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A letter sits unopened on the table, looking inoffensive. I found it three hours ago, when I first came home. Someone else must have brought the mail inside, I do not know who that was. I have been hesitant to touch it, hesitant to see what has been written, and so it sits untouched. Beside it, a number of Christmas cards, mostly for the other members of my family, but there is also one from him. I cannot bring myself to read it; I will save it for Christmas day. Prolonging the anticipation makes the reward more worthwhile.
And now that I have done all my chores and dinner sits simmering on the stove, I find myself standing here before the table, looking down at the letter. I pick it up, run my fingers along the handwritten address on the front, admiring the smooth feel of the paper. The printed emblem is so familiar that I could probably draw it in my sleep, despite not being much of an artist. I know it so well, the way I used to think I knew the one who had written this.
If I close my eyes, I can see him sealing the envelope. But I cannot read his face anymore; I do not know what he is thinking. Once I would have been certain.
I stare down at the letter, seeing for the first time the postmark. It is dated three weeks ago, the day after she told me, the day after I talked to him about it. He had not given any satisfactory answer to my accusations at that point, in fact, he has yet to truly give a single satisfactory answer. But so much has happened since this letter was posted, so much that a feeling of dread sits heavily in my stomach at the thought of what I might read within the sealed envelope. I am not the same person I was three weeks ago when this was written. And, at least in my eyes, neither is he.
A few days earlier I had gotten another letter, but it had been dated five weeks previous. I could deal with that, while reading I could make believe that he meant what he had been saying, that in some small part of his heart he was still being honest with me, as much as he had ever been. But with this letter, there could be no pretending, for he told me the truth the other day.
And it makes one wonder. If he had been actively lying to me two months ago, was anything that he said true? Or was it all just a cruel joke? Had he ever meant it? Because I knew I had meant every word, every promise lies heavily on my soul and though I long to break them, to take the words back, I cannot. If only I were that strong.
Something spills over on the stove, noisily spraying boiling water around. I turn quickly and am moving without thought to go lift the lid on that pot and release the built-up steam. The letter falls back to the table, landing beside the card once more.
But even as I finish cooking, it plays on my mind. What is written on the pages in that thick envelope? There would be at least three pages within for it to be that size, but the last time he wrote me a letter of any length was a year ago when he was partly drunk and it took him most of the night. I know he no longer has enough time to write long letters, and I have never minded that. What I objected to was him never writing anything of content, he never told me what he was thinking. And now I am paying the price because he did not know how to open up to me.
I knew I had told him everything. He had asked, and I answered his questions. I let him see who I was, I let him see beneath the masks I wear, I made myself vulnerable for him. And it worked wonderfully. He knew exactly how best to hurt me, and he did it. Betrayal is the easiest way to break the heart.
I shake my head, trying to dismiss such thoughts. They are beneath me; I am supposed to be stronger than that. I am stronger than any of them could ever know, stronger than he will ever know. Strong, proud, colder than ice, was that not the way I used to be? Before I was talked into letting down the barriers I had built around my heart? I had been strong in the past, more times than I could easily count, I can be strong again.
Dinner is ready. I reach into the cupboards to fetch the plates I would need to dish up the meal I had prepared. One slips from my clumsy fingers and falls to the floor, breaking into countless pieces. I swear as I step carefully over the pieces to find the broom.
On my hands and knees, I sweep the floor with a dustpan, checking to see if I have picked up all those pieces of broken glass. It has taken many minutes, but I believe that all the shards of the shattered plate have been gathered into one place. Now if only I could put them back into one piece before anyone realises what happened. But it is impossible to repair something so completely destroyed, one can only begin again with a new plate.
Finally, the meal is served. As the others gather around to collect their plates, I dash into the dining room and pick up both letter and card, taking them into my room where they are placed with some care on the desk. I will deal with it after dinner.
The washing up has been done and I have no more excuses. I walk into my room, sit down at the desk. The letter is there in front of my, and for a few minutes I pretend to ignore it, reorganising some of the notes and half-finished letters I have written lately into some semblance of order.
I sigh, picking up the letter and turning it over so that I can open the envelope. It tears, and the stamp is ruined, much to my disappointment. I am normally more careful than that, but today I seem to be clumsier than I have been for several years. I pull the letter from the envelope, being slightly more careful of the thin pages. They have been folded many times to fit in the small envelope, but he was gentle in doing so.
Holding it close, I realise that this letter smells just like the others, a faint scent that I can never quite describe but which will always remind me of him. I close my eyes and force myself to unfold the letter.
Right away I realise that I was right about him not having time to write long letters. Two of the three pages are a poem that he has written; something he thought would make me laugh. Funnily enough, not much makes me smile anymore, let alone laugh. And he wrote this as everything was spilling over.
I skim over it, knowing that although I cannot appreciate the humour, someone else will no doubt love it when I share with them tomorrow. And maybe in a few days I will read it again and laugh.
His handwriting is perfect as always, neat black script on a lined white page. I wish I could write like him, it always looks so immaculate, unlike my messy scrawl.
I put the poem to one side, looking at the letter with open eyes. I realise for the first time how stifled his writing style has become in recent letters, as if being vague was suddenly hard for him. The words are forced, the sentences seem almost ritualistic.
I read each word carefully, seeking the hidden meaning, looking for some hint of truth that would restore everything that had been taken so cruelly from me. But there is nothing there, not even any of his lies. Perhaps he had grown tired of the game by the time he was writing this letter, perhaps he was preparing himself to respond to my accusations, those which I apologised for, even though I knew it was truth at the time. Perhaps, perhaps, does it really matter anymore? Not terribly.
He lied to me, should I not be glad that he wants no part of my life? Should I not want him to go away and never try to talk to me again? He refuses to ask me for forgiveness, what is he afraid of? Is he afraid that I will refuse to forgive him? Or is it that he is afraid I will forgive him and he will have to forgive himself? I honestly do not know.
I read his letter, wishing that the words spoken were meant, that he really did care for me as he claims. But he does not, and I must learn to deal with that. I must relearn how to hide my own thoughts and feelings, lest they condemn me further.
There is just one thing I hope for, as I near the conclusion of the letter. My heart feels heavy within me and it beats loudly in my chest. I do not want to hear his great lie one more time. I never want to hear it again, every time I read over his past letters I realise what I fool I must have been to ever allow myself to think such a thing was possible. What happens to the dream when the dreamer wakes?
Did he ever believe it? Perhaps he was being honest, perhaps in his heart he believed it for a time and so therefore what he said was what he believed to be truth. But what one believes to be truth and what actually is truth are often different.
Tears come into my eyes and I find myself losing control over my emotions once more as I see the hated phrase, the greatest lie of all, at the bottom of the page, as he signs off. I reach back away from my desk, grab the stuffed toy from the bed and hold it close to my chest as I sob, realising that I am not alright, I am not strong, I am miserable and hurt and my heart has been shattered into so many pieces that I no longer know how to hide the damage.
And on the desk sits the letter, looking inoffensive.
'I love you…'
All stories © Copyright 1997-2002 by Catherine.
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