Letters to the Lost, Page 3

  “Do you want to write back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Liar.”

  He’s right. I do want to write back.

  In fact, I’m already planning what to say.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’d say you’re kind of dark, but I’m writing to a girl who leaves letters in a cemetery, so I guess that’s a given.

  You said you were wondering if my pain was anything like yours.

  I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that.

  You lost your mother. I haven’t lost mine.

  Don’t you think it’s funny how people say “lost” as if they were just misplaced? But maybe it’s a different meaning of “lost,” in that you don’t know where they went. My best friend believes in God and heaven and eternal life, but I’m not sure how I feel about all that. We die and our bodies are absorbed back into the earth in some kind of biological cycle, right? And our soul (or whatever) is supposed to go on forever? Where was it before?

  My friend would die if he knew I was talking to you about this, because this is the kind of thing I won’t discuss with him.

  If I’m being strictly honest, I’m about ready to crumple up this letter and start over.

  But no. Like you said, there’s some safety in writing to a complete stranger. I could fire up the computer and Google your mom’s name and probably find out something about you, but for right now, I like it better this way.

  My sister died four years ago. She was ten.

  When people hear about her dying so young, they always assume we spent her last days surrounded by oncologists and nurses. We didn’t. We didn’t even know they were her last days. She was the picture of health.

  Cancer didn’t kill her. My father did.

  I could have stopped it, but I didn’t.

  So when you say you feel like the photographer, unable to do anything but watch, I think I know exactly what you mean.

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve been sitting in the sunlight for two hours. It’s a popular day at the cemetery, and I’ve watched mourners come and go all afternoon.

  I’ve read his letter seventeen times.

  I read it again.

  He lost his sister. I think back to the first letter, when he said, Me too.

  He’s thought of looking me up. Well, my mother. Considering I’m practically staking out her grave to see if he shows up, I can’t exactly hold that against him.

  He can use any search engine he wants; he won’t find much about me. She had already built her name as a photojournalist before she got married, so she sure wasn’t changing it. Googling “Zoe Thorne” isn’t going to lead anyone to Juliet Young. My last name isn’t even mentioned in the obituary.

  Zoe is survived by her husband, Charles, and her daughter, Juliet.

  Survived. This guy is right. The words we use to surround death are bizarre. Like we’re hiding something.

  I guess the obituary wouldn’t read right if it said something like, Zoe died on the way home from the airport, after nine months on assignment in a war zone, leaving her husband, Charles, and her daughter, Juliet, with a Welcome Home cake that would sit in the refrigerator for a month before either of them could bear to throw it away.

  So maybe we are hiding something.

  Now I understand his inability to compare our pain. I’m an only child, so I can’t relate to losing a sibling. Since my mother died, my father and I seem to orbit separate planets of grief, barely interacting unless strictly necessary. That said, I’m pretty sure Dad’s not homicidal. He barely rates as conscious these days.

  Cancer didn’t kill her. My father did.

  Four years ago. I rack my brain, trying to remember anything that might have been in the news about a father killing his daughter. Four years ago, I was thirteen. Not exactly the type of story my dad would have shared at the dinner table, and Mom was a better source for world news—if she was even home. Mom could talk geopolitical warfare with heads of state, but local crime? Forget about it. Below her pay scale, she’d say.

  Wait.

  Four years ago, his sister was ten. That means she’d be fourteen now.

  Is Letter Guy an older brother—or a younger one? Could I be exchanging letters with a twelve-year-old? Or someone in his early twenties?

  Our conversations are too mature to be written by a twelve-year-old. His letter is written on notebook paper, just like mine. That says high school or college.

  He writes in pencil, which makes me think high school. But I don’t know for sure.

  Twenty feet away, an older man is laying roses at the base of a gravestone. Sunlight reflects off the plastic.

  It’s a waste of money, because they mow this section on Tuesdays, and I’m pretty sure they chuck all the crap that people leave lying around. That’s why I’ve never left anything but letters.

  They chuck all the crap.

  The letters. The maintenance guy. What’s his name, Mr. Melendez?

  Suddenly I feel exposed, even though it’s a Sunday afternoon and they never mow on Sundays.

  And ick. He’s, like, forty.

  It can’t be him. Right? It doesn’t feel like someone that much older. Besides, that age gap between a brother and sister would be unusual. Not impossible, but pretty rare.

  The man with the roses is leaving. He may have noticed me here, but no one ever really looks at me. I never look at them, either. We’re all united by grief, and somehow divided by the same thing.

  My sister died four years ago.

  I’m such an idiot. Letter Guy is probably a visitor—and he all but told me how to find his sister’s grave. She has to be buried near here. How else would he have found my letters?

  I start walking the rows of graves, spiraling outward, looking for headstones that are slightly weathered. A few times, the year of death is correct, but not the age or gender. The grass crunches beneath my feet as I walk, and I eventually reach the iron fence at the edge of the property. It’s late in the afternoon now, and everyone has gone home to dinner or families. I’m alone, and I’ve walked a radius of at least one hundred feet from my mother’s grave.

