In the Stillness

CHAPTER 44



Due to our helpful—and very expensive—lawyers, Eric was able to close on his house at the beginning of December, and is moving in today, two weeks ahead of Christmas. I took the boys on my off-weekend so he could move without them in his hair. It would be too difficult communicating with Ollie with an armful of boxes, anyway.

Pulling into his driveway, I work to push my feelings out of the way. A mix of jealousy, envy, and a twinge of sadness have forced me to really pull on some positive thinking to get through the day with the boys in one piece. Eric’s father greets us at the door and quickly takes the boys to scope out their bedroom, without looking me in the eye.

“The place looks great, Eric.” Standing awkwardly in the doorway, I tuck my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and look around.

“You can come in and look around, Natalie. I want you to feel at home here.”

A quick glance at his face shows me he’s serious. “What? Why?” I don’t need to feel comfortable in my soon to be ex-husband’s house.

Eric reaches for my hand. “We can start over. Here. Me, you, and the boys. Just . . . come home.” His soft candor churns my stomach for a second.

“Come home?” Pulling my hand away, I exhale in anger. I knew he stopped dating whoever it was a couple of weeks ago, but, honestly? Come home?

“Ye—”

“I didn’t leave you to go out on some quest, Eric . . . I left you.” It’s fairly easy for me to say since it’s the reality I’ve been operating in for the last six months. It’s clear by the pained look in his eyes, however, that Eric had a different ending mapped out here.

“Natalie . . .” He reaches for me again.

I back up reflexively. “Listen, I’ve gotta go—I’m running late for my visit at the Soldiers’ Home.”

Eric snorts a little through his nose.

“What?” I shoot, my hand on the door.

“Nothing.” With a slight shake of his head, Eric turns and heads up the stairs to a set of bedrooms I’ll never be a part of.

If I didn’t already feel awkward on the front steps of this house, that certainly did it. Getting into my car, I’m forced to chuckle a little at the absurdity of his request. I didn’t feel at home with Eric when we were married, never mind now. Still, come home, distracts me on my entire drive to the Soldiers’ Home.

“Sorry I’m late, guys.” Sitting in the free chair across from George and Marion, I let out what I hope to be the final sigh regarding Eric.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” George deadpans.

“Everything okay, Hon?” Marion eyes me carefully.

After staring at them for a few seconds, I realize I won’t get away with beating around the bush, so I dive in. I tell them about my conversation with Eric this morning and how it’s completely thrown me off balance, given its origins somewhere in left field.

“I’ve done nothing to make him think we’d be getting back together . . .” Finishing my story I look to both of them for insight.

Marion grins. “Don’t let it get you down. It’s just a little distraction . . . like Evie.”

“Oh for the love of . . . really, Marion?” George groans.

“Evie?” I question, looking between the two of them.

“Here we go . . .” George murmurs, picking up a magazine and thumbing through it as an apparent effort to escape from the conversation.

Ignoring his childish display, Marion faces me. “Evie was George’s high school girlfriend, before he came to his senses.” She casts a sideways glance to George, but he doesn’t bite. “Anyway,” she continues, “George and I had been together for quite a while by the time he went to Korea, but that didn’t stop Evie from sending him letters.”

Arching my eyebrow, my mouth flies open.

“See?” Marion gestures toward me, looking at George.

George shakes his head but doesn’t look up from his pretend reading session. “I never wrote her back, Marion.”

“That’s not the point,” Marion and I say at the same time. She laughs, and I catch George smile, too.

Looking back to Marion, I ask, “How’d you find out?”

“I found them in a box a few months after he got home and we were moving into our house.”

“What’d you do?”

“I’ll tell you what she did.” George sets his magazine down, defeated at his attempt to avoid participation. “Marion knocked on Evie’s door—”

“I’ll finish,” Marion cuts in. “I politely went to her house and informed her that while it was nice of her to try to keep my future husband company while he was in Korea, now that he was home, he no longer needed her friendship services. And I turned on my heels and walked away.”

Laughter flies out of me at the thought of tiny Marion taking down an opportunist, 1950’s style.

“Did you ever hear from her again?” I ask, wiping laughter-induced tears from under my eyes.

“Not a word.” Marion sits back, crosses her arms, and offers me a stern nod. “Sometimes you just have to nip those things right in the bud. You did good with what you said to Eric today, Dear.”

“Did you throw the letters away?”

Marion shakes her head. “Goodness, no. They’re his—wasn’t my place. You bet your behind I thought about it six or seven . . . hundred times over the last sixty years. But, I have his letters to me, and that’s the point.”

I stay for lunch with George and Marion, and we talk about upcoming holiday plans before I drive in refreshed quiet back to my apartment.

Sifting through my mail as I walk up the stairs, I stop at a large envelope addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. We haven’t spoken since the boys’ birthday party; any communication has been through my father. I felt her apology was just this side of half-assed, and she clearly felt the same or she wouldn’t be avoiding me. Opening the envelope, I find a note and another envelope. I sit as I take in her words.

Natalie,

I’ve had a long time to think since our talk at Max and Oliver’s birthday party. You’re a strong young woman who I’m proud to call my daughter. Your father tells me he’s been speaking with Bill Manning via e-mail for the last ten years. He’s shown me some of the correspondence, and I’m sorry. I misjudged you, and I misjudged Ryker. You two have been through so much, and I’m sorry for any stress I added to the situation.

Needing a small break from this revelation of honesty, I pour a glass of wine and continue reading her letter at the table. I’m thrilled my dad told her about his friendship with Bill, but am still uneasy about where this letter might be going.

Now, for the part I’m not proud of. I thought I was helping you by trying to control what contact you had with Ryker while you were home for Winter break the month after he was deployed. You were so sad, Natalie . . . I can’t go back and give this to you when it came, but I hope, somehow, you can forgive me.

Love, Mom.

What the hell? I reach for the other unmarked envelope. Opening it, I find another envelope. This one, though, has Ryker’s handwriting on it. A mix of sadness and rage flies through me as I see it was sent to my parents’ house a few days after Christmas. From Afghanistan. This would have been Ryker’s first letter to me, since they left somewhere around Christmas, though I didn’t know the exact date. We sent loads of letters to each other while I was home, and never talked about any specifically, just that we liked getting them. There’s no reason I would have known I missed one. And she knew that. The only reason I’m not on the road to Pennsylvania to strangle her right now is that she kept the letter. For whatever reason, she kept it. Unopened.

Unfolding the page, I set it on the table. Leaning back to stare at it, I decide more wine is in order before I look at the words.



December 25, 2001

Natalie,

Merry Christmas, Gorgeous.

I miss you already. I’ve missed you from the second I couldn’t see you anymore after we said goodbye. Don’t go anywhere, okay? Some of the guys with girlfriends have told them not to wait for them, some proposed before they left, and one guy even got married. I know we aren’t ready for the last two, but I’m not ready for the first one. Just . . . don’t go anywhere. Before you know it, I’ll be home and we can pick up where we left off—me telling you how much I love you, and hearing your beautiful voice telling me how much you love me.

We can do this.

I love you.

Ry



Resisting the urge to call my mother, resisting the urge to call Ryker, I calmly walk to my bedroom and reach for the box under the bed. This letter doesn’t change what happened with Ryker and me back then; it’s not like not receiving this letter caused me to break up with him. We said some version of these things to each other in almost every letter we sent. Something about this being his first letter, though, hurts in a different way. His first thoughts from a desert a million miles away were about me, were about us. Confident Ryker knew we could get through anything. Opening the lid, I place this letter on top, where it belongs, before curling onto my bed and crying myself to sleep.