Love Letters to the Dead

“Yes. Lucky for you I’m at my dad’s this week, so you won’t be subjected to any questions about whether you’ve accepted Jesus.”


Hannah agreed to throw out the vodka, and we passed the day walking around with our limeades. I still didn’t know what we’d do about Jason, but Hannah said that she wanted to forget about it for a little bit, so we went to the park and swung on the swings and jumped off into the dirt. She sang for me the whole time, a mix of Amy Winehouse and old country songs—“San Francisco Mabel Joy” and “I Fall to Pieces.” Her voice sounded beautiful, in the way that a voice does when you need it. Then we went to Walgreens and unwrapped the lipsticks in secret and tried on nearly every color, until we each picked one out and Hannah bought them for us with her Macaroni Grill money. When we went to check out, the cashier asked us why we weren’t in school. “Mental health day,” Hannah said, so confidently that the cashier just nodded in response. And then toward the end of the day, we took the city bus to my house. I’d texted Dad and asked him if I could have Hannah spend the night. I said I knew it was a school night, but she needed to stay in town. He said yes.

When we got there, I started showing Hannah around—the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, Dad’s room, and my room that is still completely dorky.

Then we passed by May’s room, with its door closed. I paused a moment, almost walking past it, but then I went back and turned the handle to open it.

“And this was my sister’s room,” I said. We walked in, and Hannah started looking around, at May’s half-burned Virgin of Guadalupe candles on the dresser, her collection of heart-shaped sunglasses, her jar full of seashells, her Sunflowers perfume. Her pictures on the bulletin board, the picture of River on the wall, the little globe lights strung around the room. “Wow. Your sister was so cool,” she said.

I smiled. “Yeah. She was.”

Then I heard the front door open. “Dad?” I called.

Hannah seemed nervous suddenly. “Do you think he’ll like me?” she whispered.

“Of course,” I answered as we walked into the living room to say hi.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “This is Hannah.”

I’d never seen Hannah that way before. She was like a little girl, shifting from foot to foot, wiping her palms on her dress. I guess she cared a lot what he thought. It made me sad, realizing how she probably didn’t have a lot of experience with parents. She extended her hand. “Hello, sir.”

My dad smiled. “Call me Jim. I’m so glad to finally meet you!”

“You too.”

“Are you girls hungry?” Dad asked. It had been forever since we’d really done anything for dinner other than microwave food, and it was usually me who made it. But then he said, “I was thinking of making Jim’s famous tacos.”

He was showing off for Hannah, I thought, and I smiled. I guess having my friend over brightened him up. He wanted to make things good for us.

So Dad cooked tacos, and we ate them together and then made Jiffy Pop and watched a movie on the couch. Dad let us pick, and we chose Midnight in Paris, which we all loved. The whole thing was surprisingly fun.

When we went to get ready for bed, Hannah borrowed pajamas. We were lying in my bed under the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, trying to fall asleep, and then Hannah turned over and said, “I guess it’s, like, Jason’s just really pissed off at the world. Our parents are dead, and we got stuck with our grandparents, and he was supposed to get out on a football scholarship, and that got ruined. And I think that he gets scared for me, like I’ll fuck up and I’ll get stuck here. The weirdest part is that I know I should hate him, but I don’t. I mean, of course I do in certain moments. But, you know, he’s my brother. And I still love him, too. Do you think that makes me crazy?”

“No,” I said. “I think that you can feel all of that stuff about him at once.” I thought of your quote, about how with real friends you can feel however you do.

“Hold on one minute,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I wanted to do something nice for Hannah, and I had an idea. I tiptoed out of my room, pulled the attic stairs down from the ceiling, and climbed up into the dark, where May and I used to pretend that we were stowaway kids, hiding on a ship. I found the box marked Halloween and pulled it down. I opened it and found the matching pairs of wings that May and I wore, perfectly shaped and stretched over with gauzy panty hose, painted with patterns in glitter. I took May’s pair.

I brought them down to Hannah. “Here,” I said. “I thought you might need these. They’ll make you brave.”

She sat up in bed and stretched the elastic over her shoulders and smiled. “I love them.”

Yours,

Laurel




Dear Jim,