Unsent
***
July 24
Alexei,
I’ve been talking to this patient, Charlene, at work. She’s pretty near the end, can’t talk or walk anymore. Doesn’t get a lot of visitors. I don’t know if she can actually hear me. But whenever I talk to her, her vitals always stabilize. So I think part of her, somewhere, can. I swear sometimes she makes this grunt at the exact right part of my stories, and I always say, “Right, Charlene?” and I like to think it makes her laugh.
I’ve been talking to her a lot about you. About our time on the trail, and when you came to Nashville. It’s been really helpful, actually. And just today, I was talking about Uncle Jaco’s party, and brunch, and how things had seemed to be going so well. How it really seemed like you were having a great time in Nashville. Because I still try to puzzle it out, sometimes. I’m not angry anymore—at least, mostly not angry—and I always knew you’d want to go back to the trail, but I don’t know why you didn’t at least leave a note. I have to tell you, Lex, it hurt Ma’s feelings that you didn’t. I think it hurt Dad’s, too. And Carolina might punch you if she ever sees you again, just as a heads-up.
But Ma did mention how you had acted a little off that night, before I came home. How you were watching a movie and doing puzzles and suddenly looked sick.
So I was telling Charlene all this, about how great your visit had been, and suddenly, it hit me.
It must have made you miss your family so bad, Lex, being around mine.
We should have talked about it, before we left the trail, how it would affect you. We should have talked about all of it so much more.
I wish I had better words to say about all of it. And I’m not going to send this letter, either—I’m sorry I can’t make myself write a real letter to you; I can’t exactly explain it, but I’m still trying to be careful with my heart here, I still want to keep it intact from now on—but I just wanted to write it down. That I’m sorry.
I’m sorry if being here was hard for you in any way.
I’m so sorry your family left you, Lex.
And I’m sorry I didn’t make it more clear. That my family would never replace yours. But they would’ve been yours, too. There are so many ways to find family.
The Caravalhos loved you, Lex. Some of them always will.
Ben
Unsent
***
July 27
Mom,
Writing this one is harder. I thought I could get both you and Dad out of the way in Tahoe City, but it’s taken me a few more days to gather the courage for you.
I know you miss me. It’s something I feel in my bones.
Part of me wishes I could see you when I get back to town. I’m almost to Northern California now. I have seen so many amazing things. And that part of me wishes I could tell you all about it. I think you would say yes, if I asked. We could meet secretly, without Dad, and you’d get to hug me, and I’d get to tell you about my life.
But that doesn’t seem fair, Mom.
I want you to love the whole me.
I don’t want you to love me in secret.
I think if you really wanted to know where I was and how I was doing, Alina could tell you. I think you could have written me.
I don’t think any of this is what our faith is about, Mom.
And I think you know it, too.
I’ll never send this, but at least I’ve said it.
