Page 129 of My Merry Mistake
“I’ll never understand it,” she says, shaking her head.
“Well, don’t knock it until you try it,” I grin at her, and the weight of the conversation settles back in a bit, but not as heavy.
“I just want to make him proud.” I shrug. “Live like it matters. Because it does. Gotta make it count for something.”
Curiosity washes over her face. “‘Live like it matters.’ You said that to your mom when you got off the phone.”
I nod. “Yeah, we say it for Hunter.” A soft shrug. “Easier than saying his name.”
I’m glad I told her, but talking about it always comes with a price. I go back to my food, trying to put all the feelings back in the right boxes.
We eat in a comfortable silence for a minute or so, and then she looks at me, brow knit with concern. “What happened to the driver?”
I don’t know what my face does, but it must be something because she frowns.
“Oh. I’m . . .sorry, is that a bad question?” she asks.
I look at her. I want to be honest, but I’m not sure I want to talk about the woman who killed my brother. Not tonight. Not when we have a tree to set up. And Christmas to celebrate. Not when I know that the anger is always directed at her.
“I don’t really know where she is now,” I say, which isn’t a lie.
It’s just not a whole truth either.
“But she’s in prison, right?”
I look away. “Not anymore.”
She goes still. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” I look at her, and without thinking, I add, “She, uh, sends me letters sometimes.”
She hugs her legs a little tighter. “She what?”
“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s a step in a program she’s in or what, but . . .” I trail off.
“What does she say?”
“I’m not sure.” I shake my head. “I’ve never opened one.”
“Oh.” She watches me.
I haven’t opened one because I know she’s going to say how sorry she is. Or worse, ask for forgiveness. I’m not exactly ready to read the former or grant the latter.
“I don’t know if I’d be able to read those either,” she says. “I can’t even begin to imagine what a mess I’d be if something happened to Poppy or Eloise.”
“I know, somewhere, there has to be some kind of, I don’t know, closure, or forgiveness, or whatever, but?—”
She finishes my thought, “—But you aren’t there yet.”
I nod, a little embarrassed, because aren’t I supposed to forgive? I’m pretty sure that’s written in a very important book somewhere. But nobody explains how to do it. It’s hard to hand out forgiveness when the person you’re supposed to forgive stole something priceless.
Man, I miss him.
Raya studies me, almost like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Did you know that my dad gave you a name sign?”
I shake my head, thankful for the change of subject. “A name sign? What does that mean?”
“In the deaf community, only a deaf person can give you a name sign. It’s usually the first letter of your name mixed with a sign that describes you.”
