by Tory Jane
I order a Crown and ginger to take out into the courtyard and find a quiet, hidden spot to drink and chain smoke.
I imagined this exact scenario and yet I’m dumbfounded. To discover they all agreed to the lie, including my father shocks me.
Jack didn't walk away. Worse, he thought I abandoned him. Everything I did while he was gone. All of the horrible choices I made. What will he think of me?
Our baby. They denied me the opportunity to tell him, to grieve with him. They left me alone with the weight of that pain dragging me further and further down.
I trudge up King Street and return to work buzzed with red, puffy eyes. I go through the motions until Cecelia suggests that she run the sales floor and that I stay at the register. Eventually, she sends me home early and promises she'll take care of everything. I merely thank her, with tears streaming down my face.
My First Letter
I barely make it home, driving through a cloud of tears. The pain has returned, and it is fresh and raw. I am nauseous, clammy, and my head is pounding.
I plan to change into flannel pajamas and drink wine. When I open the door, there is a letter on the floor. Today is Sunday. I reach for the envelope, and it's heavy and lumpy. What is this?
I turn it over. He wrote only my name, Bella Belle. Jack wrote me a letter. He must have walked over and put it through the mail slot today.
Clutching the letter, I run to my tiny kitchen and prepare myself. I’m jittery. My hand trembles as I pour a glass of wine and light a cigarette. Staring at his handwriting, I gently open the envelope. Tiny pebbles fill the envelope, which makes me laugh aloud. There is an engraved notecard enclosed.
jCc
Belle ~ as promised, I have been collecting pebbles. In my exuberance, I filled my pockets until they were bulging. It occurred to me that if I shared, you might sneak over and throw pebbles at my window? Do you remember which one it is? I will leave a Christmas candle in the window for you to find me. Please come and find me.
Always, Jack
My tears dry. He wants me to come see him. What is happening between us? We need to talk. There are too many secrets between us. We're dancing around some doozies.
I can't imagine how he felt when he learned that our parents kept us apart and that I didn't receive his letters. It pains me to think that all of this time he believed I shut him out. He needs to know I never would have abandoned him.
I want the other letters. Maybe Jack confessed everything in the letters he wrote over the past five years. Perhaps they're not professions of love and devotion. It could be that he was writing to tell me he'd met someone else. The chic designer I imagined. An invitation to his wedding? A birth announcement? A beautifully designed Christmas card of the three of them?
I decide to play a bit, to gauge his reaction to my attempts at flirting. I find my phone and type out a text.
Thank you for your beautiful note and my cache of pebbles. Just a suggestion, though. There is a feature on your smartphone that *gasp* allows you to send messages.
He responds immediately.
Bella, I’m disappointed. Have you forgotten the joy of simple pleasures? Handwritten notes on fine paper? Besides, my iPhone wouldn’t let me send pebbles. I tried.
Technology does have its limitations. A handwritten note through my mail slot was a joy to behold. I've missed your beautiful penmanship. It brightened my day. Thank you.
When will I hear the ping of pebbles against my windowpane?
Unfortunately, my pitching arm is out of practice. Have you seen these puny things? I'm not sure I could toss a pebble up to the first floor of your parents' house, let alone the third. There is the added impediment of the piazzas on each level.
Valid points, indeed. Sounds like I'll need to lurk about your charming carriage house. It looked cozy and inviting. Perfect for my little pixie. Do you still have a garden?
He is flirting. He hasn’t forgotten anything. Jack, my beautiful Jack. Come find me.
Suddenly, there is a knock on my door. My immediate thought is that it's Jack. He's walked over, texting as he walks.
I hide the evidence of the cigarette I smoked and rush to the door. Flinging open the door, I find my father standing there, holding the box. He looks like he’s been crying.
“Daddy.”
Placing the box on the floor, he gathers me up in his arms. As soon as he holds me, I begin to cry. He strokes my hair, trying to soothe me.
When I pull back, I stare into his eyes, eyes I have inherited from him, and tears cloud his vision. Have I ever seen my father cry?
“Thank you for bringing me the box, Daddy. Can I fix you a drink? I think I have some bourbon or scotch?”
For some reason, I am not angry with him. I know this was not his idea. He may have saved the box, but it wasn’t his decision. He's always seen me for who I am, no matter what façade I was wearing. He would not treat me like a broken, wounded child. No, my father would expect me to be strong and face the truth.
Nevertheless, he will not betray my mother. He'll take responsibility for this deception.
“Annabelle Leigh? Have you been smoking?”
Yes, my name is Annabelle Leigh. My parents love Edgar Allen Poe, who lived in Charleston for a short time. When he was eighteen, Poe enlisted in the Army under an assumed name. He was stationed at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island, which is off the coast of Charleston, near Gold Bug Island. Legend has it that Annabel Lee Ravenel from Charleston was the subject of Poe’s famous poem and that Poe was the young man her father forbade her from seeing. My mother’s maiden name? Lillian Annabel Ravenel.
A parent coming between two young lovers? The story seems apropos at this moment.
I’m sixteen again. Have I been smoking? “No,” I lie. A bald-faced lie.
