Page 159 of Into These Eyes
Fighting back sobs, I grab tissue after tissue, uselessly wiping my eyes and blowing my nose.
With shuddering breaths, I slip the last letter he wrote from its envelope.
And once again, I’m drawn straight to the bottom of the page where my eyes stare back at me. Only, they’re not quite my eyes.
They seem to be what Gavin imagined they might look like if I were happy.
He was close, but since he never once saw me happy, this sketch doesn’t have the accuracy he captured in my hateful expression.
Then I read his short letter.
Jamie,
As I’ve said many times before, I have no idea if you’re getting these letters, or if you’re reading them and ignoring them, or if you’re throwing them away unopened.
I think I’ve said all I can. And I can only presume you don’t believe me.
I won’t write to you again. I promise.
Gavin.
P.S.
Beneath the sketch of my inaccurate smiling eyes, he’s written …
The thought that one day I’ll get to look into your eyes and tell you the truth—and that you’ll hear me—helps me to keep working toward being someone you can believe in and trust. It helps me go on. You give me purpose.
Even back then, his soul was beautiful.
And his words devastate me. I bury my face in my pillow and let loose. To think that my hatred helped him survive, gave him something to stay alive for in the hope he could make me see the truth, rips at my soul.
This man. My God.This man.
As sobs wrench from my throat, a flash of memory comes to me. Sitting across from him in that Restorative Justice meeting, he wanted to know if I got his letters. When I’d told him no, something flickered in his eyes. Later, he’d told me he’d been determined to make me hear the truth in that meeting, but when he’d seen the rawness of my pain, he’d done something else.
That must have killed him. All those years, hoping against hope that he’d finally be able to tell me what really happened, and he gave up that opportunity.For me.He gave up his purpose for me. He’d wanted me to feel like I had closure by making me believe he’d finally taken responsibility for my mother’s death. But what I hadn’t realised, was that he’d given up a piece of his soul to do it.
I’m not sure how long I cry, but at some point, a comforting hand rubs my back. Surprised, I turn to find Anika sitting on the bed beside me.
As I sit up, she hands me a crumpled wad of tissues. Thankful, I wipe my puffy face.
“What is it?” she asks in possibly the softest voice I’ve ever heard her use.
I shake my head and smile, indicating the open sheets of paper on the other side of the bed. “I only read two … they’re more than enough to confirm what an incredible man he is. Has always been.”
Plucking up his final letter, I hand it to her, calming down as I watch her read.
“Well, fuck,” she says, her own eyes shining. Then she looks down at the page again, her fingers delicately brushing over the eyes staring at us. “They’re like … Wow. I didn’t know he could draw.”
“Yeah, neither did I.”
Anika pulls me to my feet, gathers the letters and places them on the nightstand. Standing there, I watch as she takes my tear-soaked pillow and leans it against the wall, re-arranges the others on the bed, then pulls the covers back.
“Get in. You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”
Exhausted, I do as I’m told. Before I can say a word, she pulls the covers over me, snaps off the lamp and leaves, shutting the door behind her.
Figuring she’s gone to get her own pillow, I close my raw eyes and try to relax while I wait for her to return.
