138 South Carrington St.
Hasbrouck Heights, NJ 07604
November 25, 2021
Dear Mr. Martinelli,
My name is Fiona Van Antwerp-Beaumont, and Sybil Van Antwerp was my mother. I don’t believe you would be aware, unless you happened to read her obituary in the newspaper, that she died a few weeks ago. It was sudden, and a shock to us.
In the last few years my mother made me aware of the manner in which she is connected to you, or, bound to you I would say (although I don’t think she would have phrased it in such a way). I hope you know how much she regretted the decisions she made at a terrible time in her life that so reprehensibly affected you and your family.
We’ve seen to her will, and it appears that she left you a sum of money. There is a note there in reference to this gift. She wanted me specifically to write to you and tell you the money really came from my father, and you should use it to do whatever you can do to help your son. That’s all she said, and you’ll see the check enclosed is—well, I hope it’s a welcome surprise.
Thank you for whatever kindness you showed my mother. She told me your forgiveness had relieved a heavy burden.
I wish you the best,
Fiona Van Antwerp-Beaumont
Fiona Van Antwerp-Beaumont
2 Hamilton Terrace
London SE 28 8JF
United Kingdom
January 15, 2022
Dear Fiona,
I hope you are well, and Walter, and the children. I am getting along fine, though missing your mother very much, a sentiment I know we share.
I picked up a copy of the bookRebeccaon your mother’s shelf and inside it I found tucked a few scraps of paper. It appears to be a draft or an attempt at a letter to your father from your mother. I am enclosing the letter. Perhaps it will mean something to you.
There was something Sybil was trying to find a way to tell you, and it’s a shame she didn’t bring it up in time. I think after reading this letter you will have questions. I might know the answers.
I very much look forward to your visit in March.
Until then,
Theodore
June 2015 July2015 August 2015September
Dear Daan,
Do you remember me sitting long hours at the writing desk? Here I am stillas if nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
I have tried always to say exactly what I mean or to come as close to accuracy as the English language allows. Words have rarely failed me, and yet I find myself sitting down to write you and nothaving the slightest idea what to say.
Here I’ve put the pen to the page, but
for weeks I have considered it.
It isn’t that
I’m sorry you are dying, but we are all dying. I’m sorry you are dying with cancer—it makes it more insidious, somehow, even though it’s all a wash in the end. But cancer rather makes dying a more ravaging sort of experience you have to endure—I’d much prefer to be surprised,hit by a carstruck dead by lightning or decapitated (swift; lights off; horrific, but not agonizing) and yet most of us won’t have the luxury.