“Young lady, don't lie to me. Your mother and I have been sneaking cigarettes and hiding them for years.”
“You and Mama?” In my wildest dreams, I cannot imagine sharing a drink and a smoke with my perfect mother.
“May I have a scotch and water and one of those cigarettes, please?”
We stand across from each other, separated by the kitchen counter. My father is eyeing me warily. Why is everyone so afraid I'm going to lose my shit at any moment? Because I have a habit of doing so. Guilty as charged.
“Stop looking at me like that, Daddy. I’m not going to fall apart. Please talk to me and tell me what happened. Why did y’all hide this from me? I can’t believe this was your decision.”
I set our drinks, the pack of cigarettes and an ashtray between us, light a candle, and open the kitchen window. “There. Now please be honest with me. I deserve it.”
As he perches on one of the stools at the counter, he takes a long slug from his drink and lights a cigarette. I wish I had a picture of him like this.
He clears his throat and looks uncomfortable. “Annabelle. Belle, I’m sorry.
“Your mother told me about your lunch today. She is heart-broken. I wish I could say that I fought harder to give you the letters, but the four of us agreed it was for the best.
“When Jack left, you lost your spirit, your soul. You were a ghost, disconnected from your friends, your family. For nearly six months, you isolated yourself and hid in here. We knew you were depressed, and feared you were suicidal. The thought of losing you terrified us. We believed we needed to protect you.
“Jack wasn't communicating with his parents. They talked infrequently, and he told them about school and his plans for the future. At first, he didn't mention you or admit he was writing to you. He wrote to you only. We had no idea what was in those letters. We feared he was writing something that would hurt you more. We wanted you to move on. We wanted to see the fire in your eyes again.
“As the letters continued to arrive, we felt trapped in our lie. We discussed it over the years. When was a good time to bring them to you and admit what we’d done? As time went by, it was easier to cover it up. Jesus, we fucked up.”
&
nbsp; I jerk my head up at this. I lean back against the back counter and glare at him. “You did.” For the first time in thirty-six years, I light a cigarette in front of my father.
“Jack knows now that you kept the letters from me? He knows that I didn't abandon him?”
My father sighs. “Yes, he knows. The four of us confessed to him two weeks ago. He kept asking about you. He wanted to see you, but he was afraid to reach out. He believed you did not want him. We were responsible for that. We hurt you both.
“Understandably, he was—is—furious with us. He demanded that we give him all of the letters, but your mother refused. She promised him that she would confess everything to you and let you decide what to do next.
“Before I came over here, I let him know I was bringing you the letters.”
“If Mama promised him she would, when was she going to confess? She only told me today after I asked for the truth.”
“She didn’t know. She was waiting for a sign from you.”
“What didn’t she know?
“That you were both still in love with each other. That you’ve put your hearts on hold, waiting for each other, hoping to hear from one another. She didn’t know if after all this time you’d want to see them.”
At that, I cannot stop the tears from streaming down my face. "Daddy? Do you think Jack is still in love with me?"
"Of course, Annabelle. Jack's come to see you, hasn't he? Your mother told me. That boy has always loved you."
“Then how could you not know? How could you not know that I was still in love with him? He’s been the love of my life for over ten years. I’ve been waiting for him. To feel connected again. To feel alive.”
My father leans across the counter and cups my face in his hands and locks eyes with me. “To feel alive? That is what concerns me. It's not healthy for you to place your life, your happiness in anyone else's hands. You need to feel alive with or without him.”
I yank my head away. “So, what? You decided to teach me some kind of lesson.”
“Jack talked to me before he left. He recognized that to be your partner, he needed to become a man. None of us had any question that you’d find your way back to each other. It was a matter of reuniting as two strong individuals, as partners.”
“You knew that, but you prevented it. I waited for him and didn’t understand. What if I don’t know who I am without him?”
“Then you're lying to yourself. You're not a child. You needed, you need, to wake up and recognize how strong you are. I see you. I see the life you've built for yourself.
“I've worried about you over the last five years. I've also seen you fight for your survival. Life isn't a fantasy, Annabelle. I didn't rear you to wait for your Prince Charming. You're an individual first, and then you can be a partner. You don't put your life and heart on hold waiting for someone to come along and fill you up. A true man doesn't want an empty vessel.”
I wince. “You think I’m nothing but an empty vessel?”
He shakes his head and pours another scotch, lights another cigarette. “You’re not listening. I am calling you out on your bullshit. For the last five years, you’ve struggled to find yourself, your true self. At this point, you know who you are without him. I’m concerned that you don’t always like the person you are.
“Jack needed to go away to discover his strength. You both needed to learn to want each other, not need each other.”
“But, but…I did want him. I was my true self with him. I was strong. I supported him. It wasn’t until he left, until I felt abandoned, that I questioned everything.”
“You proved that. You disappeared. A hollow shell of yourself, searching for anything and anyone to fill the empty spaces. Do you think I was happy watching you destroy yourself? The drugs, the drinking, the men? Yes, we knew about all of it. It's one thing to try to escape the pain. It's quite another to search for yourself through self-destructive behavior.”
