And as for Dad, he definitely wouldn’t be sending me letters. He’d left, and he thought he could send a letter and everything was better? Not cool.
Though, maybe my perfect life with him had him in it. Present. Back home, waking me up on Saturday mornings with a plate of breakfast set at the table. Warm eyes. Teasing grin.
But perfect lives didn’t exist. Entertaining the idea was self-torture.
My gaze drifted from the ceiling fan to fall to the corner of my bedroom, to the exact place where my backpack sat half-zipped. The skulls printed on the fabric basically screamed keep away, but I couldn’t get the elephant in the room to disappear.
It was after midnight—October 30th. Two years ago to the day, Dad had finalized everything. Called Gram and asked if we could stay the night. Started packing. Started planning his life without me. And on October 31st, it’d officially be two years ago that he’d left.
Gram had told me to read the letter. Lucas had told me to read the letter. If Donnie knew about it, I was sure he’d be saying something as well.
Mom would’ve told me to read it too, but in a much different way. Don’t read it for him, she’d say in that tone of voice that always put my raging insides in a time-out. Read it for you. You’re driving yourself crazy wondering. The stress of it is changing you, honey. Just read it so you can sleep.
The blades on the fan spun, an endless cycle.
Just read it so I could sleep.
I slipped the covers back as silently as I could and exposed my legs to the cool air. The heater must’ve kicked off. I didn’t bother pushing my toes into my slippers before walking to my backpack. The room was filled with a blue sort of darkness, but I had no trouble finding the orange envelope underneath my textbooks. I drew it out, blood humming, and made my way back to my bed.
Just so I can sleep, I told myself as I lifted the envelope, tracing the handwriting with my index finger. B L A I R E. All capitals.
I didn’t have to respond; I didn’t have to forgive him. I wasn’t reading it for him, for Gram, for Lucas, or for Donnie. I was reading it for me.
With a hard jerk, I slid my finger along the seal, tearing it open.
Dear Blaire,
I’ve never written a letter before, so I hope you can forgive how messy it is. I wrote you a note once, on the back of a gas station receipt. “Blaire, you know I love you. I can’t be in Hallow anymore. I’m sorry.” I think about how you must’ve woken up on the morning of Halloween, expecting me to be there, but I was gone.
I wish I could say I know what you think, but I don’t. I can’t read your mind anymore; I can’t even imagine what you must be thinking and feeling, seeing this letter. But I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you. I hope and pray to God you never thought that. Your mother was the love of my life, you know. Losing her was…hard, for both of us. I wish I’d spoken to you more after she passed, Blaire. Maybe things would’ve been different if I had spoken to someone—to you.
I made some bad decisions after she died. I wasn’t in my right mind. Gram will attest to that if you ask—if she hasn’t already told you. I knew it wasn’t in your best interest to be around me. And I know what you’re thinking. That sounds like complete bull crap. I know. But if it came down to who you were better off with, it wouldn’t have been with me.
You’re probably wondering why I’m reaching out now, but I’ve been sober ninety days. I told myself I couldn’t reach out until then. I know it’s not fair of me to say, but I will be there if you need anything, Blaire. Whatever you need. If you want me to come home, I’ll come, in a heartbeat. If you want to never see me again, I’ll stay away. Just no matter what, know that I love you. And I’m sorry. For everything.
Dad
* * *
I didn’t leave my room.
The clock read seven-thirty when Gram knocked on my door Friday morning, probably wondering why I hadn’t emerged yet. I’d still been curled up on my bed, pressing Dad’s letter to my chest. I’d been like that for a while—long enough to hear the birds begin to chirp, to see the sun peek through my curtains. She knocked twice, but I couldn’t lift my voice high enough to answer. I waited for her to poke her head in, to ask me if I was getting around for school, but she never did.
Everything sounded muffled, muted, numb. I tried to take stock of how I felt, but my thoughts were fluid, water slipping through my fingers, fog dissipating in a morning breeze.
Everything was quiet; everything was still.
My bedroom was nothing fancy. After two years to the day of living with Gram, I’d never gotten around to fully decorating it. My old bedroom had been much bigger than this one, so I’d ended up having to donate most of the furniture when the house had gone up for sale. I’d always struggled with the idea of making this bedroom feel homey, like mine, but now as I stared at my surroundings, I wished there was something in it that brought me comfort.
I didn’t have any pictures of my parents hung up, no pictures of Lucas or Donnie, no posters. Clothes littered the ground, my hamper overflowed in the corner, but nothing screamed me. For two years, I’d lived in this room and hadn’t done a single thing to make it mine. Hadn’t painted the walls, hadn’t even bought a rug.
It wasn’t like I’d ever be able to move back home. The house had sold within the first year.
I felt disconnected from the world lying on my bed, listening to the dull thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. A fire lit behind my eyes, a silent cue tears would should be flowing, but I hadn’t cried yet. For some reason, I couldn’t. I’d been pushing it all down for so long that I’d almost forgotten how to cry.
What was Dad doing right now? Waiting for the postal service to drop off the mail, hoping he’d receive a letter from me? Sitting by the phone, hoping it’d ring? Eating cereal? Going to his day job? Did he even have a day job?
That man seemed almost like a stranger now. He’d written that he was ninety days sober, but the Dad I remembered had never struggled with addiction. Not that I’d known. Was it something triggered by losing Mom? Was it alcohol or something else? Could that be why he’d left in the first place?
I had so many questions, and none would get answers. Not unless I wrote a letter back.
My cord was totally unplugged from the outlet, disconnected from the energy that’d fueled me.
My bedroom door creaked open, and I’d been lost in my thoughts for who knew how long. It’d been a while since Gram last checked on me; she must’ve decided she needed to make sure I was visibly okay.
Footsteps came further into the room, loud on the creaky floors, until my bed dipped as Gram sat down. I had my back to her, the orange envelope tucked out of sight.
“This day sucks,” a voice said, a voice that was not Gram’s, and I jerked to look over my shoulder. Donnie sat on the edge of my bed, his dark hair spiked up every which way, exactly how he liked it.
And…I had no idea what he was wearing.
He was in one of those black, full-body suits, but also had strapped a pair of wings to his back. Not butterfly wings or fairy wings, though—no, they were moth wings. They looked kind of like butterfly wings little kids normally wore, but painted dark colors. He had a faux fur scarf around his neck, one he’d totally stolen from our costume trunk. On his head, he wore a crown of pipe-cleaner antennas, bent at strange angles.