“I bet a lot of girls start out that way.” Morgan stopped washing her dishes and stared at me. She smiled slowly, almost cruelly. “Letters will be worse for you anyway. Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean ‘worse for me’? I can write a few letters, Morgan. That’s what I do. I write.”
“Honesty will kill you. You’re a coward, and you’ll lie. That makes the whole deal a lie.” She put her plate down and walked away.
She’s not right. I’m not a coward, and I will be honest in these letters. Simply because I don’t blab my business to the world like Mrs. Bennet doesn’t mean I’m a coward. I’m prudent when dealing with people. That’s smart. Wouldn’t you agree?
But Morgan brings up a good point—her only one so far. Have you readJane Eyre? There’s a part when Mr. Rochester meets Jane and asks if she expects a present. Adele, his ward, believes everyone should receive presents, daily. Jane isn’t so sure. She replies, “They are generally thought pleasant things . . . a present has many faces to it, has it not? And one should consider all before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.”
You’ve led me to believe your gift has one face, Mr. Knightley. I’ll leave it at that.
Sincerely,
Samantha Moore
P.S. Okay, I can’t leave it . . .
If you are truly a “Mr. Knightley,” I can do this. I can write these letters. I trust you chose that name as a reflection of your own character. George Knightley is a good and honorable man—even better than Fitzwilliam Darcy, and few women put anyone above Mr. Darcy.
Yes, Darcy’s got the tempestuous masculinity and brooding looks, but Knightley is a kinder, softer man with no pretense or dissimilation. Yes, he’s a gentleman. And I can write with candor to a silent gentleman, and I can believe that he will not violate this trust.
I admit that if you had a face and a real name—or a nefarious name—it might be different. Morgan might be right. But as I sit here and think about this, I feel comfortable. See what power a name holds?
MAY 17
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I thought about you last night and stayed up readingEmma. I adore her, though she’s out of my reach. Can you imagine such confidence and assurance of your own significance? Do you know anyone who would dare declare that he or she “cannot really change for the better”? I’d like to believe that—even for a moment.
But no, I gravitate toward Fanny Price, morally spot-on, but commonly thought dull. Or Anne Elliot, demure and kind, not one to stand out in a crowd. Or the ever-practical and sensible Charlotte Lucas. Those dear friends I understand. I found my first copy ofPride and Prejudiceon the ‘L’ when I was nine. I loved Austen’s world. It was safe and I could breathe. By the time I looked up, the book was disintegrating from wear and I had barely registered two foster placement switches. My “inability to relate” caused a few headaches at the Department of Children and Family Services. And that’s never changed. I’ve told you already about my similar failure at Ernst & Young. But trying to relate always seems to end badly for me. My last real attempt was four years ago.
Cara was my roommate at Charing Cottage. She was a lot like Elizabeth Bennet’s little sister Lydia—silly, vivacious, cute, and deceptively street savvy. And as Lydia doggedly pursued Wickham, so Cara was consumed with Ron, a slimy dropout who pushed drugs on middle school kids. And if Cara was Lydia, I’m sure she saw me as a righteous Aunt Gardiner: “And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking as if she were reading a sermon . . .” Our differences made us a good team: I helped Cara in school and she shielded me by absorbing all the oxygen in the room.
So at eighteen Cara and I moved out of Grace House together to chase the dream: college, jobs, our own place, no social workers, no tracking . . . I worked out the budget; Cara found the apartment and a third roommate, some girl I’d never met, Jocelyn. Hannah, who is now head girls counselor at Grace House, drove me to the apartment. I knew the moment I stepped from her car that I’d made a mistake.
Hannah grabbed my wrist as we looked up at the building. People were watching us. We both felt it, though we saw no one. I hurried inside, trying to push away my feelings of exposure and vulnerability.
In the lobby, an acrid urine reek assaulted me. That, combined with the clang of the metal doors and the greasy thin walls, made me feel six years old again and back home with Mom. It felt so real. Have you ever confused your senses? Something tastes like another thing smells? This was one of those moments. I think I swayed, because Hannah shoved me against the wall and pushed me to my knees. The world turned blue.
“You don’t have to do this, Sam. Cara makes her own choices and you can’t save her. Come back to Grace House with me.” She rubbed my back, whispering in my ear.
“I’m fine. I just needed to catch my breath.” I pushed against the wall to stand.
“It’s more than that.”
“No. It’s my life now.”
“You sound like Cara. Are you going to quit school too?”
Her tone infuriated me. I had worked hard to get into college. “I’m not scared of work, Hannah. Grace House isn’t my summer camp.”
“But Grace House is free, Sam. How will you pay for this? The ‘L,’ your food, your rent? And it isn’t even safe.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got my job at the library. I can study there. I’ve got part-time work at the White Hen near Roosevelt. I’ll carry pepper spray.” I clenched my jaw and moved around her.
You can only hear so much about options you don’t have. This wasn’t my dream, but it would do. The idea of going back to Grace House felt like failure . . .
We headed down the hall and into the apartment. It was the size of an old school bus and just as yellow and decrepit. The two bedrooms were no bigger than shoe boxes. The walls held hints of buttercup, but age had soured them. Or maybe it was the yellow light bulbs—everything held a bitter tinge. There were bars on the grimy windows, one tiny moldy bathroom, a kitchenette, and a small central living room. The yellow bulbs in there muddied the gray tones of the walls, carpet, and furniture. Cara and Jocelyn brought in my duffel and tossed around their stuff to make room. I just stood there—lonely and bereft. This was life—this was my future.
