But I’m still under that skin. It suffocates me, chokes me, and is killing me. There’s no Aslan in the real world, so there’s no hope. Mrs. Muir would say I’m wrong. She says there is hope in God and hope in Christ. They’ve invited me to dinner weekly since Thanksgiving and, during each meal, she drops hints and hope like bread crumbs for me to follow. But I can’t see it. I just feel swallowed by darkness.
I promise to write at least once more when I figure out what to do. This isn’t your problem though, Mr. Knightley. Even a lovely apartment and new clothes can’t dress this up.
Thank you for everything. You gave me my best shot. I’m the one who failed.
I hate to do it, but I need to call Father John. He always has good advice, and I need some of that right now.
Sincerely,
Sam
JANUARY 5
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m still here. After my last letter, I should have written sooner. I’m sorry if I worried you. Father John said it was disrespectful not to contact you immediately when I got to Grace House, but I was pretty hurt and depressed. I’m better now.
First of all, belated Merry Christmas. I forgot that detail in my last wallow. Thank you so much for the beautiful book. I loveNorth and South, but have never owned a copy. I inhaled it this weekend. Margaret Hale and John Thornton. Working class vs. gentry. Hopes and dreams. And the idea of one last fight—a final go at all that matters. It had me crying. It resonates more deeply now, which is part of my second point . . .
It’s been a packed two weeks. Poor Henry Conley found me in my apartment Christmas morning, doubled over on the floor, sweating and moaning. I don’t remember that part. I do remember waking up in the hospital following an emergency appendectomy.
After surgery, the doctors refused to release me to my apartment alone, so I called Father John and went to Grace House. He thought I was coming to simply recover. But I was back for good—at least for as long as he’d let me stay.
Kyle knew. I don’t know how, but he knew.
“You ain’t comin’ back here.” He stormed into Independence Cottage within minutes of my arrival.
“My options are limited, Kyle. Let me figure it out.” I unpacked my small duffel, feeling defeated and still in pain.
“Your options are endless if you fight.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is. What are you scared of? This ain’t the girl who whipped me ’round the track and you ain’t the girl who don’t let me quit.”
“It’s ‘isn’t,’ ‘aren’t,’ and ‘doesn’t.’ At least use correct grammar.” I had a small spark left.
“Make me. Show me what you’re made of.”
“I’m not made of much, Kyle. Haven’t you figured that out?” Spark gone.
He sat down, deflated. “So all that crap you told me was just that, huh? Crap. We don’t deserve no better. We can’t break through and find someplace to thrive? That’s what you keep saying, isn’t it, that we can ‘thrive’? It means more than grow. I thought it meant happiness.”
“I still believe that . . . for you.” I started crying.Will I ever stop crying?
“But not for you?” he asked.
My jaw dropped. It was true. Not for me. I’d never felt such loss, as I realized that all my dreams were gone. I couldn’t pick up the pieces of a single one.
His voice softened as he continued, “What does it take to get you there?”
“I don’t know,” I cried. “Kyle, I don’t know. There’s all this inside me: shame, lies, and fear. It has filled me up and there’s no room for anything good and bright. I used to bury it and hide it away. It doesn’t work anymore and I can’t sleep. I can’t eat . . .”
“Get it out.”
“How?” I looked at him as if he held all the answers, and I sincerely hoped he did.
“Write it. No lies. Only truth.” He crossed the room and tossed me my laptop. “I want to tell you about the Hoffmans.”