“You knew about all of that? I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Jack has proven to me that he is a man. A thoughtful, loving man. I respect a man who is willing to come to me and discuss his fears, his concerns, and his dreams for the future. He loves you. He wants you to be happy. He has the insight to know that he can't make you happy, Belle. Only you can do that.”
“Have you been talking with my therapist, too? Jesus.”
“You’re in therapy again?”
I hesitate. Pick at my cuticles. Then nod, yes.
“That’s fantastic news. I’m proud of you.”
“You’re not embarrassed?”
“It takes strength to ask for help. Don’t you see that? That’s all I want for you. For you to see your own strength, to be happy with who you are.”
I glance over at the box. It’s a glowing beacon, calling to me. “So, what do I do with that?”
“If you ask, I will take it out of here. You can choose not to examine the past and start fresh. Sit down with Jack and ask him every question you’ve had for the last five years. You can tell him who you are and what you’ve accomplished while he’s been away. Then decide whether you want to be together.”
“I want that. I want to hear everything from Jack. How can I ignore his letters, though? They will reveal his mindset at the time he wrote them. There may be truths in there that I need to know. If I don’t read them, anything he tells me now will be with the benefit of hindsight.”
“And what if they reveal things that hurt you? That you don’t want to know?”
“Lord knows, I haven’t been a saint. The truth isn’t always pretty. Didn’t you just tell me that I needed to face the truth and figure out who I am and what I want? If he tells me a whitewashed version of events now, I’ll never be able to make that decision. If we start over, we have to do so with wide-open eyes.”
My father smiles at me. “You do see. It’s your choice, Sweetheart. I hope you choose truth and transparency.
“No matter what, please don’t shut us out again. Please do not run and isolate yourself. We’re all rooting for you.” He taps my nose and smiles. “And I mean you.”
The Box
I carry it like the object it is. A bomb set to detonate at any moment. I set it gently on the kitchen counter. I do not place it somewhere like the coffee table, where I can get comfortable, stretch out, and read them leisurely. No. I’m not ready for that. I want a glimpse. I need to know what I’m facing. Preparation is essential. The right clothing, a glass (bottle) of wine, and a boatload of courage.
Do I also need my friends? Should I convene an emergency meeting to discuss the latest developments? Here I go again. I cannot rely on others to make decisions for me.
That damned box is staring at me. Do it. Open me. “I dare you,” it taunts.
The chirp of a text saves me.
Did they give them to you? All of the letters I sent? Your father told me he was bringing them to you tonight. I'm so sorry. I know what you must have thought. I never gave up on you.
Daddy was just here. He brought them to me in the box you made for me.
Have you opened it, Bella?
No. I'm afraid and angry. They kept these from me for five years. I can't help but play the game, “what if?” How many choices would I change? In how many ways would our lives be different?
It is your choice now. Read them or don’t read them. We can’t change the past. We can only choose our futures. I will be an open book. I want to earn your trust.
Tell me about the boy.
I delete the words and do not send the ultimate question. Baby steps, so to speak. Instead, I type:
I'm sorry that you believed I turned my back on you. Never.
I’m devastated that you believed that I left you behind. We know the truth, now. If you choose, we have the chance to start anew. Are you ready?
I told you. I’m a work in progress.
Aren’t we all? Please do not let fear get in the way.
I lift the lid of the box. The contents are precisel
y as I imagined. I know my mother well. In a neat stack, tied with an ivory silk ribbon, lies a thick pile of envelopes. Underneath, my jumbled stash of notes, letters, and mementos remain untouched by time.
I gently pull out the tied bundle. Some are thick envelopes, others thin notecards, with a few postcards mixed in with the rest. On the bottom is the first one. It is not postmarked. My mother mentioned that he left the first letter at the cabin. In my panic and grief, I ran away before I could find it.
I need to take responsibility. I begged them to protect me. I turned my life over to my parents and wiped my hands. “You deal with it.” While I hid, they handled my life for me. I need to apologize. To everyone.
What have I done?
You opened the past. You found my heart.
I throw on my coat and run the three blocks to his parents’ house. It is massive. There is no way I can toss pebbles at his window. As promised, he has left a Christmas candle glowing in the windowsill.
Ping. Ping. I’m throwing pebbles.
Meet me at the pool house.
I sneak through the yard, past the pool to the very back of the lot. As I pace back and forth, I hear him approach. I have no idea why I am here or what I plan to say to him. Yes, I do. I need to take responsibility. Before we move forward, if we move forward, I need to forgive him and myself.
He scoops me up and carries me to one of the sun loungers. Maintaining contact with my hand, I pull away and sit cross-legged in front of him. We need to face each other for this.
I'm out of breath from running and the panic that is coursing through my veins. Jack's face is barely visible in the moonlight, but his eyes are shining, and I think he is smiling at me.
“I can barely see you. Are you smiling?”
I see his head nodding, and then he leans in to kiss me. “I'm smiling. You came to me. You found me. I've been waiting. I never gave up faith.”
“What if you never came back?”
“Bella, I always planned to come back. It took a little longer than I expected. Life doesn’t always go as we plan, does it?”