by Jodie Toohey
I raised my right hand but I write with that hand. I switched arms. I wrote “Dear Nada,” but the carbon paper I used so I could have a copy of my letter danced under the force of the shifting pen. It was so sloppy I had to start over. I pinned the paper beneath my left elbow, my hand still as high in the air as I could get it, and finally created two legible words.
“Amicus, do you have a question?”
I blew eraser bits from the paper and stuck my hand back into pole formation. “Yes.” I walked behind Mrs. Abernathy’s desk.
She turned the globe. I recognized North America.
“Where are we?” she said.
I looked at the small print.
“Well, about where are we?” Her faced was flushed. I looked up and did not see any more hands in the air. I quickly touched the tip of my right index finger to the middle of the United States on the globe.
Mrs. Abernathy spun the globe silently and pointed to a country nearly on the opposite side of the sphere. I read, “Yugoslavia.”
“Then here is Croatia, a republic within Yugoslavia.” She used the tip of her red pen to invisibly outline an area that looked like an alligator’s head with another republic in its mouth. The small islands along its southern coast looked like dripping saliva.
“Where is this?” I pointed to the word on my paper. I didn’t want to embarrass myself again.
Mrs. Abernathy held a magnifying glass to the globe and sat her pen on a tiny dot between the alligator’s lower jaw and dripping saliva, the spot on the its neck where you’d scratch it if it were a cat or a dog. “The ‘j’ is pronounced like a ‘y.’ It’s pronounced, Rijeka.”
I returned to my desk and wrote:
*****
February 13, 1991
Dear Nada,
How are you? I guess I am fine. I am writing this letter to you because it is today’s English class assignment. But I don’t mind. I like to write letters.
I am fifteen years old. I am in the ninth grade at Camanche High School in Camanche, Iowa, in the United States of America. I live with my mom, sister, and brother in a two-story house. My mom’s name is Sue.
My name is Amicus but all of my friends call me Ami. You can call me Ami if you want to. My parents named all of their kids after Latin legal terms. Clearly, Amicus is the best one; it means “friend of the court.” Afortiori, which means “with stronger reason,” is my sister’s name. We call her Forti. She is eight years old. Apriori, which means “from cause to effect,” is my baby brother (well, he is not really a baby anymore because he is four but I still call him that). His nickname is Prio.
What do you do for fun? I love to spend time with my little cousin, Emily. She is 16 months old and she is the only thing that can make me smile. I used to like to ride bikes or go for walks on next to the Mississippi River, shop at the mall, and roller skate with friends but not so much anymore. When I’m not with Emily, I love listening to music; it takes me away.
The bell is going to ring in five minutes so I have to go. Please write me back.
Your New Pen Pal,
Amicus Sinkey
*****
I turned my letter into Mrs. Abernathy. After class, I passed Larry Benson’s locker. He leaned against the metal talking to Heather Birch. I fought the urge to reach around him to feel whether the cool metal of his locker was as warmed by Larry’s presence as I was. A passing elbow collided with mine, sending my books flying to the floor in slow motion. I dropped to pick them up and avoided glancing in Larry’s and Heather’s direction as I nearly sprinted to my locker, my face burning. Did he see it? Or worse, did he not see me at all?
CHAPTER THREE
I didn’t think again about the letter until I arrived home from school the first day of March to find a thin envelope addressed to me with a border around the outside like a red, white, and blue candy cane and several cancelled stamps on our kitchen counter. I examined it. The only mail I ever received was a magazine for teens and the occasional erroneously addressed junk mail. Both addresses were printed neatly, all the letters capitalized and uniformly sized but for the “j” in Rijeka, which finally triggered my memory. I dropped my backpack to the floor and carefully released the envelope flap. I pulled out a neatly folded, blue lined paper just like I used every day and read.
*****
23 February 1991
Dear Ami,
I was excited to receive your letter. My friend, Sanja, and I talk about living in America one day. I hope you are able to understand my English. Many people here speak English. It is same in other cities on the edge of the Adriatic Sea where I live. I am still learning to write in English in school. Luckily I was not put into German like my sister, Maja, or we would not be able to write to each other.