  Well out of the range where a casual visitor could see a letter left under a rock at the base of a gravestone.

  Hmm.

  My cell phone vibrates against my thigh, and I fish it out of my pocket, expecting a message from Rowan.

  No, my dad. He’s sent me a picture.

  I frown. I can’t remember the last time he texted me. And a picture? I swipe my fingers across the screen to unlock the phone.

  It’s the kitchen table. For a moment, I can’t make out what’s spread across it. Then it snaps into focus, and my heart stops beating.

  Her photography gear. All of it.

  He might as well have dug up her body and laid the skeleton on the kitchen table, then sent me a photo of that.

  I can name every piece of equipment. If you show me one of her photos, I could probably tell you which camera she used. Her bags are hung from one of the chair backs, and I can smell the scent of the leather mixed with literal blood, sweat, and tears from her assignments. Every time she came home, I’d help her unpack, and the weight of those cameras and the smell of her bags are wrapped up tightly in those memories.

  Every time except that last time.

  I haven’t touched her bags since she died. I haven’t touched them.

  Those are her things.

  Those are her things.

  She and I always unpacked them together. She would tell me secret stories from her travels, and we’d stay up late and watch a chick flick together after Dad went to bed. There’s still an untouched pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in the freezer, almost unrecognizable under the ice crystals now. I picked it up to split with her. I’ll never eat that flavor again.

  He never cared for her stories. He never cared.

  And now he’s TOUCHING HER THINGS.

  My fingers are shaking. Sweaty. I almost can’t hold on to the phone. br />
  A line of text appears beneath the photo.

  CY: Ian offered to take these off our hands. He’s coming over to make me an offer. Is there anything you want before I let him take it?

  WHAT.

  I think I’m having a panic attack. Wheezing sounds choke out of my mouth.

  Somehow, the phone finds my cheek and my dad’s voice is in my ear.

  “What are you doing?” I say. I want to be yelling, but my voice is thin and reedy and thickening with tears. “Stop it! Put it back!”

  “Juliet? Are you—”

  “How could you?” Now I am crying. “You can’t. You can’t. You can’t. How could you?”

  “Juliet.” He sounds stricken. It’s the first emotion I’ve heard out of him since she died. “Juliet. Please. Calm down. I didn’t—”

  “Those are hers!” My knees hit the ground. I press my forehead against the wrought-iron bars of the fence. “You never—those are hers—”

  “Juliet.” His voice is hushed. “I won’t. I had no idea—”

  He is killing me. Pain is ripping me apart. I can barely hold the phone.

  I hate him. I hate him for this.

  I hate him.

  IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim.

  Temper, Juliet.

  My eyes blur and the world spins, and it feels like a long time before I realize I’m lying in the grass and his voice is a tinny echo shouting out of the phone.

  I press it to my ear. Spots flash in front of my eyes.

  “Juliet!” He’s yelling. “Juliet, I’m about to call nine-one-one. Answer me!”

  “I’m here,” I choke. I sob. “You can’t. Please.”

  “I won’t,” he whispers. “Okay? I won’t.”

  The sun keeps beating down on me, turning my tears to itchy lines on my face. “Okay.”

  I should apologize, but the words won’t form. It feels like apologizing for getting mad that someone drove an iron spike through your chest. My breath won’t stop hitching.

  “Do you need me to come get you?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Juliet . . .”

  “No.”

  I can’t leave yet. I can’t go home and see all her things on the table.

  “Put it back,” I say.

  He hesitates. “Maybe we should talk . . .”

  I’m going to be sick. “Put it back!”

  “I will. I will.” He hesitates again. “When are you going to be home?”

  He hasn’t asked me this since she died. It’s the first indication I’ve had that he even knew I still existed.

  I should probably be thanking my lucky stars that he bothered to ask if I wanted any of her things.

  He’s probably regretting the hell out of sending that text message.

  “When I’m ready.”

  Then I end the call.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  You can look up my mother if you want. If you search for “Zoe Thorne Syria Photo,” you’ll find one of her most famous photographs. A little boy and a little girl are on a pair of swings, laughing. Behind them is a bombed-out building and two men with assault rifles. Everyone’s clothes are filthy, caked with sweat and dust. The men are sweating and exhausted and terrified. There’s nothing left but that swing set.

  I’ve never been able to decide whether the photograph is depressing or hopeful.

  Maybe both.

  My mother’s equipment has been stashed in a back corner of the basement since she died. No one has touched any of it—until today. This afternoon, my father was ready to sell it all to my mother’s former editor.

  I didn’t take it well.

  It’s a lot of gear, and it cost a ton of money. Thousands of dollars. Probably tens of thousands of dollars. We’re not rich, but we’re not hard up for cash. Dad said he didn’t care about the money, and for that, I wanted to punch him. If he didn’t care about the money, then why do it? Why get rid of her most precious things? It’s so like him, though. I asked if he’d be so cavalier about selling her wedding ring. He said she’d been buried with it. Then he started crying.

  I felt like shit terrible. I still do.

  It’s ridiculous for me to cross that out. Force of habit, I guess. Mom never tolerated profanity. She said she spent too much money learning to use words and pictures effectively, and it seemed a waste to drop an f-bomb.

