“For how long?”
“Forever, baby girl.”
*
Dear Matthew,
I’ve called the rehab facility every day this week. I pretend I’m your cousin. The answer is always the same: no change. It breaks a little more of my heart every time.
I know I can never send this letter and that even if I did, you couldn’t read it or wouldn’t understand the words. But I have to write to you, even if the words are lost. I told myself （and have been told repeatedly by others） that I need to move on with my new life. And I’m trying to do that. I am.
But you are inside of me, a part of me, maybe even the best part. I’m not talking only about our baby. I hear your voice in my head. You talk to me in my sleep so much I’ve gotten used to waking with tears on my cheeks.
I guess my mama was right about love. As screwed up as she is, she understands the durability and lunacy of it. You can’t make yourself fall in love, I suppose, and you can’t make yourself fall out of it.
I am trying to fit in down here. Trying hard. I mean, Susan Grant is trying to fit in. The streets are jammed with cars and the sidewalks are wall-to-wall people and pretty much no one looks at anyone else or says hello. You were right about the beauty, though. When I let myself see it, it’s there. I see it in Mount Rainier, which reminds me of Iliamna and can magically appear and disappear. Down here, it’s called The Mountain because really they only have the one. Not like home, where mountains form the exposed spine of our world.
My grandparents care about the weirdest things. How the table is set, what time we eat, how well I tuck the sheets into the bed, how tightly I braid my hair. My grandmother handed me tweezers the other day and told me to pluck my eyebrows.
But we have a nice little rental house not far from them and we can visit if we are careful. I think Mama is surprised to find that she likes to be with her parents. We have plenty to eat and new clothes and when we all sit around the dinner table, we try to knit our lives together, dropped stitches and all.
Maybe that’s what love is.
*
Dear Matthew,
Christmas here is like an Olympic event. I’ve never seen so much glitter and food. My grandparents gave me so many gifts it was embarrassing. But afterward, when I was in my own room alone, staring out the window at neighbors we stay away from, looking at houses strung in twinkling lights, I thought of real winter. Of you. Of us.
I looked at the picture of your grandparents and reread your grandmother’s newspaper article.
I wonder what it’s like for our baby. Does she feel how uncertain I am? Does the song of my broken heart play for her? I want her to be happy. I want her to be the child of our love, of who we were.
I think I felt the baby move today …
I’m thinking of her as Lily. After your grandma.
A girl needs to be strong in this world.
*
Dear Matthew,
I can’t believe it’s 1979. I called the rehab facility again today and heard the usual. No change.
Unfortunately, my mother overheard my call. She blew her stack and said I was being stupid. Apparently the police can trace the call if they wanted to. So I can’t call anymore. I can’t put us all at risk, but how can I stop? It’s all I have left of you. I know you’re not going to get better, but every time I call, I think, maybe this time. That hope is all I have, useless or not.
But that’s bad news and that’s easy. You want good news. It’s a new year.
I am going to the University of Washington. My grandmother pulled some strings and got Susan Grant registered with no evidence of graduation from high school. Life sure is different in the Outside. How much money you have matters.
College isn’t what I expected. Some of the girls wear these fuzzy Shetland sweaters and plaid skirts and knee socks. I guess they’re sorority girls. They giggle and clump together like sheep and the boys who follow them around are so loud a bear could hear them coming from a mile away.
In class, I pretend you’re beside me. Once I believed it so much I almost wrote a note to pass you under my desk.
I miss you. Every day and even more at night. So does Lily. She’s started to kick me awake sometimes. When she does get all squirrelly, I read her Robert Service poems and tell her about you.
That quiets her right down.
*
Dear Matthew,
Spring here is nothing like breakup. No earth falling away, no house-sized blocks of ice snapping free, no lost things seeping up from the mud.
It’s just color everywhere. I’ve never seen so many flowering trees; pink blossoms float through the campus.