Page 25 of The Christmas Letters
Brunch at the club.How many of those meals did I sit through with Lydia Vanderhorst?
I might have agreed to be friends with Preston, but I’m not sure I’ll ever make peace with his mother. I have no idea how Chloe endures their relationship with so much good-natured grace.
A muffled noise sounds through the phone before Chloe gasps. “What are you doing here?”
Deacon’s voice sounds through the phone. “Preston’s covering for me so I could have the morning off. Thought you might appreciate having me along for brunch with your monster-in-law.”
Chloe giggles. “Your mother is anything but a monster. Be nice.”
I listen to Chloe and Deacon chatting—pretty sure they’ve forgotten I’m here—while I nurse the envy growing in my heart. Happiness that people I love are happy will always trump my own petty jealousy. I would never take away what Chloe has just to feel better about what I lack. But that doesn’t mean their happiness doesn’t serve as a continual reminder of my own loneliness.
I let that loneliness carry me back to my bedroom, the letter in one hand and my phone in the other. I toss the letter onto my bed before pulling a box of stationery Mom gave me for Christmas a few years back from my nightstand. I’ve never had a reason to use it before now.
“Oh my gosh, Tess, I totally forgot you were still on the phone,” Chloe finally says.
“Hey, Tess,” Deacon says, his voice so similar to Preston’s.
That realization used to make me queasy, but after running into Preston a couple of weeks back, it doesn’t have quite the same hold over me. I’ve always known I would eventually move on. It feels good to realize it’s finally happening.
Well.Sort ofhappening. At least in spirit if not in actual reality.
“Keep me posted on the letter writing, okay?” Chloe says. “And don’t worry about the paramedic. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“What paramedic? And who are you writing letters to?” Deacon asks. The hint of big-brother protectiveness in his voice warms my heart.
“It’s a long story,” Chloe says. “I’ll explain later.”
“I love you guys,” I say to them both. “Tell your mom I said hello,” I add, trying not to wince at the thought of how Lydia Vanderhorst will respond toanymention of me, even a benign greeting likeHi.
I end the call and scoot back on my bed until my back is against the headboard. I open Max’s letter and pull a single sheet of stationery out of the box.
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but here goes nothing.
Dear Max,
I’m so sorry that when you originally wrote this letter, you never got a response. More than that, I’m so sorry that you lost your parents. I wonder if you had gotten a letter all those years ago if it might have helped in some way.
Honestly, I’m not really sure why I feel like I need to write to you now. You’re an adult, if I’ve done my math correctly, no longer that little boy, hoping for a miracle. I imagine that by now, you’ve found some measure of peace in your life. At least, I hope that you have.
Still, when I found your letter hidden in the bottom of the letter box, it felt wrong not to respond, to tell you that someone finally read your words.
I pause, wondering what I might say that would encourage a response. If all I do is write a bunch of platitudes, whoever Max is will probably toss the letter without another thought. And then what? I’ll be no better off than I am now. I need engagement. I need him to write me back.
I wonder if you have any advice for people weathering similar challenges. I haven’t lost my parents, but I have lost the life I always thought was going to be mine. I’m learning to embrace a new version of myself now, and sometimes, it’s really hard. I’m just a stranger, I know. But a part of me wonders if you’ll know how to help. Maybe there’s a reason that I’m the one who found your letter after all this time. I hope you’ll respond.
Sincerely, Your Christmas Pen Pal
I fold the letter without even reading it a second time, sure that if I give myself the chance to second guess, I’ll likely end up throwing it away without sending it at all. I hesitate over the signature, wondering if I ought to sign my name. But the idea of being anonymous feels safer somehow. No matter how much Francie thinks this guy is worth getting to know, he’s still a stranger.
Nerves dance in my gut as I walk the letter to the mailbox. None of this makes sense. I have no idea who the man even is. I don’t know a single thing about him except that he lost his parents when he was ten years old.
And yet, I already know I’m going to be nervous every time I check my mail for at least the next month.
“I’m being ridiculous,” I say out loud as I walk back to my condo.
My neighbor’s dog barks in confirmation.
Utterly and completely ridiculous.
