How Many Letters Are In Goodbye? (43 page)

No one would understand. No one would forgive me. Rhea never would and that would be the worst part. She wouldn't understand that I'd done it for her, that her dad could take better care of her than I ever could. That if she had to choose a life with me or with him that there's no question, no contest, that he'd beat me hands down.

He'd learn to cook, if I wasn't here, I know he would and he'd take such good care of her—she'd never need anything. I love her too but he loves her in a different way than me. The love he has for her is open, big, warm—she can be held in love like that. My love is brittle, something that lives in the dark. Something shrivelled, something afraid.

That night at Brown, I told you I was broken inside, remember? You told me I was fine, that everyone feels like that sometimes, and I believed you, I wanted to believe you. Only now I don't think I do, I don't think everyone feels this shattered, like a shell you walk on on the beach and you know there's no way it can be put back together again.

Outside, people don't know. They see that I smile and that my hair is brushed and that I can go grocery shopping and walk on the beach with my little girl and go swimming. But this baby, my daughter—she doesn't want my outsides, my outsides will not be enough for her. She wants what's inside, she deserves that much, and that's what scares me, Ruth, that maybe inside there's nothing.

Nothing at all.

I've written much too much, I've written so much and I've hardly told you anything. Dermot will be home soon and I want to make some tea for him, some toast with the strawberry jelly he likes. He says I don't have to wait up, that I should sleep, but I like to, I like to do that, to be a wife, a real one, not just pretend.

Maybe I won't send this letter. Maybe I'll rip it up and start another one in the morning. Maybe I'll call Daddy and say we'll come visit, maybe I'll make Dermot close the store, even for a few days, maybe someone could run it for him. We could stay in a hotel—Daddy would pay for that—we wouldn't even have to be anywhere near their apartment, we could stay in midtown, near everything. Maybe if Dermot came, if we were all there together, I'd remember I was someone's wife, someone's mother, and then maybe it would be OK.

I love you, Ruth, I know we don't really say that in our family, but I do. You're my sister and I love you. I always have. I hope you know.

Alli

Dear Mum,

This is the letter Aunt Ruth didn't want me to read, I know it is. She didn't want me to read what you said about going to New York and leaving me behind with Dad. She didn't want me to know you were thinking about that, that you could write that. But you said other things as well, about how you felt holding me and being connected and everything—you said those things too.

Everyone has bad days, Mum, everyone says things they don't mean. Like anytime I got mad at Aunt Ruth in Coral Springs, I'd shout at her that I was going back to Rush. I didn't mean it, I don't think I ever meant it, I think some part of me just wanted to hear myself say it.

Something horrible must have happened with that man. Something really scary. I think I know what it was, maybe I know. But if it is what I think it is, I don't know why your dad wouldn't have done anything after you told him, I'm not even sure from what you said in your letter if he believed you or not.

It's a bit confusing, Mum, all of it's a bit confusing. I probably need to read this one again, before I go on to the next one.

But I know one thing already for sure. I believe you that something bad happened.

I'd have believed you, if you'd told me.

Rhea

August 16, 1983

Dear Ruth,

Three days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes. That's how long it's been since you and Mom flew home. I'm so glad we went to wave you off, I'm glad Dermot talked me into it, that he reminded me that I'd still have to say goodbye anyway—it was just a question of where I'd have to say it.

Time is so weird, don't you think? When you were here, it felt like you were always here, like you and Mom were part of our lives. And even as we were at the airport saying goodbye and you were crying, some part of me still felt like you were only going to the store or something and that you'd be back in an hour. So, instead of feeling sad right then, I felt kind of relieved because I was getting an hour to myself and it's not until three hours have passed and then four and then five that it finally hit me you're not coming back at all.

