Letters from Owen

by T. L. Haddix

  August 8, 1963

  Storm clouds were approaching from the southwest, illuminated in the dark by fierce flashes of lightning that danced across the horizon. The wind was kicking up, bringing with it the scent of rain.

  “We’ll probably lose power,” Owen said quietly as Sarah wrapped her slender arms around his waist. “Think we’ll be okay?”

  It was still a jolt to feel her body so close without the press of her pregnancy between them. The twins were three days old and had been home now for just over twenty-four hours.

  “We should be.” She rubbed her face against his shoulder. “They’re all three sound asleep finally. Big day tomorrow, Papa.”

  Owen clasped her hands. “Very big.”

  The renovations were finally complete on the house, and though they’d not made their deadline of moving in before the twins were born, they’d tried not to stress too much about that.

  “A few days in the studio with three children isn’t going to kill us,” Sarah had said a couple of weeks ago when it became apparent they weren’t going to make it. “It might even be easier, as we won’t have to fight to figure out where everything is.”

  “It’ll be good to see everyone,” she said now. “I wish I could cook a big meal or something as a thanks.”

  Owen’s uncle Eli and most of Eli’s family were coming up from Laurel County to help with the move and lend a hand at getting them settled into the farmhouse.

  Owen turned and hugged her. “Oh, they’ll take a raincheck. Eli sounded so excited. I think he’s finding the fact that I have a daughter a bit too funny though.”

  Sarah grinned at him. “Sweet Owen, I am finding that fact funny. Everyone who knows you is. You were so adamant about not having girls, and you’re already wrapped around that baby’s finger.”

  He laughed, albeit quietly, and shrugged. “What can I say?”

  She grew serious. “That you’re happy? That you really are okay with us moving into that house?”

  Sobering, Owen cupped her face. “I’m far beyond happy. As for the house, this process of remodeling, of expanding things here and there and erasing other aspects of the place, it’s allowed me to take control of the memories, to make the house my own. I can see our children playing there and see us living there for many, many years as a family. I want that so much it surprises me.”

  Eyes closed, she nuzzled his palms, dropping sweet little kisses there. “We could have built another house.”

  Owen tipped her chin up as he chuckled. “Sarah Jane Campbell, you love that old house.” He kissed her softly, then with more intensity, pulling back before the embrace became uncomfortable for them, given her physical limitations. “What do you say we hold each other while this storm rolls through?”

  Low, rumbling thunder cascaded across the sky. Gusting wind chased after it and darted into the room.

  “Let me make sure they’re not in a draft.” Sarah turned to check on the babies and John, who were tucked away in their respective cribs behind a divider screen. “I know I need to sleep, but I feel full of energy tonight.” But she sat on the side of the bed anyhow.

  He held the covers up for her as she swung her legs into bed with a small grimace. “How’s the soreness?”

  “Better. I’d give a hundred dollars to be able to run a big tub full of hot water and soak in it, but that’s not an option at the moment. Soon, I keep promising myself.”

  Owen looked in on the children even though she’d done that only a minute ago. “We have a nice start to our little family here, you know? Three’s a good number.”

  She smiled as he came around the bed and turned the lamp off, then slipped under the sheet. “I have to admit I’m pretty proud of our accomplishments.” When he rubbed her back and hip, she moaned. “Who needs a soaking bath? Oh, that’s nice.”

  “Don’t let me hurt you.”

  She squeezed his arm. “You never could.”

  “I hope not.”

  A loud clap of thunder sounded, then rain started pounding against the roof. Thanks to the deep overhangs, Owen didn’t worry about the water getting in through the open windows.

  Sarah sighed as he found a particularly tense muscle and worked it. “Have you written your letters yet?”

  He kissed her neck. “Not yet. I will soon. I love you, wife.”

  “I love you.” She reached back and touched his face. “I can’t believe the storm hasn’t disturbed the babies. Maybe that means they’re wild children at heart.”

  “Maybe. But I’m sure Emma isn’t. She’s a little angel.”

  Sarah laughed so hard the bed shook, and she had to bury her face in the pillow as she snorted. “I’m going to remind you of this moment every time she gets in trouble for the next twenty or so years,” she said when she could speak.

  “You go right ahead. I’m sure that won’t be often.” He gently hugged her then resumed the massage.

  By the time the storm had almost passed, she was sound asleep. Owen wasn’t nearly ready to doze off, however, so once he was sure she was out, he got up. The divider was set up in such a way that it blocked the lamplight from his desk, and he got his pen and paper out as quietly as he could. With his entire world asleep and safe behind him, he started writing.

  Dearest children,

  This week, our little family grew by leaps and bounds. It isn’t so little anymore. So many changes, and such a short amount of time has passed between what feels like two distinct eras: “then” and “now.”

  John, you’re a big brother now. Sarah and I are already seeing your caring nature develop, as every time your brother or sister cries, you’re there to make sure nothing is harming them. I hope that means you’ll always look out for them, that the three of you will form a tight bond, similar to what your mother has with her siblings. That’s how it should be.

