41. NINEAH
NINEAH
IPOURED the last swallow of an undeniably good Shiraz into a hot pink mug. Not that I could taste it anymore. This was my second bottle of the day and I wasn’t even sure it’d reached late afternoon, yet.
I called Abraham for the fourth—or the fortieth, I wasn’t actually sure— time and left a slurring voicemail because if my impulse control was lacking before it was non-existent now.
An automated voice I was certain was mocking me, let me know my message couldn’t be saved because the mailbox was full and I mashed the phone to my lips. “Fucking SIMs and your ass storage.”
I threw the phone onto the sofa and it bounced off, landing on the rug.
Flopping back down onto my back, reaching above me for the plastic packaging on the coffee table, I grabbed a handful of Sour Patch Kids and threw them into my mouth.
As far as diets went, I was definitely eating like I was planning a hot, wet date with the inside of my pristine toilet bowl later tonight, but I couldn’t bring myself to cook in that kitchen.
For one thing, I didn’t trust myself not to burn it down after two bottles of wine. But also, the idea of standing over the same stove Abraham had just last night as he re-taught me how to stir roux threatened my already churning stomach.
I half contemplated turning the television on for some background noise but for the first time, I didn’t want to drown my thoughts, not even the intrusive ones. After all, ignoring them was how I’d reached this point in the first place.
Stalking a man who’d nearly burned alive because of me was one thing.
Even giving him a job was passably excusable because truthfully, Abraham had been exactly the kind of candidate I’d have hired on the spot even if I hadn’t known who he was, but this?
Inserting myself into his life? Marrying him?
Was there really no low I wouldn’t stoop to?
A voice that sounded a lot less like my shoulder demon and more like myself came forward. You don’t choose who you fall in love with.
I shook her away. “Bring back the bitch. At least she’s honest.”
The next few hours passed in a Shiraz-flavored blur.
Upon further inspection of the home, I eventually came across the wine cellar.
Since the code matched the one for the front door, I gained access to not just more Shiraz, but a bottle of champagne with an expensive price tag and a name I wouldn’t have been able to pronounce if not for six years of French class.
I trudged back up the stairs with my loot and into the kitchen.
Fishing around in the cabinet for a champagne flute, I pulled one down, deliberately ignoring the fact that the cabinets had clearly been lowered so I could reach them, and went to uncork the bubbly.
I had half a flute poured when I noticed something sitting on the bread box.
I frowned. Earlier, I’d figured Abraham must’ve brought in mail at some point, but up close, I saw that the envelope was thick.
I clumsily set the heavy bottle down and retrieved it, flipping it over.
On the back, there were no sender or recipient addresses, just a name.
Gavrielle Lin.
My stomach chose that moment to contract.
It was all I could do to grab onto the sink before I gagged over the edge.
Tears streamed my cheeks as my body violently rid itself of its wine-poisoned contents.
When I was finished, my head swimming, I rinsed my mouth with water from the sink, splashing some onto my face, and waited for the room to stop spinning.
Several minutes later, I braved a walk to the refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of water and drank both of them before returning to the envelope.
The name stared at me like a taunt. Daring me to reach back into my heart for the stupid hope I’d locked away and shelved years ago.
Lifting it into my hands, it was lighter than it looked.
I drew a pinkie nail under the lip and tore the edge, careful not to rip the contents.
Inside, were several pages of stationary and a single key.
I swallowed hard as I unfolded the pages to a letter I didn’t remember penning but recognized the handwriting as my own, and started to read.
Gavrielle,
You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.
When I was a little girl, I used to dream up a family of brothers and sisters with dark fluffy curls and skin that reminded me of the golden water that glittered on the sea at sunrise.
I’d always assumed they’d look somewhat like me, an amalgamation of our Black mother and Korean father.
But you’re even more perfect than I could’ve predicted because you actually exist. I’m writing this letter, not to interrupt your life, or to force anything on you (I realize it’s a little too late for us to share a room and steal each other’s clothing) but to tell you how proud I am of you.
From the first time we met and every day since, I have been in awe of you.
I drew in a sharp inhale.
I found her.
I kept reading.
Your work ethic, your dedication to your passions, your self-assuredness…
It was as if everything I’d lacked at your age, you’d amassed and developed with a grace and poise I could only imitate.
Now I’m proud to own a small piece of you.
Something you’ve created with your own hands, and mind, and talents.
Something I can look at fondly whenever I’m missing my baby sister.
I know now, for reasons out of your control, we’ll never be close.
I’ve accepted that because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure your safety, even if that means keeping my distance.
But this letter to you is my promise and it comes with no expiration date.
If it ever becomes too much, if you ever decide that you’re ready to stand on your own and make your own choices, memorize the address below and take this key.
Keep it with you, hide it if you have to.
Then destroy this letter. I’ll never forgive myself for not being strong enough to leave you alone.
I know that even reaching out to you like this is so incredibly selfish, but I needed you to know that you have options. That you have family.
Your sister,
Nineah
At the bottom of the page was a Portsmouth, New Hampshire address I was already typing into my phone’s GPS.
The map on the screen pulled up a marina in New Castle.
I deleted both the search and the history, stuffed the letter into my pocket, and ran back upstairs toward Abraham’s office.
I rounded his massive desk and sat down, logging into his computer once more.
It took me nearly twenty minutes to access his main Dropbox, but once I did, I found the original divorce decree, several photos, and copies of his assets.
Locating the bill of sale for one in particular, I blew up the digitized copy of the document, as well as a photograph of a watercraft I didn’t have to have appraised to know it wasn’t just brand new, but custom built.
Opening my contacts, I found the one I wanted, hit call and waited.
She picked up on the second ring. “Nineah, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, yeah, I forgive you. Listen, I need you to pack a bag for two—three days tops. This is a ruby situation. Is our codeword still ruby?”
“Have you been drinking?” Zajre asked.
“I’ll answer that when the ground stops moving. How fast can you get here?”
There was a long hesitation as my best friend cycled through the five stages of enablism. When she reached acceptance, she sighed. “I’ll be there in twenty.”