Maja is eleven years old. She is in grade five. I am thirteen years old. I am in grade seven. I have no brothers. It is just Maja; Mama, Rada; Tata, Boško; and me. Everyone in my family has dark brown hair and eyes.
Tata is a postman. Mama works as a seamstress in a business suit factory. Perhaps you did not have the time to explain to me your parents’ work. I hope if you have more time when you write your next letter to me, you will tell me?
As I mentioned, like you do, I live by water. I live next to Adriatic Sea. It is so beautiful and so blue. Is your Mississippi River like that? It is still cold and wintery here now so I do homework and play with Maja at home when not practicing Tae Kwon Do. I cannot wait for summer. Then I can go swimming in the sea, play outside with friends, and ride bicycles.
I await your reply.
Your new friend,
Nada Popović
*****
I rushed to reply to Nada’s letter. I was halfway up the stairs when my mom yelled, “Ami, your backpack!” I rolled my eyes and skipped down.
I muttered, “Sorry,” to Mom as I snatched my backpack from the floor by her feet.
When I arrived to my bedroom, I flung the backpack onto my bed and carefully closed my door. I felt bad for irritating Mom. It filled my heart with pride on the occasions she would smile at me while I was eating my cereal and say, “Ami, you are so quiet; I hardly know you’re here.” But I had a letter to write.
I sat down at the wood desk Mom found at a garage sale and gave to me after the first day of kindergarten. She told me I needed to start my education off on the right foot and she spent a week rearranging my small bedroom to fit the desk against the pink and purple striped walls. I dug my best stationary and carbon paper out from the bottom desk drawer, careful not to move the desk too much and dislodge the folded-up pieces of cardboard steadying it on the carpet. I got a purple ink pen and wrote the date at the top of the page, March 1, 1991. I shifted the paper higher on my desk, rested the pen’s tip on the paper, and stared at the wall.
I adored the purple and pink stripes when I was five but despised them by the time I was ten. Mom said she spent so much time painting the neat stripes that I had to live with them until I went to college. I even offered to paint them, but she said she didn’t think I was mature enough to paint carefully and not ruin my carpeting. So I did what I could to cover the walls using poster putty to pin up posters of the Beverly Hills 90210 stars, Tom Cruise, the guys from Saved By The Bell, and, of course, all of the NKOTB from Tiger Beat and Bop. I reread Nada’s letter to me and decided to first answer her questions. I wrote:
*****
March 1, 1991
Dear Nada,
My dad’s name is Donald Sinkey and he is a doctor; a surgeon to be more specific. My mom’s name is Sue Sinkey. For now, she just takes care of us and our house, but she is going to be a great lawyer one day. She had to put her plans on hold when my dad decided he’d rather live with his surgical nurse.
The Adriatic Sea sounds nothing like the Mississippi River, which is brown and muddy. Many people say it is beautiful but I don’t see it. There are some bluffs at places along the river high above the water which I think are pretty, but that is not the river. There is one place
on the river I like to visit. It is completely full of water lilies; they rise up out of the muddy water like a miracle. Do you have water lilies in your country? If you don’t, I will tell you about them. If you do, please ignore the following few sentences. The leaves of the water lilies poke out of the water curled into a tight stick. When they get to the right height, they relax, the leaves uncurl, they sink back to the river, and float on the top like hearts. In July, the water lilies produce sweet smelling blossoms which, if you stand at the right spot, will overtake the smell of dead fish from the river. By the way, when I say “the river,” I am referring to the Mississippi River. Everyone here calls it “the river,” I guess because it is so big and so much a part of this area. Even though we do have other rivers around here we call them by name and include “river” in their names. We are humoring them because, in comparison to “the river,” they are really just streams. Do you call your Adriatic “the sea” or do you use its full name, “Adriatic Sea”?
