“Oh for the love of . . . really, Marion?” George groans.
“Evie?” I question, looking between the two of them.
“Here we go . . .” George murmurs, picking up a magazine and thumbing through it as an apparent effort to escape from the conversation.
Ignoring his childish display, Marion faces me. “Evie was George’s high school girlfriend, before he came to his senses.” She casts a sideways glance to George, but he doesn’t bite. “Anyway,” she continues, “George and I had been together for quite a while by the time he went to Korea, but that didn’t stop Evie from sending him letters.”
Arching my eyebrow, my mouth flies open.
“See?” Marion gestures toward me, looking at George.
George shakes his head but doesn’t look up from his pretend reading session. “I never wrote her back, Marion.”
“That’s not the point,” Marion and I say at the same time. She laughs, and I catch George smile, too.
Looking back to Marion, I ask, “How’d you find out?”
“I found them in a box a few months after he got home and we were moving into our house.”
“What’d you do?”
“I’ll tell you what she did.” George sets his magazine down, defeated at his attempt to avoid participation. “Marion knocked on Evie’s door—”
“I’ll finish,” Marion cuts in. “I politely went to her house and informed her that while it was nice of her to try to keep my future husband company while he was in Korea, now that he was home, he no longer needed her friendship services. And I turned on my heels and walked away.”
Laughter flies out of me at the thought of tiny Marion taking down an opportunist, 1950’s style.
“Did you ever hear from her again?” I ask, wiping laughter-induced tears from under my eyes.
“Not a word.” Marion sits back, crosses her arms, and offers me a stern nod. “Sometimes you just have to nip those things right in the bud. You did good with what you said to Eric today, Dear.”
“Did you throw the letters away?”
Marion shakes her head. “Goodness, no. They’re his—wasn’t my place. You bet your behind I thought about it six or seven . . . hundred times over the last sixty years. But, I have his letters to me, and that’s the point.”
I stay for lunch with George and Marion, and we talk about upcoming holiday plans before I drive in refreshed quiet back to my apartment.
Sifting through my mail as I walk up the stairs, I stop at a large envelope addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. We haven’t spoken since the boys’ birthday party; any communication has been through my father. I felt her apology was just this side of half-assed, and she clearly felt the same or she wouldn’t be avoiding me. Opening the envelope, I find a note and another envelope. I sit as I take in her words.
Natalie,
I’ve had a long time to think since our talk at Max and Oliver’s birthday party. You’re a strong young woman who I’m proud to call my daughter. Your father tells me he’s been speaking with Bill Manning via e-mail for the last ten years. He’s shown me some of the correspondence, and I’m sorry. I misjudged you, and I misjudged Ryker. You two have been through so much, and I’m sorry for any stress I added to the situation.
Needing a small break from this revelation of honesty, I pour a glass of wine and continue reading her letter at the table. I’m thrilled my dad told her about his friendship with Bill, but am still uneasy about where this letter might be going.
Now, for the part I’m not proud of. I thought I was helping you by trying to control what contact you had with Ryker while you were home for Winter break the month after he was deployed. You were so sad, Natalie . . . I can’t go back and give this to you when it came, but I hope, somehow, you can forgive me.
Love, Mom.
What the hell? I reach for the other unmarked envelope. Opening it, I find another envelope. This one, though, has Ryker’s handwriting on it. A mix of sadness and rage flies through me as I see it was sent to my parents’ house a few days after Christmas. From Afghanistan. This would have been Ryker’s first letter to me, since they left somewhere around Christmas, though I didn’t know the exact date. We sent loads of letters to each other while I was home, and never talked about any specifically, just that we liked getting them. There’s no reason I would have known I missed one. And she knew that. The only reason I’m not on the road to Pennsylvania to strangle her right now is that she kept the letter. For whatever reason, she kept it. Unopened.
Unfolding the page, I set it on the table. Leaning back to stare at it, I decide more wine is in order before I look at the words.
