even felt a little guilty for the way my
spirits were lifting. “Did you guys talk about anything?”
There was a long, long silence. “Mike?”
“She doesn’t like soccer players,” Michael finally
said from below. His voice was muffled, like he was talking into his
pillow. “She said she likes runners better.”
And for nothing more than this, I decided to keep running.
From: [email protected]
To:[email protected]
Sent: September 8, 1:50 pm
Subject:One Letter
_____________________________
It’s funny, out of all the
things of yours that I’ve saved, letters and pictures and
everything else, the one thing I wish I had most of all is that first
letter you wrote me before ninth grade telling me I had better do
track again. I’d already decided by that point I was going to
run, I even signed up for cross country, but then that letter came
and it was like “Well, I guess I really am doing it now.”
I never told you this, but I threw it out! I was so terrified of Mike
finding it and making a big deal that I kept it under my mattress for
a while, but even that was too radioactive for me, so I tore the
letter and envelope into little pieces and pitched it.
Did your mom give you my address
after we’d left that summer? I can’t believe it would
have been your dad.
Tonight I’m going to have
dinner with Alan and Kris. Like we used to do, like we did so many
times, but different. Obviously different. So many dinners, when
Chris got a little bigger, and you didn’t feel so bad about
leaving him with a sitter. We weren’t seeing Lee and Sherry so
much, and the Massie girls did tag-team babysitting in our own
home—no driving necessary, no definite time to return—and
we could eat, drink, and drink more. God, we had fun. I think of that
night we ended up sleeping in their basement. There are maybe three
times I remember you really being drunk and that was one of them: we
were two hundred yards from our house but you couldn’t manage
even to walk the little path in the dark. Usually I was the one to
take it a little too far but you were on that night, *on*, so why go home? You wanted
to soak in the hot tub, you wanted more margaritas, you tried to kiss
Alan, you called the margaritas “trouble.” Thank goodness
the kids were back at our house. Kristin called the kids to tell them
to lay out sleeping bags and pop another movie in the VCR, and when
she hung up the phone you shouted: “Mix us up some more
trouble!” And we did. God, that night we did. Captain Alan
barked “Here we go!” with his finger on the blender
button, and away we went. We were soaking in trouble.
In the morning you covered your face
with your hands and groaned for me to close the blinds. They were
closed already. Kristin and Alan laughed from upstairs, and I laughed
and walked home to find the kids slumbering together in a knot on the
inflatable mattress on the living room floor. I made them breakfast,
waffles in our wedding-gift iron, and when Kris called to check in I
heard you retching in the background. We decided you could use a
little space for your recovery. I took the Chris and the girls to the
beach for the day, and the whole time our son was under the
impression you had the flu. An easy enough deception. When we got
home late that afternoon, and Chris found you green on the couch with
a wet washcloth on your forehead, he knelt at your side and asked if
he could make you some soup. You laughed and laughed.
My nights are measured now. I caromed
down that path, bouncing off everything, so many times after you were
gone, certainly more than three times, and finally I reined myself
in. Things came apart, but I pulled myself together. Captain Alan
would let me know, I think, if I started down that trail again. I
trust him to watch out for me, and he does.
Things don’t get out of control
anymore. I promise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time I make it home,
I’m ready to declare my run a success. The
spirits were lifting. “Did you guys talk about anything?”
There was a long, long silence. “Mike?”
“She doesn’t like soccer players,” Michael finally
said from below. His voice was muffled, like he was talking into his
pillow. “She said she likes runners better.”
And for nothing more than this, I decided to keep running.
From: [email protected]
To:[email protected]
Sent: September 8, 1:50 pm
Subject:One Letter
_____________________________
It’s funny, out of all the
things of yours that I’ve saved, letters and pictures and
everything else, the one thing I wish I had most of all is that first
letter you wrote me before ninth grade telling me I had better do
track again. I’d already decided by that point I was going to
run, I even signed up for cross country, but then that letter came
and it was like “Well, I guess I really am doing it now.”
I never told you this, but I threw it out! I was so terrified of Mike
finding it and making a big deal that I kept it under my mattress for
a while, but even that was too radioactive for me, so I tore the
letter and envelope into little pieces and pitched it.
Did your mom give you my address
after we’d left that summer? I can’t believe it would
have been your dad.
Tonight I’m going to have
dinner with Alan and Kris. Like we used to do, like we did so many
times, but different. Obviously different. So many dinners, when
Chris got a little bigger, and you didn’t feel so bad about
leaving him with a sitter. We weren’t seeing Lee and Sherry so
much, and the Massie girls did tag-team babysitting in our own
home—no driving necessary, no definite time to return—and
we could eat, drink, and drink more. God, we had fun. I think of that
night we ended up sleeping in their basement. There are maybe three
times I remember you really being drunk and that was one of them: we
were two hundred yards from our house but you couldn’t manage
even to walk the little path in the dark. Usually I was the one to
take it a little too far but you were on that night, *on*, so why go home? You wanted
to soak in the hot tub, you wanted more margaritas, you tried to kiss
Alan, you called the margaritas “trouble.” Thank goodness
the kids were back at our house. Kristin called the kids to tell them
to lay out sleeping bags and pop another movie in the VCR, and when
she hung up the phone you shouted: “Mix us up some more
trouble!” And we did. God, that night we did. Captain Alan
barked “Here we go!” with his finger on the blender
button, and away we went. We were soaking in trouble.
In the morning you covered your face
with your hands and groaned for me to close the blinds. They were
closed already. Kristin and Alan laughed from upstairs, and I laughed
and walked home to find the kids slumbering together in a knot on the
inflatable mattress on the living room floor. I made them breakfast,
waffles in our wedding-gift iron, and when Kris called to check in I
heard you retching in the background. We decided you could use a
little space for your recovery. I took the Chris and the girls to the
beach for the day, and the whole time our son was under the
impression you had the flu. An easy enough deception. When we got
home late that afternoon, and Chris found you green on the couch with
a wet washcloth on your forehead, he knelt at your side and asked if
he could make you some soup. You laughed and laughed.
My nights are measured now. I caromed
down that path, bouncing off everything, so many times after you were
gone, certainly more than three times, and finally I reined myself
in. Things came apart, but I pulled myself together. Captain Alan
would let me know, I think, if I started down that trail again. I
trust him to watch out for me, and he does.
Things don’t get out of control
anymore. I promise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time I make it home,
I’m ready to declare my run a success. The
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