P.S. I forgot to tell you about something else quite extraordinary. I came over last week with my final project’s rough draft for the professor’s review. He launched into the Industrial Revolution, the invention of the automobile, World Wars I and II, FDR, the Fifties, the Sixties, Woodstock, birth control, salary equalization—I don’t think he drew breath for forty-five minutes—and landed at Hemingway (he always lands there), children, and our foster care system. I have no idea how he got there, but he did.
By the end Mrs. Muir and I were stifling laughter because he didn’t need an audience and wasn’t even aware of our presence—he was pontificating. Then he woke from his delirium, rounded on me, and demanded, “So what type of daughter are you? Are we equal? Will you call me Professor forever? Am I to be Robert?”
He stood, gesticulating like we were three hundred students in a lecture hall. His motions were too grand for his small study—his “tell” for nerves.
I stood up and announced, “You will be Dad!”
I shocked us both, Mr. Knightley. I wondered if I’d crossed a line as he stared at me. Time stopped. His eyes got teary and soft, and he opened his arms. I stepped into them, and he whispered, “My girl.”
Then Mrs. Muir joined in. “Me too. I get to be Mom, right?”
The professor answered, winking at me, “Of course you do, my dear, and it’s about time.”
It felt awkward at first. My memories linked to those names aren’t good, but I simply forged ahead. “Mom” and “Dad,” on the other hand, felt comfortable by salad.
DECEMBER 21
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m at the Muirs’ right now and our Christmas production is under way: tree trimming, cookie baking, gift organizing, movie watching, and song singing. They’re off to a cocktail party, but I begged off to write you. And I will sign this missive with my new silver pen, thank you very much. It’s a lovely gift, Mr. Knightley. I appreciate it a great deal.
Exams ended, and Christmas break has started. I will return to Medill for graduation in January, but all my classwork is done. I don’t have a job yet—that remains the last sign that I really was the one clinging off the back ledge. Everyone else I know has an offer. But I made it. And for some reason, I’m not worried about my job prospects. I truly believe I will be okay.
Do you ever feel like there are plans for you? Not ones you make, but plans for good that will come about if you trust and remain patient? It’s a strange feeling, but it has crept upon me lately and I can’t shake it. I told Mrs. Muir about it, and you won’t believe what she found: “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’ ” I didn’t make that up. It’s a direct quote from the Bible—Jeremiah 29:11. It describes my feeling precisely—there are plans, good plans just out of reach. And I wait, feeling hopeful and peaceful, not desperate and tense. That’s brand-new. The Muirs keep praying for me, and there’s power in that too. So I won’t fret about the job, but I will work. I owe my future and your generosity my best effort.
I finished my annual reading of Dickens’sA Christmas Caroltoday. The tradition started several years ago, because I felt so aligned with Scrooge. I understood his fear, confusion, and longing as each ghost took him through his life and he was reminded of the pain he endured, then caused. I let go of people and relationships to protect myself too, and then I detached so completely that I lost the ability to connect. I still remember my first day at Medill when I met Debbie, and she looked at me like I was from another planet, before she and her friends left the table.
I’ve changed. I laid down those characters and I faced my ghosts, but unlike Scrooge, my transformation builds slowly. That’s the one thing that still bothers me about that story. How was Scrooge’s transformation so complete and joyful? How did he lay down so much so quickly? Did he ever slip back? We are led to believe he changed forever. He found freedom.
I haven’t found it—freedom remains elusive. And there’s something more Scrooge possessed that I don’t. Joy. The professor says it has to do with surrendering my heart, my plans, and my will. I think that first requires a softening of the heart—a “cease-fire” on fighting inside. I do feel that, so maybe I am beginning to understand.
Speaking of elusive, I got an e-mail from Alex yesterday. For a man so eloquent in person and even more so in print, he can be an uncommunicative jerk.
Coming to Chicago for final research. Have dinner with me Christmas Eve? Wait and hope, Alex.
A confusing note. I haven’t heard from him in months, other than that vague good-wishes-on-your-adoption note—and now a dinner invitation? And “Wait and hope”? Those were my winning words in that literary game we played the first day we met, Edmond Dantes’s final written words to Maximillian. They are instructions to young lovers, instructions for life. The irony that those words articulate my feelings for the future has not escaped me—but that has nothing to do with Alex.
Nevertheless I accepted his invitation—the malicious fury it ignited proved too tempting. I honestly feel as angry now as I did in Cara’s hospital room. I wonder if I could “decimate” Alex with words too—might be worth a try. When I told the Muirs about the invitation—not the fury—they insisted I invite him to join us for our church’s midnight service. Alex agreed.
Now I must go. There are cookies in the oven, and I promised not to burn them again. Thanks for the pen, Mr. Knightley, and Merry Christmas.
Love,
Sam
JANUARY 8
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sick. I feel like I’ve been this way forever. Have you ever been so sick for so long that you think you’ll never recover? That’s me. I had a nice Christmas with the Muirs. Alex came to town for Christmas Eve. We went to dinner, but he left before church. That was my fault.
We’d gone to dinner at Café Matou downtown. He seemed nervous, and I was angry. I wanted to hurt him—make him pay for playing it safe, for trying not to “disappoint” me by withdrawing. Petty and peevish of me, I know. And I got it all wrong.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call this fall.” Alex looked so sincere. He was trying to connect, but I wanted no part of it.
“Or write. Or text.”
“You’re right. I dropped the ball.”