December 25, 2001
Natalie,
Merry Christmas, Gorgeous.
I miss you already. I’ve missed you from the second I couldn’t see you anymore after we said goodbye. Don’t go anywhere, okay? Some of the guys with girlfriends have told them not to wait for them, some proposed before they left, and one guy even got married. I know we aren’t ready for the last two, but I’m not ready for the first one. Just . . . don’t go anywhere. Before you know it, I’ll be home and we can pick up where we left off—me telling you how much I love you, and hearing your beautiful voice telling me how much you love me.
We can do this.
I love you.
Ry
Resisting the urge to call my mother, resisting the urge to call Ryker, I calmly walk to my bedroom and reach for the box under the bed. This letter doesn’t change what happened with Ryker and me back then; it’s not like not receiving this letter caused me to break up with him. We said some version of these things to each other in almost every letter we sent. Something about this being his first letter, though, hurts in a different way. His first thoughts from a desert a million miles away were about me, were about us. Confident Ryker knew we could get through anything. Opening the lid, I place this letter on top, where it belongs, before curling onto my bed and crying myself to sleep.
Chapter 45
“How many Christmases were you in Korea, George?”
George and I are alone today, as Marion is a bit under the weather. Just a week shy of Christmas, she didn’t want to get me sick, George says.
“Two. What about your soldier? How many did you two miss?”
“One.” Though, really, eleven. “I just got the letter he sent me on Christmas when he got to Afghanistan.” I quickly tell George the story, giving a basic backstory of my mother’s general awfulness while I was with Ryker.
“Have you spoken with your mother since you read the letter?”
I shake my head. “No. I think I need to decide if I’m more angry or grateful. That will skew the direction of the conversation.”
“She held onto it, though, Bug . . .”
“I know,” I sigh. “Oh! The boys made you Christmas cards.” Pulling the cards from my bag, I catch a smile on George’s face.
“Is this me and Marion?” He turns the cards in a full circle, inspecting them playfully.
“Yes,” I chuckle, “it is.”
“What’s on my back?”
I squint at the picture. “Oh, that’s a cape.” Seeing the question cross his face, I offer more, “I told him you were an “Army guy”—”
“Marine,” he shoots me an almost-dirty look.
“Take it easy,” I tease, “I know that, they don’t get it. They’re five. Anyway, they say Army-guys are heroes. And, heroes have capes and all of that . . .”
George grins, running his thumb over the face of each card. “They’re good boys, Bug.”
“I know.” With a deep breath, I smile. “I’ve gotta get going, George. Lots to do before Christmas and all.”
Including obsessing over Ryker’s words in a letter he sent a lifetime ago as if he wrote them yesterday.
“Have a good Christmas, Natalie.” George stands and gives me as big of a hug as he can.
“You and Marion, too.” I kiss him on the cheek and move on to the fury of activi
ty that awaits me over the next few days.
Turns out Dr. Greene was right; busy isn’t a coping mechanism. Visiting George and Marion once a week was perfect for my schedule until Winter break hit for the college. I was staring six weeks in the face with not much planned, and Tosha and Liz were going to Hawaii for most of it. Because that’s what couples without children can do when they have over a month off of work.
After cleaning my apartment top to bottom and inside out, baking for Max and Ollie, and doing all of my holiday shopping, I’ve made it to Christmas morning without much trouble. Sure, there have been moments—ironically, the quiet ones—where I’ve thought about cutting. Rather than avoid the thought altogether, I force myself to think it all the way through, every time. I ask myself how cutting would make the person, or situation I’m stressed about any better. The answer is always “it wouldn’t.” Ever. I try not to think about the day that the answer might be “it would help,” and focus on the given day or, sometimes, moment.
Max, Ollie, and I enjoy a very loud, very sugar-filled Christmas morning full of presents, video games, and books. Up until about a month ago, the first time the three of us read a new book, it would take me a few tries to get all the signs right. Now if I mess up, one of them will correct me. They laugh when I mess up, and I’m glad there’s laughter within that situation, now.
