"Okay," he says, and it's the closest thing to an agreement that I'm going to get. Ryan's never been good at expressing sorrow, and Sylvia is the first person he's ever really known who's died. He was too young to remember his mom, and Sylvia's cancer just came back so suddenly. We only had a few weeks before she was gone.
"And apologize to your father while you're at it. You might not get this right now, but he lost his mother, and he might not be crying over her, but mothers are important, and your dad's suffering just as much as you are."
Ryan's eyes are red and glassy now, but he doesn't want me to know that, so he looks away. Carefully, I set the ornament back on the tree and go give my boy a hug. I might be hearing things, but I swear the kid sniffles in my arms. When we're done, I send him off in search of Ian, and then I light a cigarette and take my ass outside.
Jim is on his way back from the barn now, and he's carrying a load of wood for the fireplace. His scowl tells me his mood is still too pissy for me to deal with, so I take a leisurely stroll to the mailbox and try to decompress.
An envelope, just a little bit too large for the box, sticks out. Ignoring the rest of the waiting mail, I grab the bubble mailer and inspect the label. There's no return address, but it was stamped in New York, and it's addressed to Ruby Buckley. My heart stops, my stomach does a flip, and I take one final drag from my cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out. I haven't received one of these since getting to Fort Bragg. Everything was so hectic after Ian and I left Texas that the packages stopped coming. They had nowhere to go. The last one I received was almost three years ago. The twins were only two then, and it was just a handful of pictures. Gloria, Mike's sister, risks a lot to send me these packages. Last year, when I finally got the word out to her that I was settled and didn't hear back, I just figured that was it. I wouldn't get anything else.
I open the envelope as quickly as possible while being careful not to damage anything inside. There's a video tape labeled "Christmas 1998," so it's really recent. A sob breaks free, and I clutch the tape to my chest. Everything I've gotten of my babies has been still photographs. I've never heard their voices or seen them move. Not since the day Mike took them.
Sucking in a deep breath and blowing it out slowly, I focus on calming myself down. There are also photos in the envelope--some candid and two professional ones from what looks to be their preschool--and a single sheet of white paper. Messy drawings in two different colors grace one side. I can barely breathe as I study the lines of the purple crayon and run my fingers over my baby girl's name in the bottom left corner. She wrote it herself, and her r is backward, but she's writing. Holy fuck, she's writing. Michael's side of the paper is more like three quarters of it, with his green crayon going right over his sister's purple. His name is even messier in his corner, but all his letters are facing the right way. My fingers trace his name as well, and I take care to note how hard he presses the crayon compared to his sister's soft lines. My babies are writing, and they're in preschool, and they're living this entire life without me.
"Babe," Jim shouts as he rushes up on me. Concern is clear in his voice, and so is the fact that he sprinted to me. He's out of breath and heaving when he gets to me. "What's wrong?"
I can't talk, so I just hand him their preschool photographs and nuzzle into Jim's flannel shirt in uncontrollable sobs. My eyes are closed as I strain for breath, but I can see their perfect faces so clearly in my head. Michael's all smiles with big brown eyes and little white teeth. He looks happy and confident, and even though he and Ian have very different features, I see his older brother in his eyes. Alexandra's smile is almost nonexistent in her school photo. She looks shy and demure. Like Esmeralda. I sob even harder at the thought. The last thing I want is for my daughter to grow up to be that timid. I want her to be strong and fearless.
Jim whistles as loud as he can and screams for the boys. I fight to pull myself together. By the time they appear from the neighboring woods, we're on the move and almost inside the house.
"This is a good thing, momma," Jim says. "Remember, we celebrate this shit." He smiles, full and genuine. I force myself to channel some of his mood and give the boys a soft smile when we get inside. Jim leads us into the living room where he takes the envelope from me and starts getting the tape ready.
"One of you get your mother some tissues. It's movie time."
CHAPTER 19
June 2005