Do you like music? What kind of music do the teenagers listen to in your country? I LOVE music. I have a small stereo on my dresser in my bedroom. It has a dual cassette deck so I don’t have to turn the tapes over so often. Whenever I get any birthday money, I try to buy a new tape or I buy blank tapes and record songs from the radio. I like all different kinds of music. Some of the groups/singers I like are NKOTB, Mariah Carey, Amy Grant, Garth Brooks, and Reba McEntire. My grandma pays me five dollars every once in a while to clean up her house so I have finally saved up enough money to buy Reba McEntire’s last album, “Rumor Has It.” I have some of the songs I taped off the radio but I like all of the songs so I want the whole tape. Mom said we can go to Target (a store) this weekend to get it. I will tell you if it is good.
Do you have a boyfriend? I wish I did, but I don’t.
*****
“Ami! Dinner!” I jumped in the chair, leaving a trail of ink across my paper. I didn’t have time to white it out.
“Coming!” I finished my letter.
*****
I’m in love with Larry Benson. I will write you more about him later. My mom is calling me for dinner. Write me back when you can. What is it like to live in Croatia and Yugoslavia?
Your friend,
Ami
P.S. SSS (sorry so sloppy)
*****
I folded the paper, pushed it into its lime green envelope, and scribbled Nada’s address on it. My mom, Forti, and Prio were already eating when I reached the kitchen.
“Ami, your food is getting cold,” my mom said.
“One sec.” I grabbed a return address label and a stamp; I licked them both, stuck them onto the envelope, and then slipped the envelope into the little plastic basket on the counter where we stored outgoing mail. When I slid into my chair at the table, I was thrilled to find the plate covered in meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy. I was not so excited to see the pile of carrot cubes there, but I slathered them with butter and salt. I ate them fast before the taste settled on my tongue. That gave me another idea for letters to Nada. I focused on remembering to write a note reminding myself to write to Nada about my favorite foods. Forti and Prio monopolized Mom’s attention, as usual, so staying intent on the task was not difficult.
After Forti and I put the clean dishes from the dishwasher away and loaded the dirty dishes into it, I raced back up to my room as fast as I could. I pushed the play button on the right tape deck and “Little Girl” groaned back into motion. Rather than just make a note to talk about food in my next letter to Nada, I decided to get a head start on the actual letter so I could write her back faster after I received her next letter. I never sent it because before I received Nada’s next letter, everything fell apart.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was unusually warm and humid at 4:00 p.m. on March 25, 1991. As usual, I retreated to my bedroom after school. I heard the telephone ring in Mom’s bedroom through the wall. I assumed it was Grandma’s daily call to make sure we all made it home safely. But then I heard urgent footsteps and filled with panic. Forti knocked but didn’t wait for an invitation before she swung the door open and said, panting, “Something bad happened. You have to finish cooking dinner.”
I jumped from my bed and pushed the mini stereo’s power button. The song droned out in low, distorted voices. I hurried to the kitchen. Mom shook as she attempted to tie her shoes.
She said, “Emily was hit by a car. I have to go to the hospital. Finish cooking supper.”
“What?” I stammered.
“That was Uncle Matt. He just said she was hit by a car by the park and it was bad.”
I watched the door close behind my mom’s back. Tears fell into the pan cooking Tuna Helper Au Gratin dinner as I stirred aimlessly. A voice in my head growled, she’s dead, but I commanded it away and consoled myself. I thought, She could still be okay. You don’t know what happened. Maybe the car just bumped Emily. I argued with myself, asserting maybe Emily was just in a coma or broke her leg, but negatively retorted, she is so small and cars so big that she could not be anything but dead.
I finished cooking dinner and served it with buttered white bread to Forti and Prio. I tried to eat but had only choked down three small tear-laden bites before I was startled by the shrill phone ring. I dreaded answering but picked up the receiver, brought it to my ear in slow motion, and whispered, “Hello.”
“She’s gone.” I thought I had heard Mom wrong, but before I could ask, she said, “She didn’t make it.”
