“They live in Seattle with Miranda.” The words feel traitorous coming out.
She looks knocked for a loop; her face has never been one to hide a reaction. She blinks several times before her eyes go wide and she asks, “Pardon me?” The question isn’t asked to clarify the information I relayed; it’s an exclamation of shock.
I nod in agreement. “Yeah. She fabricated a nice little case against me and took my kids a few months ago. I haven’t seen them, and she barely lets me talk to them.” I swallow hard because I haven’t talked to anyone about this, except myself when I have too much to drink late at night.
Her eyes are still wide. “I could never understand why a man like you put up with a woman like her.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes have settled into the motherly expression she usually reserved for me. “You’re good. She’s not. Like water and oil, you never should’ve come together.”
“She did give me three beautiful kids.” I’m not defending her, not in the least, but it’s true.
She pulls both of her lips in between her teeth, and her eyes are looking just over my right shoulder like she’s thinking something over. Something important that she’s not sure she should share. When she meets my eyes again, her mouth is drawn into a hard line. “May I have your address, Seamus?”
My eyebrows draw together in confusion, and I question, “Why?”
There’s resolve in her eyes, but there’s sadness too. “I need to write you a letter,” she says it like it explains everything, so when I don’t react or answer, she continues, “There’s something you should know.”
I’m still confused, and I can’t deny the heat creeping through me, uneasy pulses generated by the twisting that’s begun in my stomach. “Tell me,” I urge her. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.
She shakes her head and the motherly smile returns, but it’s crestfallen and apologetic. “I can’t. My heart might be made of stone, but I have some compassion. This needs to be delivered in privacy, not standing in front of a grocery store for the world to see. You deserve that.”
“Tell me,” I plead again.
She takes a deep breath, and her lips drop into a frown that matches her eyes. “I don’t…” I think that’s where it’s going to end, but it doesn’t, “want to see your reaction. I don’t want to be the one who hurts you, Seamus.”
“But you’re just the bearer of bad news.”
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m the one who did the act, or I’m only the one informing you of the act—the bearer of bad news is always the unfortunate person to absorb the shockwave of intense emotion immediately after impact. I don’t do well with intense or emotion. I’m sorry, Seamus. May I have your address?”
I suddenly feel nauseous. I reach into my pocket and pull out a gas receipt, scrawl my address on the back, and hand it to her without another word.
She takes it from me, folds it precisely in half, sticks it in a pocket on her purse, and then extends her hand to me.
I take in the shake, hand pat and all. I know it’s an apology.
“Take care of yourself, Seamus. Your kids belong with you. See what can be done to make it happen. And have some faith.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. When her hands leave mine, she enters the store. I decide I feel too sick to look at pickles and turn around and walk to my car.
And I drive home and wait for a letter that I’m sure will break my heart.
Again.
Compressed wood pulp and bad intention
Present
Two days later I’m standing on the W…E mat, favoring the E half when I pull three items out of the mailbox next to my door.
The first is my cell phone bill.
“Next,” I say out loud, as if by flipping to the next piece of correspondence this phone bill will be erased from existence.
The second is a flyer for a Chinese restaurant down the street. My mouth waters at the sight of the sesame chicken photo on the front until I remember that their food tastes like shit and looks nowhere this appetizing.
“Next,” I say, swallowing down the rancid reminder of a bad meal I had weeks ago.
The third.
The third is...
I drop the papers in my hands as if their heart-wrenching contents, words written on compressed wood pulp, have already singed my hands with their bad intention.
My mail is now lying on the W…E mat, perfectly placed between the W and the E.
Justine’s handwriting is scowling at me. The letters each written deliberately, pressed deeply into the paper by the point of a pen with purpose. They scare me.
I know I should think of the mat as the unwelcome mat again, but the truth is, all I can think about is WE. Faith and me. I can’t read this letter without her.
So, without giving it any logical thought, because logic would tell my heart to shut the hell up, I pick up the letter and make my way downstairs to her apartment and knock on the door.
She doesn’t answer, so I knock again in desperation because anxiety is starting to fill my lungs like water.