Grams sits on the edge of my bed.
She has piled blankets on top of me and tucked me in securely. I stare at the ceiling blankly, my head full of static, as she smooths my hair away from my face. I turn over and accidentally tug on the healing wound on my wrist. An image pops into my head: ripping open that gash, letting the blood pour out again. It's only a flash of a scene, but it's enough for me to long for the knife I used to keep under my mattress. I squeeze my eyes closed and will the vision to go away.
Grams lightly rubs my back. "Do you want me to sing to you?"
"No," I say. "I just want to go to sleep."
She pauses. "Are you sure you want me to leave you alone?"
"Yes," I answer, and then, after a second, "Please."
"Okay," Grams replies, and squeezes my shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything." She rises from the bed, flicks off the lights, and closes my door softly behind her, which I think is a huge sign of trust, even though I don't really have anything in my room to hurt myself with.
When she's gone, I switch positions and stare into the darkness of my room. I can make out the familiar shapes of my television set, desk, chair, and closet. When I was little, I used to insist on having the closet door shut when I went to sleep because I imagined all the monsters that lurked inside. The logic was, if the door was closed, they couldn't escape. It was later that the envelopes started coming and I banished the real monsters inside. Now I have one more letter to add—only this time the monster is me, and I don't know if I can get away from it by hiding it in the closet.
All these years, I've been avoiding that shoebox. Pretending it didn't exist. But now I'm wondering whether that technique is very effective. If I keep running from my past, how can I face the future? How can I heal my wounds if I'm not even sure what it was that caused them?
I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, heart feeling like it's about to catapult out of my chest. After I cross the room and flip on the light, I turn to face my closet, which is already open. The nest of sweaters, arms all tangled, reminds me of a mess of snakes, writhing, waiting for me to come near.
"They're just letters," I say under my breath. "Only words."
The thing is, I've learned in the past few weeks that words can hurt more than anything else. I swallow and take a step closer to the closet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep breaths, even ones.
Then I'm on my knees and sticking my hand into the sweater mess, searching until I feel the cardboard and retrieve the box. It feels unnaturally heavy. I rest it in front of me and remove the lid. For a moment, I just stare at the blue envelopes stuffed haphazardly inside, never opened—not even one.
And then, something changes.
It's like something snaps within me, and I can't help myself, like I immediately have to know what she has to say about what she tried to do to me eighteen years ago. I rip into the envelope on top and yank out the plain piece of white paper. I scan the page quickly, barely making sense of the words.
I don't know what I was expecting.
An apology?
I guess I envisioned these letters being full of remorse and pleas for forgiveness. Instead, there's a dull description of her week in prison—the reality show she watched on television that afternoon, the dry chicken they had for dinner, the annoying way her cellmate snored.
I skip to the end.
Sincerely, Amy
Amy.
Not Mom.
It's not that I want her to call herself my mom—that would be seriously fucked up—but I guess I always wondered whether she still thought of me as her daughter, even though she was never around when I was growing up, even though she did try to kill me. The formal, impersonal way she signed her letter answers my question, though. She doesn't see herself as anything more than an acquaintance, and barely one at that.
Unsatisfied, I toss the letter aside and rip open another one. This one contains the plot of some soap opera. The way she talks about the characters is sad, like they're more real to her than I am. Again, there's a brief analysis of her dinner and some more complaints about her cellmate, though this one has a different name and a whole list of different offenses.
I open another.
And another.
They're all the same.
I get through half the box before I find one that's different. Right away I notice that the writing's a little different, sloppier than normal, as though she wrote it in a rush. And there are two strange splotches on the outside of the envelope where the blue is a slightly different color than the rest.
Breathing heavily, I open the envelope slowly, almost reverently. I try not to get my hopes up. For all I know, this letter will be as boring and meaningless as all the rest. But I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that this one will contain the answers I've been seeking my whole life.
I bite my lip and slowly unfold the letter. The handwriting sprawled over the page is just as messy as the address on the outside of the envelope, as though her hands were shaking as she wrote.
Dear Liliana,
There's something I've wanted to clear up for a long time.
I don't know what your grandmother told you about that night. Maybe she didn't tell you anything. Maybe she's not even giving these letters to you (if so, maybe she's doing the right thing... I don't know).
I guess I'm really writing this for myself, more than anything. God knows I've been composing it in my head for years, trying to figure out how to explain it to you.
First of all, I apologize. I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm sorry for what I almost stole from you. I know that words cannot erase actions, especially this many years later. I can't imagine what the knowledge of that night has done to you, how it's impacted you as a person, a young woman trying to find her way in the world.
I offer the following information not as an excuse, but as context: the day prior to my breakdown, your father was killed in a motorcycle accident. I was in such pain, and your grandmother has never been one to cater to those sorts of emotions. It's not that she didn't care, but she didn't know how to fix things for me. Not that she could have. No one could. That was the problem.
And I looked at you, and I couldn't imagine exposing you to a world in which such agony is possible, a realm where you might experience such happiness, only to have it all snatched away and be plunged into a place of total darkness and fear.
I know now, after much therapy, that I was going through post-partum depression, and it was multiplied infinitely by losing your father. Again, this is not an excuse, only context. I do not expect your forgiveness, and I don't dare to believe you could ever want to pursue a relationship with me once I am released.
I thought you should know, however, that I consider that night the greatest mistake of my life. I will live the rest of my days holding the sin of all sins deep within my heart. I am only able to get through each day because I've realized that this life—my life—despite all the misery, is a gift and that the greater sin would be to throw it back in God's face.
Sincerely,
Amy
I cling to the paper, tears stinging my eyes, thinking of Mrs. Edwards and the night I ended her life. For the first time ever, I realize how Amy must feel when looking back on the night she tried to drown me, how it must be as much of a scar for her as it is for me. Unbelievably, there is a trace of pity within me as I sit, clutching the letter to my chest.
I'm not sure how much time passes as I read the letter over and over. There's a knock on the door. "Liliana?" Grams asks. "Are you okay?"
I consider the pile of blue and white paper before me. I could stuff the letters back in the box and not say anything to Grams, but somehow that doesn't feel right. It's as though something within me has been set free, and I want to share the moment with someone.
I want to share it with Grams.
My bedroom door swings open.
"Liliana?" she demands.
"I'm here," I say. "I'm fine."
That's when she notices the mountain of crumpled papers surrounding me. I can see the air go out of her chest. She slumps down, and it's as though all the muscles in her face go slack at the sight of the blue envelopes.
"You finally read them," she says quietly.
I raise my eyebrows. "How did you know I hadn't already?"
She walks over to my desk chair and sits down. "I didn't. I had my suspicions, though. You never spoke of them. Seemed almost afraid of them. I didn't want to pressure you. I figured you'd read them when you were ready."
"Do you know what they said?"
Grams shrugs. "Probably about the same thing her letters to me said. She told me about mundane things, about her life in jail. But still I treasure those letters. She's my daughter. I want to know about those things."
"She told me about what happened that night..."
Shaking her head, Grams says, "She wasn't in her head. That's for sure."
After reading Amy's side of the story, something still isn't quite clicking for me. I don't understand why Grams never tried to explain the circumstances of that night to me. "Why didn't you tell me that she was so depressed?"
Grams gives me a strange look. "What do you mean, depressed?"
That's when I know Grams will never comprehend the events of that night, not the way I do. I realize that Amy passed something down to me, something definitely not good but not quite evil. It's the feeling of hopelessness, the tendency to see endless black night when the rest of the world sees the possibility of a new day.
Grams can't quite grasp that feeling.
But I definitely can.