I yelled, “No,” and cried with her through the telephone line. I relayed the message to Forti’s and Prio’s blank faces. I placed the telephone receiver back on the wall. With a knife twisting in my chest and my stomach constricting, I ran upstairs to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. I crumbled to the bathroom floor, clutched my stomach, and cried. The trap door had slid from under my feet and I flailed.
Within a few hours, I knew the whole story. Aunt Shari had taken Emily for a walk in her stroller to the park in her neighborhood. When they left to walk back home, Aunt Shari buckled Emily into her stroller. When they reached the intersection a block away from the park, Aunt Shari pushed the street light button and waited for the walk signal. The moment she stepped out into the intersection, an unlicensed sixteen-year-old girl riding with her friends swerved around the cars stopped at the red light and struck Emily’s stroller. Aunt Shari tried to hang on to it as it was snatched from her hand and drug under the car. All she could do was watch as Emily’s head bounced on the pavement and the car tire traversed her tiny back, causing the massive head injuries which had stolen her life by the time the car stopped several yards away.
The next morning, my family gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Most of the day I sat staring, unable to think of anything but Emily, and screaming to myself, Why Emily? I loved her with my life! The funeral director arrived early; he sat at the kitchen table with Grandma, Aunt Shari, and Uncle Matt. I stood on the other side of the kitchen peninsula next to Mom who stood next to Grandpa. Immediately after the arrangements were set and the door closed behind the funeral director, Grandpa broke. The house fell silent and we listened to his agony. My stomach sickened and my throat closed.
He repeated, “Why Emily? Why not me? I am an old man. She was a baby. It should have been me.” I looked at Mom; heavy tears rolled down her foundation-smeared cheeks, dropped from her jaw, and pooled on the gold-flecked kitchen countertop. We stood, crying silently, while we waited for my grandpa to resign himself to the fact we could not answer his questions and he could not take Emily’s place.
I replayed Emily’s entire life in my imagination, wanting to preserve every second in memory. The last time I saw Emily alive was the previous Saturday night. I gave Emily her bath, dried her off with a fluffy towel, and then Emily grabbed the pajamas Aunt Shari had laid out on her bed. She shoved them in front of my face and said, “On!”
I kissed Emily good night and tucked her into bed but she wouldn’t stay. She had just star
ted sleeping in her big-girl bed and enjoyed sneaking out to spy on me from around the corner of the living room wall. I marched her back to bed a few times; the last time I told her sternly, “Emily, it is time to go to sleep. Stay here.” She got up once more but I decided to try a different tactic and just ignored her. I peeked in on her a little while later and found her lying perpendicular on her bed. If I had known, I would have kept Emily up and preserved every second of that night.
At the funeral visitation, when the curtains hiding Emily’s casket were drawn open, I locked my knees and studied the grape juice colored carpeted floor. Emily lay in the casket in the clothes I picked out with Aunt Shari and my grandma: a pink lavender jumpsuit dotted with tiny white flowers, a white blouse, and saddle shoes. For the first time, Emily’s hair was tame. It lay flat, lifeless, and brownish red, still tinted from her blood despite the funeral home’s efforts to clean it. She was still. The scrapes on her face were visible through the thick stage-like funeral home makeup. Her skin was cold and rubbery.
After Emily’s funeral, I returned to a house covered with a dark cloud filled even more with despair and grief. I was left with a gaping wound that could never heal.
CHAPTER FIVE
Life could not possibly continue and I didn’t want it to, but to my amazement and dismay, the sun woke me the following morning. I received another letter from Nada two days after Emily died, but it took me two weeks to open and read it.
*****
11 March 1991
Dear Ami,
It is so funny. We do call the “Adriatic Sea” just “the sea.” But there are really no other seas around to confuse us.
What is school like in America? I guess I like school but it is a lot of work, except for English class. It is my favorite. That is why I signed up for this pen pal project. I love to read and try to write in English. I most specially like to write stories so I like my letters to be like stories.