The Letter

by Mary Crawford

  “I’m sorry things turned out this way, they never should have. I’ll work as hard as I can to change the outcome. I know I can’t make the years you spent in here go away, but maybe I can work on getting your conviction overturned.”

  “Lady, if you can do that, you’re a miracle worker. With all due respect, I had lots of media attention on my case before. Colleges and even pro teams were interested in me before all this crap came down. Some high-profile attorneys said they would help me, but nobody ever did. They only wanted their names in the paper. If that’s all this is about, just pass me on by. I don’t want to get my family’s hopes up again. Like I said, my mama is doing poorly and my dad is working himself crazy trying to support everybody since my mom can’t work anymore. I don’t want to break their hearts again.”

  “I know you don’t know me very well — but I’m actually very shy. There’s a reason I don’t work for network news. I’d just as soon stay behind the scenes. A lot of my friends have pushed me to do TV or work in one of the bigger markets like Portland, Chicago, New York or LA where minorities are more prevalent. There aren’t very many people who look like me in my neighborhood. I’m okay with that now.”

  “Doesn’t it get awkward? There weren’t a lot of minority kids in my high school either. I think that's why I was singled out and charged.”

  “It’s not as hard as an adult. I’ve had a long time to get used to being the odd one out. I have been different from everyone around me for as long as I can remember. I was adopted by Caucasian parents, so I’m used to being the odd one out — maybe that’s why I would just as soon be invisible.”

  “I know how that feels,” Marshall mutters as he squints through the glass at the guard who has been staring at him with a sour look the entire time we’ve been in here.

  I cough lightly to draw his attention. “Anyway, when I was in college, one of my best friends was a victim of crime. I have been seeking justice for people ever since that day. It’s like a lifetime calling for me. My parents were not happy with my choice — my dad wanted me to be a doctor or a dentist. It took cancer for us to come back together as a family.”

  Marshall looks thoughtful. “So, this isn’t simply a flash-in-the-pan, stepping-stone-to-a-bigger-job kind of deal for you?”

  “No, it’s not. Trust me, I’ve been offered bigger, better positions. But I’m not willing to compromise my values to get them.”

  Marshall shoots me a tight smile. “I know what you mean. My lawyer keeps telling me that if I just admit to raping Sheila and tell the parole board I’m sorry for what I did, I can get out of here a lot faster. I told him I wouldn’t do it because I never touched her — at least not that way. I had my arm around her because I was trying to make her feel better, but I never raped her.”

  “I know, you know, Tyler knows, Sheila knows. Now, we have to figure out who else knew the truth at the time of your trial.”

  Tyler nods. “If we can prove the police knew and disregarded the information, or the prosecution withheld information from your defense team, we might be able to get somewhere.”

  Marshall hangs his head for a moment before he finally looks up at me. “I hope this isn’t some weird sick joke you all are playin’ on me. I miss my family. My mama should be able to give me a real hug and I should be able to go watch my little brother play basketball and I should be able to show him how to play the game right.”

  “Well hopefully, if everything goes right, we can bring you closer to that day,” I say as I start to gather up my belongings and stick them back in my briefcase.

  “Thanks, Miss. I want to thank you for something else too,” Marshall says bashfully.

  I pause and raise an eyebrow.

  “I want to thank you for treating me like a person and not a monster. I’ve almost forgotten what that’s like. I like being treated with respect.”

  “I’m sorry your sense of respect was stripped away from you. I’ll do everything in my power to help get it restored to you. From everything I can tell, it was wrongly taken away.”

  Marshall reaches out and shakes my hand. “Your belief in me is the best thing to happen to me in years. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ROCCO

  AS I ROUND THE CORNER with a tray full of crackers, cheese, and lunchmeat for our movie night, I realize Mallory isn’t in bed like I expect her to be. After a little searching, I locate her sitting on the shower floor holding clumps of dark black hair in her hands. She is sobbing.

