Page 130 of Mad Girl

You were dead wrong.

LETTER SIXTEEN

63 WEEKS LEFT

It’s Tuesday, and for the first time ever, you didn’t visit.

When Vera came to tell me you hadn’t shown, I asked to place a call, but it took a few hours before it was my turn to use the phone. During those hours, I paced and imagined the worst and fought back tears, my whole heart lodged in my throat, because if you hadn’t shown, then something horrible had happened. And if something horrible had happened, how would I deal? How long before I broke? How long could a person survive hell when the only thing making hell more bearable was gone?

“Oh, thank God,” you said when the call went through, and I instantly wept with relief. Your voice didn’t sound quite right—low and raspy, duller than normal. “Hey—Elliot, hey. It’s alright. I’m fine. I’ve got the flu. That’s why I couldn’t be there today.”

“I thought something bad might’ve happened to you,” I said, swiping at my face.

“I was afraid of that. Obviously, I would’ve let you know I couldn’t make it today if I were allowed to call you.”

“You told me you don’t get sick,” I accused.

“Yes. Well. It feels a bit like every illness I’ve ever avoided until now has finally caught up with me. Day before yesterday, I thought for sure I was dying.”

“Who’s taking care of you?”

“No one—your dad has it, too. Every now and then, we text to make sure the other one’s still alive. Henriette’s been leaving soups and broths at the back door.” A long pause. “You’ve no idea how badly I missed seeing you today.”

My breath caught. You missed me. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Me, too.”

“Will you ring me again on Christmas Day?”

“I’ll try, but the other girls say it’s a bitch to use the phone on Christmas.”

“In that case, can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Two days ago, when I firmly believed I was dying, I kept drifting back to last Christmas…with you. I could even smell the oranges, which almost definitely means my fever was too high, and I might’ve hallucinated a bit⁠—”

I laughed.

“—but it felt like I was back there again, last Christmas, with your arm around me and your heart beating against my chest. What I told you that night—I’ve never been that open with another person, other than my therapist. I thought, I want her to know everything. Even the worst thing. I’m done hiding from this girl.”

There was a pause. One so long I thought I might’ve lost you.

But then you said, “And I should regret it, right? I should regret giving you something I’ve never given to anyone else. I should regret every moment we’ve shared, not just that one. But the longer you’re gone, the more I just…don’t. I don’t regret any of it. And maybe I shouldn’t even be telling you this. Maybe it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, given everything that’s happened. Maybe it even makes me foolish. But it’s Christmas, and you’re not here, and for a few hours two days ago, I thought that Christmas might’ve been our last. So I’m telling you, anyway.”

It took a while before I was able to speak again. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

It felt like the only thing I could say. And yet, somehow, still not enough.

The line went silent. “Well, in case I don’t hear from you on Sunday,” you said eventually, voice coming through even raspier than before, “Happy Christmas, Elliot.”

“Happy Christmas to you, too,” I whispered. “I hope you feel better.”

“I will,” you said, “and I’ll be there next Tuesday. You can count on it.”

December arrived—your second one with us—and I remembered pretty quickly that you were one of the few people on this planet who hates snow at Christmas (or anytime, really) when I caught you peering out the window one day, holding your morning cup of coffee and grumbling about it.

“How can you hate the snow?” I asked. “It’s like a postcard.”

Christmas wreaths hanging on the doors. Greenery and bright red bows trailing up the lampposts. Windows with golden-yellow light spilling out of them. All of it, dusted with snow.