag stud. The earrings were tiny and gold with beady black eyes. Their little back eyes were my favorite.
“What other earrings do you have in your collection?”
“Oh,” I said, trying to think of the more interesting pairs.
“Little gold croissants. Diamond-studded coffee cups. Lobsters. Tiny basketballs Michael gave me once. Miniature sticks of French butter. Le beurre. I’ve been eyeing this set of martini glasses you can pair with a set of teeny, tiny pimento olives on a stick—they’re so cute—but my dad says they’re inappropriate because I’m not old enough to drink a martini yet. ”
“All of that sounds positively adorable,” you said with a smile.
I smiled, too. “Miniature things make me irrationally happy.” Feeling brave, I touched a finger to the black-and-white beaded bracelet on your wrist. “Is there a story behind this? You’re always wearing it.”
“Yeah,” you said, glancing down, the smile falling from your face. “My sister made it for me.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah,” you repeated, still looking at the bracelet.
I waited for you to go on, but you didn’t. “And the tattoo?” I asked.
You swallowed. “It’s just a C. For Casey.”
But that didn’t sound true. Whatever the tattoo actually meant, you didn’t want to tell me—which stung a little, but I didn’t want to show it. So I changed the subject. “How are you so good at this stuff?”
“What stuff?” you asked, lifting your gaze back to mine.
“Cooking. Wrapping presents. Folding clothes into perfect squares. And all the other domestic stuff I suck at.”
The day before, when you’d found me struggling to wrap a gift, you’d taught me how to fold in the corners. Then, more impressively, the proper way to tie ribbon around the package until a perfect bow sat nestled in the center.
“Well,” you said, lifting an eyebrow, “most people don’t grow up with a Henriette who bustles about whilst they’re at school and has everything perfectly sorted away by the time they’re back.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Think you can try that again whilst not being a patronizing dick?”