  Alarmed, I set the dinner tray on the bathroom counter and scoop Mallory up in my arms. “Are you hurt?” I ask as I wrap her in a large bed sheet and carry her over to the bed.

  Mutely, she shakes her head and holds out a fistful of hair.

  “Wow! When you do things, you don’t do them in a small way,” I exclaim when I see a new bald spot on her head. My heart shatters for her. There is no way I can cushion the blow or make this okay.

  “I feel so stupid. For some reason I thought this wouldn’t happen to me. I wore a crazy ice cap, I massaged my scalp, I took vitamins, and I even used essential oils on my head — some of them really smell funny.”

  “It wasn’t anything you did or didn’t do, it’s the drugs. Most people who have chemotherapy lose at least part of their hair. A lot of people lose all their hair. That’s why it’s a well-known side effect.”

  “I didn’t want to lose my hair,” she pouts as another clump of hair falls out.

  I go to the linen closet, grab a dark colored towel and carefully dry her scalp. It’s catastrophic. Her hair simply rubs off on to the navy-blue towel. I don’t disguise my sharp intake of breath quick enough. She catches my reaction and asks, “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  I clear my throat lightly as I debate how to answer. “Well, look on the bright side. You won’t be spending a lot of money on shampoo.”

  She reaches up to touch her scalp. “This is awful. I’m not one of those people who has a perfectly formed scalp. I competed in gymnastics when I was younger. I’ve probably got dents and scars on my head everywhere.”

  I climb up on the bed and face her. I grasp her hands between mine. “Mallory look at me. I love you. I don’t care if you have hair or breasts. I don’t care if you can wear high heels or not. That’s all cosmetic stuff and it doesn’t matter to me.”

  Mallory lets out a shuddering sob.

  “I love who you are on the inside. I love the person you are. I love that you help your neighbor do things she’s scared of. I love that you go over and listen to my mom talk about how she names her rose bushes and you indulge my dad’s fish tales as if you’ve never heard him tell you the story he told you two weeks ago. I love that you are the kind of person to organize a bridal party for your assistant even though he’s marrying a guy. I love that you’re fighting to get a man you didn’t know a few months ago out of jail because in your heart you know he didn’t commit the crime he’s accused of — but unlike a lot of people you’re not doing it for money or for fame, you’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do. So, do I care if your hair is falling out? Yeah, a bit —”

  Mallory stiffens and gives me a withering stare.

  I squeeze her hands. “Wait! Hear me out… I care only because it makes you sad to lose your hair and I hate to see you sad.”

  Mallory sniffles. “I don’t think there’s much you can do about that. Even though I’m not much of a high maintenance girl, I’ll miss my hair.”

  “I know, but I have some ideas. Do you trust me?” I ask as I scoot off the bed and walk over to a spare dresser in Mallory’s room that she’s been letting me use while I stay here.

  I remove a box I got back when we had some training sessions in Portland. I nervously hand it to her as I hope she understands the sentiment behind it.

  She carefully opens it up and unwraps the tissue paper. She lifts out the delicate scarf. “Wow, this is gorgeous. Where did you find a scarf with cherry blossoms on it?”


  “I went to Chinatown three or four months back. I can’t see cherry blossoms without thinking of you. I thought it would be good for you when you lost your hair. I found a video on YouTube about ways to use a silk scarf as a head cover.”

  Mallory’s jaw goes slack. “You’ve been planning this surprise for that long? You knew my hair would fall out even though I was taking all the precautions?”

  “I knew the chances were high, given the type of chemotherapy you are having. We see a lot of cancer patients in my line of work. I don’t see many of them who still have all of their hair. It’s just a matter of odds.”

  “You are so sneaky. I thought you were convinced I wouldn’t lose a hair on my head.” She holds up the scarf. “Do you mind helping me? It’s still hard for me to hold my arms up in the air.”

  “You might not like the job I do. I’m not as skilled as some of the other guys.”