But I don't want to sound sad, because we had fun, didn't we, Ruthie? I'm so happy that you and Dermot liked each other so much. He loved how you joked around with him about his bodhrán and even tried to play it, he got such a kick out of that and I know you did too. He's still talking about that night at the Meeting Place, how all the men had their eye on you and that you left just in time before he married you off. Reggie Burke has stopped by the last two nights and he never stops by like that. He says it's because he wants to talk to Dermot about what's happening with the band but he keeps asking me about you.

I know you and Paul are engaged now—how could I forget with that huge diamond!—and even though I'm delighted for you, part of me has this fantasy where you fall for one of Dermot's friends and move over here! Not Reggie—hell, no!—but maybe Dessie or Sean—I saw the way you looked at Sean. So, in this fantasy, you start dating Sean and you come back here every couple of months or something, and then you end up moving over here and you get married and you have a little girl too, and we all go swimming on the beach every morning together, have dinner every Sunday at one of our houses, and Dermot always gets us a good cut of meat!

What do you say, Ruthie? I know you liked it over here. I know you want to come back soon, you said you don't want to miss Rhea growing up. Maybe come back on your own next time, without Mom? And I'd tell Dermot to make sure Sean gets a haircut and a new sweater.

I'm joking of course, well, I guess I'm half joking. I know you and Paul are really settled in the city, especially now you have your high-powered job. I'm so proud of you—my little sister a hotshot executive—you know I am. I just enjoyed having you here, so much. I guess I hadn't realized that I was lonely. I thought I was happy here—I am happy here. But when you were here every morning when I woke up, I felt excited and I didn't know why, and then I'd remember.

Sorry again for that thing on your last day. I still feel bad. I know it was my fault that I was cranky with Mom, that I should have just let her sit there and watch TV like always, but it was such gorgeous weather out and I really wanted to walk Howth Head with you, so you could see how beautiful it is when it's not raining. I know she hadn't asked Dermot to take the morning off to drive us, and you hadn't either, but I just thought it would be such fun, you know. It didn't even bother me that she wasn't coming, to tell you the truth, but it just made me mad that you were going to stay with her. I didn't mean that thing I said, about you always choosing her over me, I know it was childish and that I'm not setting a very good example for Rhea when I act like that, but sometimes I can't help it.

Don't forget to send on all those photos you took of Rhea, will you? I left mine to be developed yesterday at Hickey's—they said it will take a week and I don't know if I can wait that long! I'm getting three sets—one for you and one for me and one for Mom. I don't know if she'll even want them but I know she'll be pissed if I don't get one for her. I like how I can say Hickey's now and you can picture where it is, that I don't have to describe it. I like not having to explain what a 99 is or a bodhrán or that it stays bright so much later or how the weather can change so much in one day. I like that you've held Rhea in your arms and heard the funny way she laughs and seen her do that jiggle dance she does when music is playing. You know, out of everything, I think that surprised me most, how she was so willing to go to you from the beginning, that it was like she already knew you. She's not always like that with people, sometimes in the village if someone tries to talk to her she can be shy and hide behind my legs, but from the start she went to you.

Do you miss her? I bet you do. I hope you mean it about coming back with Paul at Christmas—she'd love it, I know she would, and it's only four months away so I'm sure she'd still remember you. If I'd written to you yesterday, I could have told you that she missed you. How she went into your room, first thing in the morning, looking for you and how her little face was all twisted and confused when she saw the bed was empty. The first morning, she pointed to the bed and asked where you and Nana were and she cried when I told her, as if she'd only just remembered and you were leaving all over again. The second morning, she went into the room but she turned around when she saw the empty bed and she didn't ask and she didn't cry. This morning she went straight down to breakfast and asked when we were going to the beach. I'm sure she does still miss you, somewhere in her little head, but it just made me realize how quickly they get over things at that age, how much easier things are for kids. Which is good, I guess. That's why I wanted to get the photos though, to show her, because even though it's good she's not sad, I don't want her to forget too soon, you know?