Excited as ever for their “second Christmas,” the boys race up the front steps of Eric’s new house before I’ve barely had time to put the car in park. He closed on the house at the beginning of the month, so it’s not my first time here; still, I take a deep breath, staring at the perfectly lit roof and front bushes.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy!” they shout as Eric opens the door with a broad grin.
“Merry Christmas to you kiddos!” he says and signs perfectly. They tumble inside where they’re greeted by Eric’s parents.
Eric tilts his head to the side and offers a sweet smile. “Merry Christmas, Natalie.”
“You too, Eric.” I hand him the boys’ duffel bags.
“Do you want to come in for a drink?”
The question is innocent enough, but the implications are anything but. Eric’s parents aren’t my biggest fans at the moment. They don’t badmouth me in front of the boys and, apparently, that’s all I can expect right now.
“No,” I shake my head, rubbing my hands together, “thank you, though. See you guys next week.”
“Bye.” Eric slides inside and shuts the door, where I can hear glee streaming from the boys’ mouths.
Things aren’t strained between Eric and I after our awkward exchange the day he moved in; but whenever I leave after dropping off the boys, he watches me through the door or window until I’m out of sight. Tonight’s no different as I back down the driveway. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks one day I’ll turn around, but maybe that’s just my guilt coming up for air.
The roads are empty, my car is quiet, and I’m starting to feel the beginnings of the loneliness I’ve been working to keep at bay. Realizing that Christmas night is not the best time to try to play “hero” with myself, I turn left at the intersection and head for South East St. to Bill Manning’s house.
Bill and I haven’t spoken since the night I had dinner with him and Ryker at his house, but I know I’m always welcome. Pulling into his driveway, I’m thankful to see his car parked and living room light on. I nervously wait a few seconds after I knock on the door.
Bill answers the door in jeans and a Christmas sweater. “Natalie? This is a pleasant surprise!”
“Merry Christmas, Bill, can I come in?”
“Of course, of course!”
Stepping into the always-cozy house, I’m surrounded by the sights and smells of Christmas. Fresh-baked cookies sit on a plate in the kitchen, a pine-scented candle is burning in the entryway, and the Christmas tree is fully decorated. Bill spent a lot of Christmases as a single father, so it’s no surprise that even as a sixty-year-old bachelor, he knows how to make his house feel homey.
“You didn’t have your boys today?” Concern fills Bill’s eyes as we sit on the couch next to the tree.
“I had them last night and this morning. I actually just dropped them off at Eric’s house . . . was feeling a little lonely, I guess.”
Bill gently grabs my knee. “I’m glad you came over.”
“Are you normally home on Christmas, with Ryker gone to Jackson Hole, and all?”
Bill shakes his head. “Ryker doesn’t usually go to Wyoming until mid-January.”
“Oh,” my face feels like it was just smacked with a wet towel, “he told me he goes for three months every year . . .”
“Oh, Natalie . . .” Bill seems to try to recover from some breech he’s created.
“No,” I put my hand up, “it’s okay. Ryker did tell me he needed a break . . . I just . . . it didn’t occur to me that he would need that long of a break if it was from me, you know?” Standing, I walk to the kitchen and help myself to water, thankful that I have always felt at home here.
“He’s scared, Natalie.” Bill follows me in with his hands in his pockets. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but what do I have to lose?” He laughs a little.
“Scared?” I grab a cookie off the plate and sit at the kitchen table. “He could just join the club. He didn’t have to fly to Wyoming.”
“The day he saw you at Atkins as he was unloading his truck . . . boy, it was like he’d seen a ghost.” Bill sits next to me with cookies for himself.
“Tell me about it,” I snort.
“Anyway, over the last few months he’s talked to me a hundred times about if he should ask you out to dinner, or what.”