  Mallory shrugs. “I’m not worried. I’ve seen your attention to detail.”

  My hands tremble as I try to remember the moves I saw in the YouTube video. Finally, I fashion some sort of turban design out of the beautiful silk scarf.

  Mallory runs towards the restroom and looks at herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. “The scarf is beautiful.”

  I’m thankful I decided to follow her so I could see her reaction. For the first time in a while, she seems to recognize the beautiful woman I see every day. In the blink of an eye, it all goes wrong. Mallory’s expression fills with anguish and the light and joy fades from her eyes.

  Her knees buckle, and she collapses down onto the toilet as she buries her head in her hands and starts to sob.

  “Are you all right? Did I tie it too tight?” I ask as I lean down and run my fingers under the edge of the scarf.

  She pulls her head away. “No, it’s fine.”

  Instinctively, I jerk my hand back. Mallory pulls the scarf off her head and gently folds it. She pushes it into my chest as she stands up and inches her way around me in the small confines of the bathroom. Her obvious attempts to avoid touching me sting more than just a little.

  I take a couple minutes to brush my teeth and trim my beard. I know from past experience that Mallory doesn’t want me to talk to her when she’s extremely upset. Giving her space goes completely against my instincts as a rescuer, but I know it’s for the best. When I simply can’t wait any longer, I tentatively walk back into her bedroom, uncertain what I will encounter.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Mallory curled up with Ladybug, reading a book. She is wearing one of my favorite sweatshirts with the sleeves rolled up.

  I place the scarf back in the box and close the dresser drawer. When Mallory hears me, she looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. I know you were trying to be nice.”

  Carefully, I sit on the bed next to Mallory. Ladybug wags her tail and scoots over next to me as she tries to get more attention. Mallory scoots back and tucks herself next to me against the headboard.

  “What’s wrong?” I probe gently.

  Mallory runs her hands over the patches of hair still left on her balding head. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

  I kiss her forehead. “You know, I’m aware that you have cancer. You never have to pretend with me.”

  Mallory shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I know this sounds delusional but as long as I looked like I didn’t have cancer, I guess I felt like I could fool myself and everyone else. This was only just a temporary setback, right? I caught it early, just a few rounds of chemo and a chunk of tissue gone and I’d be fine. But today’s a wake-up call that I might not be fine. Now that I’ve lost my hair, every time I look in the mirror, it’s a reminder that I might die.”

  I hug her closer. “I know it’s hard. But it doesn’t change anything. Doctor Stephenson and Doctor Blumenauer are still pleased with your lab results, you are healing well and responding to treatment. You’ve even managed to reach a truce with your nausea. Remember Doctor Stephenson said she wished all of her patients responded as well as you have?”

  “I know all that. But this feels like a catastrophic setback.”

  “It’s an unfortunate side effect of your medication, it doesn’t mean you’re getting worse.”

  Mallory puts her hands on her head and more tufts of hair fall out. “I look like a scary Halloween costume,” she whispers in a tearful voice. “I don’t know how you can stand to be around me these days. I look like something from a horror movie and I routinely throw up everywhere.”

  “Mallory, that’s not who you are. That’s just temporary garbage you’re going through because of your treatment. All that doesn’t matter to me. I see who you are on the inside and I love you. We can deal with the cosmetic stuff —”

  Mallory draws in a deep breath before she blurts, “I love you too, but what if love isn’t enough?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “There are no guarantees I’m going to get better. I watch the other patients at chemotherapy. We lost another long timer last week. It looked like he was getting better and then his body just gave up. That could happen to me! I roped you into this whole pretend husband gig. What if losing my hair is only the beginning of the end?”

  “You’re right there are no guarantees — but that’s true for everyone. I see it every day in my job. Couples who kiss each other goodbye in the morning and one of them never comes home. The best we can do is to love with our whole heart when we are here on earth.”