I just checked through this letter and there's nothing in it to make you worry—I don't think there is. I'm sorry I got you so worried before, I didn't mean to. When I'm writing to you I just keep writing, let it all come out, like we're having a conversation, but I know that when you see something written down it can seem scarier and more serious than it does when we're having a chat. When you told me, that day on the beach, all the things that were in the other letter, I really don't remember writing them at all. I know I was having nightmares for a while after Rhea was born but I didn't think they'd gone on that long. Maybe you're right, maybe it was postpartum depression or something, but whatever it was, I'm glad it's passed now. And I appreciated you saying that I can always talk to you about anything and that you'd even pay for me to talk to a counsellor about it, but there's no need—from what Mom said, he's pretty much bed-ridden in that nursing home these days, so it sounds like he got what he deserved. There's no point raking it all up again.

I think it was something to do with having Rhea that made it all come up when it did, but it's gone now, honestly. I feel so much better—lighter, freer—and I know that other stuff is ancient history. I'm going to run to the post office now and mail this. I'll mail the photos as soon as I get them too. Write me back quick, won't you? And let me know as soon as you and Paul have set a date—I want to make sure Dermot has loads of notice so he has no excuse about not being able to close the shop! And thank you again for asking me to be your matron of honor. It means a lot, it really does. Maybe one day Dermot and I will get married again, so you can be there to see us this time.

Thank you again, Ruthie, for coming over to see me and spend time with us. You made me so happy—you make me so happy. And Rhea. And Dermot. I can't wait to see you, and we will see you very, very soon!

In case I never told you—you're the best sister in the world!! Ever!!!

Lots of love,
Alli xxxx

P.S. I'll call you next Saturday like we said. I hope it's still okay to call collect?

Dear Mum,

It's brilliant hearing you so happy again! I wish I remembered that, their visit, but even when I looked at the photos I couldn't remember it at all. It's fifty kinds of crazy that out of the three sets of photos you made, I ended up with your mum's ones! I knew I'd seen them before, I knew we must have had a set at home. I wonder what Dad ever did with them?

Aunt Ruth never mentioned anyone called Paul, I never heard of him. I wonder what happened. She's not divorced, I don't think she is, I'm sure someone would have told me that, so they must never have got married. If she'd married him then she'd never have been with Cooper and I'd never have met Laurie and, right at this second, I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I've only one letter left, Mum, and I've decided I'm going to take it down onto the beach to read it, just like you did with Aunt Ruth's first letter. I know I can read them all again, of course I can, but I can only read it for the first time once!

I love you, Mum. You know that, don't you?

Rhea xxxx

Dear Ruth,

I'm sorry to ask you to do this but please—please just do this one last thing for me.

None of this is your fault, don't blame yourself, Ruthie, I couldn't take it if you blamed yourself.

Be there for Rhea for me, please. I know you will. Please give her this when the time is right. You'll know when, you always do.

I love you, Ruth.

Your sister,
Allison

Dear Rhea, baby Rhea,

I don't know how to start this letter. I've never been good at letters—I've always preferred writing things that I know no one will read and I know you'll read this someday years and years and years from now. Or maybe I'll tear it up when I'm finished and you'll never read it at all.

I'm on the landing writing this, because you like to have the light on in case you need to get up to pee in the night. And I don't want to wake your father up by turning the light on in our bedroom, even though I don't think anything would wake him up tonight—he's snoring so loud. It reminds me of the metronome Miss Hamilton used to use in music class at Brearley. That's the school where I went as a little girl and they taught piano there as well as normal lessons and I had to learn to play when I was only a few years older than you are now. Your Aunt Ruth started even younger than me—she was six, I think—and I always wondered if that was why she was better than me or if she would have been better than me anyway. When she played, the music sounded like water, there were no corners. When I played, the music was slow, clanking, it hardly sounded like music at all. My teacher said I needed to be patient, that Ruth had to practice to make it sound the way it sounded, but I knew that I could never make it sound like that.