A Thousand Letters
"I wanted to thank you for the truth. I know how hard that must have been for you, and I wanted you to know that I appreciate you — I always have. You can stay here as long as you want, and I mean that, even if it’s forever. But I don’t want you to feel obligated to be here. What I mean to say is that … I don’t want you to wait or to hold back. You’ve sacrificed years of your life for us, for them," he said, nodding to the kids. "So, what do you want? Because I think it’s time you did that. You’re free — we won’t hold you back anymore."
I tipped my chin, pressing a kiss to Maven’s crown to hide my face. "Thank you, Charlie."
"No, thank you. For everything." He looked around to Sammy. "Now, who’s ready for ice cream?"
Sammy laughed. "But Daddy, it’s cold out!"
Charlie grabbed his son and hugged him tight. "Good, then it won’t melt."
And I smiled at them, comforted by the knowledge that they’d be all right, no matter what, because they had a father who loved them.
26
The Constant
In life
(Unlike death)
There are few constants:
The sun will rise;
Your lungs will breathe;
Your heart will love.
* * *
– M. White
* * *
Elliot
The ice cream was cold, but our hearts were warm as we walked back to the house in the dusk. I reflected over the last few weeks, on the vast changes all of our lives had taken, at the sheer breadth of space between who we were then and who we were now.
I felt like I’d climbed a mountain and was nearing the peak; the light glimmered against the edge, promising an end. Or a beginning. Either way, the shift was tangible, and I marveled over the power of my losses and gains, that they contained the means for me to change. And change I had, elementally.
For so long, I had been still and quiet, waiting. Waiting for what exactly, I didn’t know, not even as I looked back. Perhaps inspiration to guide me to a profession I’d love. Or maybe I was waiting for the courage to submit my work, realize my dream to write. I was waiting for something definitive to break the chains of my family, something to convince me that they held me back. I’d still been waiting for Wade, even after all those years, after all that we’d been through since he’d come back.
But there would be no more waiting. Not to seek out my career. Not to walk away from my family. Not even for Wade.
It didn’t matter how much I loved him; my love couldn’t change him. So I’d go on loving him silently through the rest of my days, as I didn’t know that I could ever move on.
As we walked up the street, I saw the shade of a figure sitting on the step, shrouded in the failing light. But the moment he stood, his name filled my mind, my soul recognizing the lines of his body.
My feet slowed as my heart sped, betraying my promise not to wait for him. He waited there at the foot of the stairs, shoulders straight, the collar of his peacoat flipped against the cold. As we came closer, I saw that his face was set in determination, his eyes filled with sorrow and apologies. A wooden box rested in his hands, elegantly carved, and my thoughts raced with possibilities.
I reminded myself that he’d rejected me, blamed me, hurt me over and over again. This would only be another version of that cycle we’d found ourselves caught in. But hope sprang despite it all, like a shoot of grass in the snow.
I stopped, though Charlie and the kids kept going, making their way inside. When I looked up at Wade, the nearness of him was stifling.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, girding my heart for the answer.
He looked down at the box in his hands. "You said you didn’t owe me anything, and you were right, Elliot. But I owe you everything."
My breath was thin as I stood still, waiting, wishing, hoping, dreading.
"I have been unfair and unjust. I’ve been resentful and angry. I’ve been so many things I’m ashamed of, but the one constant is that I’ve always been in love with you." He met my eyes, pinning me down as he so easily could. I was his, irrefutably. "You asked me why I came to you that night — it’s because you have possessed my soul from the start. You were the only one … the only one who would understand, who could show me that there was love still in the world, in my heart."
He took a deep breath, shifting, eyes dropping once again to his hands. "You asked me why I never wrote you back. But I did, Elliot. Every day, to every letter."
He opened the box, and I watched him as my tears chased each other down my cheeks. Inside were my letters, dozens and dozens of them, each in my hand, and in the center was a leather bound journal, fat and bursting with papers.
"When I left, I was angry, so angry. But through boot camp, I didn’t have time to think about anything. I got every letter, but I couldn’t throw them away. I couldn’t open them either. So I tossed them in my foot locker and ignored them. I took them with me when it was over, because I still couldn’t get rid of them. And when I got stationed in Texas for training before deployment, the letters kept coming, and every one added to the pile was another log on the fire."
He swallowed, meeting my eyes and dropping them again as the wind ruffled his dark hair. "It wasn’t until I was in Iraq, when my mail finally caught up, that I opened one. There were twenty of them, all with your handwriting on the envelope, and where I was, so far away, I … I found I wasn’t mad. I only missed you. So I opened one. Then another. Then I couldn’t stop, not until I’d read them all."
Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back, steeling myself.
"And then, I wrote. Letter after letter poured out of me, the things I’d wished I’d said. Some were angry. Some were happy, some sad. But they were all wrong. I didn’t know how to tell you I was wrong, that it wasn’t your fault but mine. And I was, Elliot. I was wrong. I was selfish and scared, and I’ve regretted that for a long, long time." He took a breath. "I thought when I came home, maybe you could forgive me. We could talk, make it all right. Go back to the old plan. I couldn’t answer you while I was there because … well, because of no good reason, I see that now. But at the time, I was stuck there. The only concession I gave myself, the only allowance to feel anything, was when I sat down to write you a thousand letters I never sent. Friends died, I saw things that made me feel like I wouldn’t make it out. I had nothing to offer you, nothing to give, no promises to make, not until I was home. And when I finally did get back, when I opened your first letters, I realized just how wrong I was."