  “What are you going to do if things don’t go well with me? I feel like I’ve sentenced you to a life of sadness.”

  “That’s not true, Mal. Despite the struggles with your cancer, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Your cancer scares the bejeebeeies out of me most days — but honestly, I don’t think your hair loss is a bad omen of things to come. I just think it’s a side effect of the chemo.”

  “You are such an incurable optimist,” Mallory mutters to herself.

  I carefully extradite myself from the bed and run to the spare bedroom and grab my shaving kit. I stride back into Mallory’s room holding up a new razor and a can of shaving cream.

  “It’s not in my power to eradicate your cancer cells, but I can make your side effects a little more bearable. Let’s say we even out your look a little bit?”

  Mallory nods with tears in her eyes. “Everybody warned me to get my hair cut short months ago so this wouldn’t be so hard.”

  I help her off the bed and pull her close into an embrace as I kiss the top of her head. “I think it would be hard either way. Like you said, there’s a whole lot of symbolism involved in this. But, we’ll get through it together.”

  “I know I should’ve been ready for this. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to face the world looking like a pool ball with eyes,” Mallory mumbles against my chest.

  “I’ve been doing some research. It turns out someone I went to school with started a durable medical equipment company to deal with your kind of situation. I have to work for the next few days, but I would love for you to meet Iris. I think she might have the perfect solution.”

  Mallory lifts her head and looks me in the eye. “Solutions would be nice. I’m tired looking at the ugly side of problems.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MALLORY

  ROCCO HOLDS MY HAND AS we walk into a shop in the historic part of town. There are mannequins with beautiful lingerie and a wall full of wigs in a variety of hairstyles and hair colors. A woman with a long caftan, sparkling blue eyes and spiky gray hair greets me with a wide smile. “Oh, what a beautiful headscarf! I just love silk. I’m Iris, how can I help you?”

  “I came to ask about wigs,” I mumble.

  Iris clasps her hands together in front of her. “How fun! You have delightful bone structure. You could wear almost anything. Would you like to be daring or more traditional?”

  I blush. “I think I’m a traditional kind of gal. Even as a teenager, I didn’
t experiment much with hair dye or funky hairstyles.”

  “So, no bright pink hair for you?” Iris teases.

  Rocco shrugs. “It could be fun. You could look like a pop star.”

  I look around the shop. “Tempting, but not today,” I answer with a giggle. “Can you imagine what my dad would say?”

  Slowly, I walk up and down the aisles of the shop. Finally, I stop in front of a wig which resembles my natural hair. It’s a little shorter than I usually wear my hair, but it looks cute on the mannequin. “What about this one?”

  “I have one in the back I think is just your size. A gal ordered it for her wedding and decided she wanted long hair instead.”

  Iris escorts us to a dressing room. Nervously, I take off the headscarf Rocco had purchased for me. I’ve had three days to get used to being bald. It’s still shocking. Not as shocking as the first day when Rocco gently shaved off all the tufts of hair which remained after that fateful shower. I think he had almost as tough a time with it as I did. My tears nearly did him in. If I wasn’t in love with him before that day, I fell in love then. When I told him so, we just held each other for hours. It wasn’t how I scripted the fairytale to go when I was a little girl — but sometimes reality makes love so much more real than your dreams.

  Iris comes into the dressing room with the wig. She puts an odd little covering on my scalp and then places the wig on my head. I close my eyes. I’m almost afraid to look. If I’m disappointed I don’t know what my options are. After a few little tugs and flips, Iris says, “Honey, you can open your eyes. You look beautiful.”

  I open them cautiously, afraid of what I’ll see. When I think of wigs, I think of Halloween. I never thought I’d be wearing one. My reflection comes into focus through my tears and I can’t believe what I see. It looks like the me before cancer. The hair is full, shiny and bouncy. I start to cry in earnest and I have to turn around and bury my face in Rocco’s chest. “I look like myself,” I sob.