  Emma Jean, Benjamin Wayne, I marvel at your similarities and your differences. I can hardly wait to see your interactions as you grow older, to see if you have that closeness twins are said to share.

  You’ll each get your own letter, but for right now, I wanted to write something for the three of you as a collective. Something your mother and I can share with you when you’re older, when you’re teasing your old man about being sentimental.

  I hope I can be the father you three deserve. For some reason, this is a bit more daunting than I’d expected, the prospect of guiding three children through the pits and traps of the world, much more so than it felt with just John. I wouldn’t trade any of you for all the riches in this old world, and I hope I never let you down.

  We’re getting ready to take another big step as a family—we’ll be moving into the old farmhouse tomorrow. The new old farmhouse, I feel I should say. So much work has been done to modernize the structure, yet keep the characteristics your mother adores, that it bears little resemblance to the house I grew up in.

  Someday you’ll probably come to know why my memories of the house aren’t that good. By the time you’re old enough to hear those stories, I hope that we will have, as a family, built so many new, good memories that the old, painful ones are just flickers of remnants of the past.

  For now, it’s enough that I love you, that I love your mother, and that I am loved in return by you and by her. And I have to admit, I’m looking forward to finally sleeping in a bedroom that doesn’t have a toddler in it at least some of the time. I’ll probably not sleep a wink the first week or two, John, knowing you aren’t an arm’s length away from us. You might find your dear old dad sleeping on the floor in your room or bringing you downstairs to stay with the rest of us since Emma and Ben will be sleeping in our room for a few months.

  Maybe putting our bedroom downstairs and all of your rooms upstairs wasn’t such a good idea after all. Time will tell.

  With love and all my affection,

  Your father

 
; Emma

  August 8, 1963

  Dear Emma,

  For a long while now, at least ever since I met your mother, I’ve known that Fate would probably take it upon herself to set daughters on my shoulders. I’ve long protested to the world that only boys were acceptable, that girls were too much trouble, and I only wanted sons. Can I make a confession to you, my darling, dearest daughter? There’s an old phrase about “he who doth protest too much…” That he is me.

  I’m not at all disappointed you’re here. In fact, I’m as far from disappointed as a man can get. You’re so beautiful, my tiny Emma Jean, named after your grandmother Eliza Jean. I can only hope that as you grow, your spirit matches that sweet lady’s and your mother’s as well. Strength, courage, tenacity… all elements Sarah and Eliza share in spades.

  I might rue those elements from time to time as you grow up, as I expect you’ll test me in ways your brothers wouldn’t dare, all because you know you can get away with more than they can. I’ll admit here and now that you’ll probably be a daddy’s girl, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The doctor said you came into the world squalling with little fists raised, almost as though you were ready for anything. A strong warrior princess, no doubt. A Campbell through and through, with Browning thrown in to pepper the mix. You’re a six-pound, three-ounce dynamo who is already showing her brothers how feisty a girl can be. John doesn’t quite know what to think of you, which your mother finds tremendously amusing.

  I wonder if you’ll resemble your mother or me as you get older. Or someone else entirely—one of your grandparents or cousins or none of the above. A mix of all of us maybe. I’m absolutely certain you’ll be beautiful, inside and out. You have quite the shock of dark hair, much like your brother John had when he was born. Sarah laughed and said you got your share and your brother Ben’s, as he’s blessed with only the teensiest bit of blond down.

  Speaking of your mother, she’s as pleased as punch to finally have you here. She’s already talking about all the girly things the two of you can do together as you get older, and if we’re being frank, I think she’s also looking forward to watching you keep the males in the household at sixes and sevens. Given how much she loves to tease your uncle Jack, I think she’ll probably be a bad influence on you in that department. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  There was quite a bit of concern over the last couple of weeks as we waited for your arrival, yours and your brother’s. Your mother was a trouper, a steady rock. I was a blathering idiot. But twins are a scary proposition, you see, in an already terrifying situation.

  Emma, I’ll admit to you here and now that one reason I so adamantly protested having daughters was because I knew you’d have my heart from the time you took your first breath, and there are so many ways in the world that a girl can be hurt, ways that boys perhaps don’t have to face quite so much. I can only hope that your mother and I can prepare you for those situations while we pray to God they never arise in the first place.

  You’re already asserting yourself, and that’s a good thing, I believe. I hope you never lose your voice, your ability to tell the world what you need and when you need it. I’ve seen so many good women who didn’t have that kind of spark. I’ve seen too many men eager to stamp out what spark there was. I aim to make sure we never do that with you or allow anyone to do it to you. You have my word, Emma Jean Campbell.

  I already adore you, and you’ve not even been on this earth a week. I fear I’m in trouble now, truly in for it for the rest of my life, and I wouldn’t change a thing. If someone offered me a son in your place, I’d knock him off his feet for asking.

  My baby girl, my daddy’s girl, sweet little Emma Jean Campbell, I love you.

