Page 29 of The Dead Come to Stay
Jo put the paper down and wet her lips.
“You said there were—letters,” she managed.
Arthur nodded, passed the gas fireplace and headed into the farther stretch of apartment. He returned with several envelopes and placed them into her hands. One of them had been addressed in Jo’s own handwriting.
“Oh God,” she panted. “This is mine? I sent it when I was twelve—”
“Yes. The other is his answer to you. It was returned unopened.”
“Wh-what do they say?” she whispered.
Arthur gave her a quiet sort of smile. “I only know what I’ve been told. I didn’t pry. Aiden was a very private man. Even with me.”
Jo was listening. She was also opening envelopes—starting with the response to her own.
Dear Josephine,
I’m so happy you wrote to me about the school trip. I would be delighted to meet you when you arrive. Here is my telephone number; if you give me the details, I can even meet you at the airport in London. Send love to your mother; my very best,
Uncle Aiden
“He wanted to see me,” Jo said, almost to herself. Arthur was kind enough to say nothing. She picked up the second letter; it had been sent to her aunt in Chicago.
Dearest Aunt Susan,
I know we have not spoken in some time. Not long ago, young Josephine wrote me; I tried to respond. I may not have the correct address. Can you please direct me?
“That one had been opened—by someone,” Arthur said. “It came back in a new envelope, postage paid. But without a single word.”
Jo understood the message too well. Both her mother and aunt had been silent sentinels as Jo was growing up.We don’t speak of the ugly thing, the hurtful thing.As if that would make it safe. But it was worse that than; Jo knew her mother was a holder of grudges. She knew keeping the letters secret would hurt Aiden. Apparently it never occurred to her that it would hurt Jo, too.
“And this one?” she asked; a smooth, white envelope, unmarked.
“Unsent,” Arthur said. “He kept it with the others. I feel like it’s for you. Just you.” He handed her a letter opener to break the seal; Jo’s hands were shaking, but she took it anyway and managed to split the seam.
The paper inside was from a notebook, faint blue lines on a sheet torn from something else. The writing looked the same, but not the same. A note left for the self, and not for others.
Dear Josephine,
I recognize even as I write this that I’ll probably never send it. I suppose I needed to put the feelings into words, somehow.
I could have wept when I received your letter. You have excellent penmanship, by the way. A wonderful, grown-up way of expressing yourself, too. I imagine that you look like your mother did, at your age, full of life and adventure. I had thought the past was behind us, that your letter was an olive branch. I wanted—
But those two words had been crossed out. On a new line, he’d begun again:
I think about you, waiting to get my letter. It hurts me to know you never will. I wonder what possessed her to allow you to write at all—to set up your hopes only that I may disappoint them. Then I realize this was no doubt the intent all along—for I am “not to be trusted.”
I will keep your letter in fondness.
With love, Uncle Aiden
Jo felt pain—sharp edged but hard to articulate. It was the tragedy of Miss Havisham inGreat Expectations, the rotting wedding feast of joyous anticipation. It was the party that never happened, the gift never given. Jo spent her life trying to meet expectations of others, but always seemed to see the need too late or met it the wrong way. This time, she had been Aiden’s joyous anticipation. She thought of his excitement at her letter, making little plans, hoping for a reunion that would never come—and it hurt her.God, did it hurt. For once in her life, she had been the gift, the promise. And she could never, ever fulfill it.
Jo’s mother once accused her of having no feelings. The truth was much harder to live with. She had too many, had learned to turn them off to keep from drowning. She was certainly trying to now, folding away the feelings with the envelopes and training her mind on practical questions and tidy lists.
“He said he wasn’t to be trusted. That my mother may have been trying to...” She struggled to get the words right, and ended up with the baldest honesty. “To disappoint me on purpose so I would never try to reach out again. It’s awful. That’sawful. Why would shedothat?”
“I did not know your mother,” he said after a long breath. He hesitated, lips pressed tight together, as if he feared something not very nice might come out. He was sparing her. But at the moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be spared.
