Letter Seven #2
A quiet laugh escaped your lips as you scratched your forehead.
“Sorry—um—I suppose it’s because, growing up, my mum made us do chores round the house.
And I was really quite close to her, so she taught me how to cook and wrap presents and all that.
And after she died, I”—a big pause here, followed by a swallow so thick I heard it—“tried keeping on top of things like she did. And then, not long after that, I moved out with my sister. Claire worked all the time to support us, and I felt bad, so I just…did whatever I could to help.”
“Moved out with your sister? At thirteen? How much older is Claire than you?”
“Well, I was fourteen by then—but she’s six years older.” You gave a curt nod, pushed your stool back, then grabbed my empty plate. At the sink, you scrubbed my fork by hand, keeping your expression shuttered, the implication clear: you didn’t like this topic. So I dropped it.
You spent the rest of the day doing laundry, packing, and hanging out with my dad.
Before dinner, you left to meet Michael and Sienna, leaving me to watch Christmas movies and read alone.
I hung out with Garland all night, hoping to catch your arrival home, wanting to spend more time together before you left for England.
While I waited, I started a new book. Read half of it. Attempted to make tea that tasted as good as yours. Failed.
When I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water much later, you still hadn’t returned. I’d finally decided to give up and head upstairs when your key turned in the lock.
You stumbled inside, rosy-cheeked from the cold, surprised to see me. “What are you still doing up?”
“What do you care?” I asked.
You shuffled toward me, tucking the key away in your pocket. “Come on, Wednesday,” you said, voice scratchy but soft. “Don’t be like that.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Wednesday. She comes out sometimes. Your voice goes cold and your eyes turn scary dark—like Elliot’s left the building. You become that angry little girl in the picture, right before she stabbed Michael.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes,” you said, head lurching back. You grabbed a water from the fridge, shrugged out of your coat, and draped it over the back of a stool. “Come sit with me a minute.”
Fuming, I wrenched out a stool and dropped myself into it.
“You’re angry with me,” you said, your C tattoo flashing at me as you pushed a hand through the dark, tousled waves of your hair.
Despite how angry I was, I had this sudden, sharp, staggering urge to push my hand through your hair. What would it feel like, slipping between my fingers?
“We didn’t see each other much at all today, did we?” you asked, your gaze brushing over my face, those twin lines deepening between your eyebrows. “I kept myself out too late.”
In an effort to control my temper, I took a deep breath. “You know what I’ve noticed about you? You never talk about your dad. Where will he be when you spend Christmas with your sister?”
You swallowed. “He’ll be there.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about him?”
You dropped your gaze to the counter, fingers twisting the water bottle around and around on the black marble surface. “He doesn’t like me. We don’t get on.”
The answer shocked me, because I couldn’t imagine anyone not liking you, Casey. Especially your own father. “Why not?”
You shook your head. “Because of some shit I did after my mum died.”
“What did you do?”
“I went a bit…wild. Did some things I’m not proud of.”
“You were wild? I don’t believe that.”
“Yes,” you said with a solemn nod. “I was nothing but trouble.”
“No way. I can’t see you being anything less than perfect.”
“I’m not perfect, Elliot—nor have I ever been. I keep trying to tell you that.”
“Do you dread seeing your dad?”
“I do,” you said, the knot in your throat moving up then down.
I folded my hands in my lap. “You’re about to leave for almost two weeks, and you spent your whole night out with them.”
“I know,” you said, turning to face me. “I’m sorry I did that, but I wasn’t with them the entire time. I actually spent a few hours popping inside every shop down Newbury Street, searching for your Christmas present.”
“Really?” I said, butterflies swarming in my stomach. “Well, now I feel like shit.”
“Don’t,” you said, pushing your hand across the counter. “And listen, my flight doesn’t leave until midday, so we’ll have the entire morning to spend together. I promise.”
I nodded, a peculiar sparkling sensation buzzing in my chest. It felt a lot like excitement but that couldn’t be right. At least, that’s what I told myself.
“You know,” you said, taking a glance around the kitchen. “I’ll really miss this place—even if it is a bit like living in a dungeon. I’ll even miss that creepy guy over the fireplace. Somehow, he isn’t quite as creepy at Christmastime.”
You smiled big. So I did, too, my breath catching when you squeezed my wrist.