  The only reason I knew my dad was getting rid of her stuff was because he asked me if I wanted any of it. I haven’t touched a camera since she died. I was supposed to be in honors photography this year, but I dropped the class. The teacher has told me at least six times that he’d welcome me back if I change my mind, but there’s as much chance of that as there is of her coming back from the dead. I can’t press a camera to my face without thinking of her. I haven’t even wanted to take a picture.

  No. That’s not true.

  Last week, I saw someone with so much emotion trapped in his eyes that I wanted a camera in my hands, right that instant. I barely know him, and I only saw him for a minute, but it’s like a shutter clicked in my brain. Mom used to say that a picture wasn’t worth anything if it didn’t produce a reaction, that it takes talent to capture feeling with an image. I don’t think I ever really understood what that meant until that moment.

  But I didn’t have a camera, and it’s not like you can snap a picture of a random stranger without generating a few questions.

  Look up her Syria picture if you get a chance. I’m curious to hear what you think.

  My mom was there when the bomb went off. She was lucky to get out alive.

  I know she was lucky because my father used to tell her that all the time. He was usually a little irritated when he said it. “You’re lucky you’re here, Zo. You’re going to use up all your luck one of these days. Can’t you take meaningful pictures in Washington, DC, or downtown Baltimore?”

  She’d laugh and say she was lucky to get the photograph.

  He was right, though. She did use up all her luck. She was killed in a hit-and-run crash on her way home from the airport.

  She was only in a cab because I’d begged her to hurry home, and she’d caught an earlier flight as a surprise.

  Sometimes I think fate conspires against us. Or maybe fate conspires with us.

  I know you know what I mean. Don’t you feel the same about your sister?

  Melonhead isn’t here. I’ve been sitting against the door to the equipment shed for half an hour, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to show up. I know the routine now, and I could start mowing without him, but I don’t have a key.

  I pull out my phone and search for the photograph that Cemetery Girl described. She’s right: the kids show a glimmer of hope. Their smiles are bright, and you can sense the motion of the swings. The guys with guns look like they don’t have any hope left. One has blood trickling from a wound on his temple. I wonder why the hell anyone would let kids swing after the town had been blown to bits, but then I realize that there’s probably nowhere left to hide them.

  “Hi!”

  I look up. A little girl in a purple sundress is running across the grass. Her hair is so black it gleams in the sun. Curly pigtails bounce with every step, and she looks thrilled to be alive. “Hi!”

  Who is she so excited to see? There’s no one else here.

  Then I see Melonhead. He’s following her at a more sedate pace. This must be his kid.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and stand up. I never know how to read this guy, but I’m tempted to lay into him about showing up late after he hassled me last week.

  Then the little girl tackles my legs. I’m startled and stumble back a step. She giggles at my reaction but doesn’t let go.

  “Hi!” she says again, digging in with her fingers in a way that guarantees she’s not letting go. She grins up at me, her mouth full of baby teeth.

  “Marisol!” Melonhead jogs the last ten feet and scoops her up, flipping her over his arm to catch her against his shoulder.

/>   She laughs, full out. “Stop it, Papi!”

  “Sorry, Murph.” Melonhead fishes a key ring from his pocket. His voice is tired. “She hugs everyone.”

  Something about it reminds me of the carefree innocence in the picture of the bombed village. This little girl doesn’t know me. She doesn’t see what everyone else sees.

  It makes me want to warn her away.

  Then again, Melonhead was pretty quick to snatch her up, like I would have done something.

  I’m standing there, scowling, when he calls out to me from inside the equipment shed. He rolls up the garage door so we can get the mowers out. “You ready to work or what, kid?”

  “I was ready to work half an hour ago.”

  I expect him to snap at me, but he doesn’t. He tosses me a pair of work gloves. “I know. I’m sorry. Carmen had to work late, so one of us had to pick up Marisol. I thought I could make it back in time.”

  I wasn’t expecting an apology, and it pokes a hole in my irritation. I pull the gloves on and grab a trash bag to collect tonight’s assortment of mementos.

  Melonhead climbs on a mower and calls to his daughter. “Want to drive, Cotorra?”

  “Yes!” She abandons the wall of dust where she’d begun drawing flowers or monsters or whatever those nonhuman stick figures are supposed to be. She climbs onto the mower with a little help and settles in front of him, her tiny hands wrapping around the steering wheel.

  For a second, I’m a child again, watching Kerry scramble into the truck to “help” our dad steer. We’d fight over whose turn it was to sit next to him.

  I have to jerk my eyes away. I climb onto my own mower. Maybe this letter writing is a bad idea. I’ve said too much already, and each time I put pencil to paper, it’s like taking a backhoe to memories I want to leave buried.

  Melonhead’s engine cranks hard, then catches. A second later, it dies. He mutters something in Spanish and tries again. This time it cranks and sounds like it won’t catch at all, but it finally does.

  And then it dies immediately.

  He tries a third time. And a fourth.

  There’s a definition for insanity that talks about doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result.