  Your father,

  Owen

  Ben

  August 8, 1963

  My son,

  I’m overcome with emotion as I try to write this letter, my heart so full it’s near to bursting with joy. Your arrival, and that of your sister, has been so very anticipated it’s difficult to put into words.

  You, Benjamin Wayne Campbell, are so different from your brother John it’s astonishing. You’re quieter than he was, and you don’t look much like him either. I hope you’ll forgive me when I say I was expecting you to be similar to him in looks and temperament. I’m certainly not disappointed that you’re different, but I am fascinated.

  Your mother, sweet Sarah, thinks you look like me. I suppose that’s a good thing. I’ll certainly say you are cuter than I think I am, even if you are toothless. Oh, Ben. To have two sons… I worry that you won’t be close, that you’ll be opposites, like my brother and I were. But then I think about Uncle Eli’s sons, how well they rub along together despite their differences, and I know you’ll be okay.

  Whatever you are, whatever you become, you’ll know that you are loved. I’ll see to that, I promise you. Your brother, your sister, and you, I never want a moment’s doubt to enter your minds about that.

  John already adores you. He’s not sure what to think about your sister other than saying she cries a lot and turning a perplexed frown to me or your mother, which has us hiding laughs. But he already wants to play soldiers and horses with you. I’ve promised him that in a few months, he’ll be able to do more than sit and hold you. He’s only a baby still himself, so that hasn’t made a lot of sense to him.

  As for your sister, she outweighed you by a couple of ounces and beat you to the finish line by an hour. She’s not shy about making her presence known, whereas you are much less adamant about your needs. I was concerned at first, but Sarah and the doctor both reassured me you’re healthy. You’re just calm, quiet… and that’s probably not going to last long. Dr. Boggs said his oldest son was the same way when he was born, and now he’s a holy terror who torments his young siblings, much to their delight.

  You’re named after Silas Wayne Combs, one of our neighbors. He’s a tremendously good man who would quite literally give a stranger the shirt off his back if they were in need. Your mother and I think the world of him, and we hope you’ll get to meet him someday.

  Time will tell whether you are the baby in the family or not, but regardless of the order of your birth, you’re as precious to me as any of your siblings. You each hold a special place in my heart, which feels ten times larger today than it did last week. I look at you and wonder how you’ll see the world, how your view will be different from John’s and Emma’s. I hope someday you and I can share talks about those views, embracing our similarities and our differences in turn.

  I hear one of you stirring, so I’d best go see who’s fussing. You’re so precious and new, a bundle of potential and hopes and dreams, my son. I can hardly wait to see who you become, but I’m also in no rush for that time to get here. The journey of watching you and your siblings grow is one I’m looking forward to like nothing else in this world.

  With love,

  Your father

  April 21, 1966

  Savannah, Georgia

  Dearest Sarah,

  My heart is breaking tonight, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. I can’t make this better, and I’m lost because of that. How’s a man supposed to protect what he loves when things like this occur?

  Our children are asleep, blissfully unaware of what’s happened over the last few days. I wish they could stay that way, unharmed by the cruelty in this world. I wish we all could, but that isn’t how things work, is it? No one ever promised life would be fair, and if they did, they were lying.

  You finally drifted off a little while ago, fatigue and the doctor’s pill working together to knock you soundly out. Your mother and I were relieved, as you’ve not slept for two days despite the tremendous stresses you’ve been under physically and emotionally. We were starting to get concerned that you would have to go to the hospital.

  I’m still wide awake, unable to lie down bes
ide you for fear that I’ll wake and you’ll be gone. I know that isn’t rational. Nothing about how I feel right now is rational. God, I wish we were home so I could run with the wind tonight, screaming out my rage and anguish to the forest. But you need Eliza so much right now, and I wouldn’t take you away from her if I could.

  I blame myself for this as much as I know you blame yourself. Eliza’s doctor, kind woman that she is, warned me about these feelings. So did Eliza. It’s natural, they said, for a woman to question everything she’s done in the days and weeks following the loss of a child.

  Sarah, you didn’t do this. You didn’t cause this. You’re the best damned mother in the world, and God himself would never be able to convince me you were to blame for losing this baby. No one was to blame, Dr. Sanderson said, and she was quite adamant about that.

  You kept apologizing to me earlier, so I’ll offer you my forgiveness even though I never, ever blamed you and never would. I don’t know that I can forgive myself. I have to laugh—harshly, mind you, and without a shred of humor—because the only way I could have prevented this was if I had been God himself. I know that intellectually. I think it will take some time to get it through my thick skull as far as my heart is concerned.

  I know you’re questioning whether or not you thought this into happening, as we aren’t really ready to have another child. I have those questions too about my own thinking. Time and again over the last two days, I’ve had to remind myself that I’m being silly.

  Ready or not, I wanted this child. I know you did as well. Who would he or she have become? What would it have looked like? Perhaps that’s what hurts the most—all the things we’ll never know. And calling the baby an “it” feels so wrong. It was our child, damn it all to hell and back! I can’t stand the pain, and I can’t not bear it either. God, Sarah…