Picturing strong, sure, Ryker asking his dad for advice about something like asking me to dinner makes me grin. “Your son’s a gentleman, Bill . . .”
“I know he is, Natalie. I told him to go for it because, you know, I love you to death. But,” Bill rolls his eyes with a grin, “that boy knows something I don’t.”
“What’s that?”
Bill rests his hand on mine. “You. He knew you were struggling, and he knows how struggle feels, and damn it if he didn’t want to help you, Nat, I swear. But, I don’t think he trusted himself to be around you a lot, you know? He didn’t want to make a mistake he’d regret later.”
“So he runs away to Wyoming for three months?” I spit out sarcastically.
“Men.” Bill shrugs.
Keeping Bill’s analysis of Ryker’s actions in the back of my mind, I move on and talk to Bill about the last few months. He seems happy that I’m working and listens with misty eyes as I tell him about George and Marion Frank and my time with them at the Soldiers’ Home. By the time I’ve rattled off everything under the sun, my loneliness is long gone and it’s approaching midnight.
“Geez, Bill, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.” On cue, I yawn, standing to stretch.
“Any time, Natalie. I mean that, okay?” I know that Bill probably knows all of my issues between discussions he’s had with Ryker and my dad, but I’m glad he doesn’t bring them up, just the same. “Before you go,” he reaches by me and grabs something off the island, “this is for you.”
“Bill, you didn’t have to—”
“I was going to mail it to you, then I ran out of time, and . . . well, let’s just call it good fortune that you showed up here tonight.”
“Let’s.” Wrapping my arms around Bill, I feel a hint of Ryker resting in his broad shoulders. Those two men are built nearly identically.
Bill kisses my cheek before holding me at arm’s length. “Don’t open that until you get home, okay, Honey?”
“Sure thing. Night, Bill.”
Despite the spotty cell service Ryker told me he would have at the camp, I decide to send him a “Merry Christmas” text anyway. Before heading home, there’s one more stop I have to make.
Well after dark, and through five inches of snow, I find it.
Lucas J. Fisher.
I whisper, because that’s how you speak in a cemetery. When you’re not yelling and crying, I suppose.
“I’m taking advantage of the fact that it’s Christmas night and no one would force someone from the grave of their friend on Christmas,” I snicker to the frozen marble.
The wind picks up and gets just under my scarf.
“Okay, okay, I’ll get on with it. So, I’m sorry that the only two times I’ve been here since your funeral I yelled and screamed at you. That was a little . . . misplaced. Anyway, I’m sure you already know this—or whatever—but Ryker and I have been spending a lot of time together. You know how crazy we were for each other—you saw our first kiss, for God’s sake.” I laugh. A light snow starts to fall, landing on my black peacoat and eyelashes.
“I love him, Lucas. It never really went away, and I don’t expect it ever will—no matter where we end up. But, I’ve been really sick. I’m working to get better, because what I’ve been doing for the last few years barely classifies as living. Ryker still doesn’t talk much to me about you, and I guess that’s okay. Just . . . I don’t know what kind of pull you have wherever you are, but somehow let him know that it’s okay for him to talk to me about you. Good and bad. Can you do that? I know that’s asking an awful lot since I’ve done nothing but yell at you since you died, but I’m trying.
“My point?” I kneel down and reach into my pocket, pulling out my old yellow ribbon. “I don’t need this anymore. You came home a long time ago, Ryker’s home now, and I’m working like hell to find my way back.” Setting the ribbon at the base of his headstone, I watch snowflakes make quick work of cradling it.
“I miss you, Buddy. Merry Christmas.” I kiss two fingertips and press them against his name, before hurrying back to the warmth of my car.
When I arrive back to my apartment, the interior is alive with anticipation as I hurry to the bedroom to open Bill’s gift. I don’t know why I feel I need to sit on the bed to open this, but knowing Bill Manning, sitting is best anyway.
In the Stillness Page 27