“And I’ll definitely miss you,” you said, then pulled your hand away. “I have this sneaking suspicion you’ll miss me, too.”
I scoffed at this, wondering why the hell my wrist suddenly felt so bare. “Are you kidding? I’ll have the house to myself again—and my dad. I look forward to it.”
Your brows lifted. “So you won’t miss me at all, then?”
“Maybe a tiny bit,” I said, pinching my fingers together. “I’m talking a microscopic amount.” At this, we laughed.
Before you left the next day, Nic and I saw you off in the entry hall.
He gave you one of those guy hugs—where you throw your arm over the other guy’s shoulder and pat each other on the back, and it’s over real quick—then asked you to text him when your flight landed in England.
I hesitated a few seconds before slowly walking forward and wrapping you in a hug.
You leaned close to my ear. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, even though my stupid pulse fluttered like crazy at the base of my throat.
Nic watched us, beaming the whole time.
On Christmas, the Harrises spent the day with us like they normally did.
Only that year, my dad knocked back more scotch and champagne than usual, his gaze snagging on your empty chair at the table during brunch and dinner.
He obviously missed you, and I didn’t know how to feel about that: happy, jealous, or somewhere in between.
Later, while all the adults were having a nightcap with Garland, Michael found me in my bedroom, lying sideways on my bed. He climbed in beside me.
“Hey,” I said. “Have you heard from Casey?”
“Yeah,” he said, propping his head on one hand. “A little bit. Why?”
“No reason,” I said, glancing down at my phone.
“Do you miss him?” Michael asked.
“Maybe a little. Not a whole lot.” A lie—and Michael saw through it.
“I miss him, too. I’m glad you two are getting along.”
I smiled. “Whatever. I still think he’s annoying.”
Michael smiled back. “Hey,” he said, reaching for his back pocket. “I have something for you.”
On the duvet between us, he placed a small stack of photos. I glanced at him, unsure, pulling them toward me.
The second I flipped them over, I gasped. “Oh my God. Where did you get these?”
“They were stuck inside some random law book in my dad’s study. I found them while looking up stuff for school.”
Tears sprang to my eyes as I stared at the top photo, my heart beating wildly out of control. “Is this—? Do you think it’s her?”
“Has to be,” Michael said, gaze flitting from me to the girl in the picture. “She looks just like you.”
The girl had dark hair like mine, flowing down her shoulders. Bright green eyes, also like mine, rimmed in thick black eyeliner.
In the photo, she sat next to my dad at his lacrosse game.
She wore a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots.
Nic wore a crimson uniform, his dark hair messy as they grinned at the camera, her leg hiked up on the bleacher, my dad’s arm wrapped around her thigh.
They were teenagers, not much older than I was, but the most shocking thing about the photo was that they were together at all.
My dad—your standard prep school jock—with her, clearly a rebel.
Finally, I thought. Something I’d desperately wanted my whole life. A picture of my mom. Like Michael said, it had to be her.
This girl could’ve been mistaken for me, sitting next to a younger version of my dad.
Nic almost never talked about my mom, but he had told me a few things, one of which suddenly made perfect sense.
“I liked her because she was different,” he’d told me once.
“We ran into each other in the courtyard on her first day, and she shoved me against the building. She gave me hell for not watching where I was going, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought, I have to know this girl.”
To Michael, I whispered, “It’s the leather jacket.” Another confirmation it was her.
Right after my twelfth birthday, I’d found a woman’s leather jacket stuffed inside a box of things near our trash can out back. I’d shown the jacket to Michael, folded it inside a different box, then squirreled it away inside the secret closet where I’d stashed your clothes that time.
I hid the jacket, knowing Nic would take it from me. Other than the Harvard sweatshirt I often wore—faded gray, big burgundy letters—he’d never given me anything of hers. And no matter how many times I’d asked—no, begged—him, he’d refused to show me a single photo of her.
Instead, he’d distract me by saying things he thought I needed more than a picture of the woman who’d given birth to me. Things like I love you or You’re all I ever wanted, you know that?
But what I really needed was an explanation.
Why couldn’t I know what she looked like?
Why was she missing from the hundreds of photos that were taken of me as a baby?
Why couldn’t he answer my questions about her—where she spent her childhood, who my grandparents are on her side, what she wanted to be when she grew up?
And why did he get so weird and emotional whenever I asked about my birth?