I pinch the corner and pull the envelope free. It resists a little, like it’s asking if I’m sure. Well, I am.
Because I’m realizing the contents can’t tell me anything I don’t already know deep inside my heart. I feel it in the way it keeps thumping despite the faded bruises left by Josh’s callousness; despite the deep incision that appeared when my beloved best friend died, that heals and reopens anew at least twelve times a day; and despite the fresh, chasmic gash of Hollis’s betrayal, which might never fully mend. I’m not naive enough to think I’ll never get hurt again on my way to happily ever after, but no matter what Elsie’s letters say, I know I’ll keep believing. My heart can take it. I am, fundamentally, a person who clings to hope, and trusting that—trusting myself—is worth everything.
My nail drags over the top of the envelope, tearing until itsplits open. Inside is a piece of printer paper, equally crisp and white. The handwriting is a loopy print—more like mine than the familiar cursive of the old letters in my backpack. Perhaps she could no longer hold a pen at the end and someone else took down her dictation. Rhoda the receptionist, or a young volunteer perhaps.
My most darling Rosie,it says.
They tell me you’re sending me a pigeon. What took you so long?
I like to believe you’re still alive, though I admit I don’t know for sure. I tell myself I would’ve felt the moment of your death somewhere deep inside my bones. Perhaps I did, but mistook it for the same sharp ache I’ve felt every day since I lost you.
My years of experience agree with the baby-faced doctors here that my own time is coming. In case I’m gone or incapacitated by the time your pigeon arrives, I write this letter as an introduction to the others.
Though it’s simple: Even though my letters to you began returning unopened, I couldn’t seem to stop writing them. I always believed that one day I might find you again and perhaps we would lay in bed for hours and I would rest my head on your shoulder while you read about what I did with my time while you were gone. You would laugh at my melodrama and I wouldn’t mind, because it would be rather funny just how much I suffered without you now that my suffering was over and you were with me again.
I suppose I never gave up hoping that day would come. So I kept writing, and I keep writing.
I know I won’t get to lay beside you while you read this. But feel free to laugh if the mood strikes, sweet Rosie. My suffering is over, and you are with me again at last.
With all of my love, in this life and the next,
Elsie
I hold back the tears that threaten, knowing I won’t be able to read the brown leather book with my vision blurred.
I flip through Elsie’s life, learning about her in the pages of the journal formatted as letters but never sent.
—
My last letter was returned unopened, an angry red little hand pointing and declaring RETURN TO SENDER. It seems to say that you have moved and left no forwarding address. I cashed in some favors to call you, but the operator says the line has been disconnected. Perhaps you were so furious that I got myself killed that you got on a plane and are coming to Tokyo to tell me what’s what?
—
It’s been over a month now without a word from you, and I think you must think me dead and gone. That or you have decided you no longer care for me. I would rather be dead, I think, than no longer have (at least) your friendship.
—
I’ve been medically discharged and am stateside once again, yet feel as far from you as ever...
—
I am freezing my tits off here in New England. Why didn’t I choose a medical school somewhere much warmer?
—
Sometimes when I walk about town, I see a woman with your dark hair, your graceful stride, your curved and perfect body. I imagine I’ve found you only to have her turn and be a stranger. But New Haven is as good a place as any for you. Maybe one day it will be your smile that greets me...
—
Fort Lauderdale is treating me well. I have a house right by the beach, and I swim every morning the weather allows. The only thing missing in my life is you, sweet Rosie...
—
I lost a patient today. A child, the same age as your Walter must be now.
—
I’ve been spending time with a nurse from my hospital. Her name is Martina. We have a rather strong affection between us, made stronger by the knowledge that we aren’t each other’s true loves. M knows that you will always be my heart and soul. She lost her own sweetheart last year to cancer. We both walk around missing a part of ourselves, but we make each other feel closer to whole. I wonder if this is how you feel about your Mr. Nash, this love that’s so different from what we felt for each other but so special nonetheless...
