Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

I sit back and stare at those red lips.

“Shit!” I’m officially a damn girl. What in the hell is wrong with me? She’s like a song playin’ over and over again. I just can’t get her out of my damn head.

I snatch up the envelope and shove it back into the Sports Illustrated , and then I shove the magazine back into the drawer where it belongs — out of sight, even if it isn’t quite out of mind. Then I slam the drawer shut, pull off my cap and angrily rake my fingers through my hair.

“Damn it, girl! I’ve got to stop thinking about you.”

“River? Can you hear me?”

I pull the phone slightly away from my ear. “Yes, Mom, I can hear you.” I don’t know why she feels the need to ask me that every time she calls.

“I’m supposed to remind you that your sister graduates on the fourteenth.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll be there.”

“I know,” she says. “But you know how she is. She just wants to make sure you’re there.”

“I’ll call her,” I say. “I’ll tell her I’ll be there.”

“Okay. Oh, and Riv.”

She’s quiet.

“Mom?”

“Hold on, dear, I’m pulling it out of the drawer.”

My brows furrow. Pulling what out of the drawer?

“You got a letter today,” she says.

I think my heart stops mid-beat, but I wait for her to continue before I jump to any conclusions.

“The funny thing is that it looks kind of old.”

“Old?” I ask.

“I had your dad get the magnifying glass out and look at the postmark date. And it looks like it was postmarked on February 27, 2000.”

“2000?” It can’t be. All the air in my lungs instantly disappears, and I have to take a breath just to keep functioning.

I shake my head even though I know she can’t see it, and I find a kitchen chair and fall into it. I can tell she’s fiddling with the letter. “Mom, who’s the letter from?”

There’s a pause, and it’s the longest damn pause I’ve ever had to live through. “Mom,” I say again.

“It’s from Brooke, dear.”

She wrote me.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know how long I’m quiet. I’m trying to hold back my excitement. I don’t want my mom to know I’d run all the way home right now just to get my hands on that letter.

“River?”

“Yeah, I’m here. You sure it’s from her?” I know it is; I just have to ask.

I don’t hear anything except a little rustling of paper.

“I’m sure,” she says. And with those two words, I know she’s seen the red lips on the back of the envelope.

It’s quiet again. My heart’s racing. I’m excited, but something in me is a little sad too. She had written to me, and all these years, I had never known. There’s a part of me that feels she must have thought I gave up on her.

“River?”

“Yeah, okay. It’s no big deal,” I lie. “Just hold onto it, will ya? I might be home this weekend. I guess I could take a look at it then maybe.”

“You’re coming back this weekend? I thought you had a baseball game with your friends Saturday.”

“It was cancelled,” is all I say. It’s a lie too.

“Okay,” she says, sounding happy again. “I’ll just keep it in the hall desk drawer. It’ll be waiting for you when you get here. I’m so excited you’re coming home. Rea will be excited too.”

“Okay, Mom, well, I’ve got to go.” I’ve got to get off this phone before she gets wind I still care about an old damn letter. I’m trying to play it off as best I can, but I don’t know how long I can keep this act up. Right now, I don’t know if I feel like punching a wall or finding someone to hug.

“Okay, dear. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Later,” I manage to get out.

I hit End call as soon as I can get my finger to it, and I set the phone carefully down onto the table. It feels like my damn heart is about to beat right out of my chest. I take a couple breaths to try to calm it, and then I sit back in my chair.

“What the hell?” I smile. A letter from Brooke.

There’s a guy outside the window walking his dog. My eyes follow his every move, while my mind goes back to the summer of ‘99 and Brooke’s laugh and her long legs and her soft lips. Damn it! I jump up and run into my room. I grab my duffle bag from my closet and start throwing tee shirts and shorts into it. It’s half full in thirty seconds. I have no idea what’s in it — except clothes — but I don’t even care.

I run to the bathroom and throw my toothbrush into the little thingy I keep my deodorant and cologne in, and then I throw that into the duffle bag too. Then I take the bag, head back out into the kitchen and grab my phone. I text Tim and tell him I won’t be able to make the game Saturday. They’ll find someone else. And before I know it, I’m snatching up my keys and making a beeline for my truck in the driveway. The weekend starts early this week.

“I’m home,” I announce to everyone and no one at the same time. “Mom, Dad, Rea.”

No one answers. I throw the duffle back into the corner and practically race to the hall desk. I pull on the drawer, and with a wood-scratching-along-wood sound, the whole damn thing comes completely off its tracks. I set the drawer on top of the desk and then go to searching. Inside, there’s a stack of papers and envelopes — junk mail, junk mail, grocery store ads. Why does she keep all this crap? I drop it all one by one onto the desk’s surface. Then, suddenly, I stop. Staring at me is a letter. It’s a faded yellow, and it’s addressed to me at my old address, and it’s in her handwriting. I follow the curves she always added to my name, and then I breathe in before slowly flipping the envelope over. And then I see them — a pair of faded, red lips. I smile and move my fingers over them. What I wouldn’t give to touch the real things.

I take another breath and force it out slowly through my mouth before I carefully peel open the envelope, being cautious not to tear it any more than I have to. It’s old, and by now, it’s sealed shut, so it’s hard to open it without making a mess of it, but I manage all the same. Once the seal is broken, I pull out the blue paper she always wrote on. I breathe out again and try to control my heartbeats. I know I shouldn’t feel this way about a damn letter, but when your past comes back to you like this — when you can see it, when you can hold it — I guess you just can’t help but give it the moment it deserves. And I guess that moment deserves these sweaty palms too. I try to swallow the lump growing in my throat as I unfold the letter. And when I get it opened, I look at how she signed it first. Love, Brooke , in her pretty letters, scrolls across the bottom of the page. My heart both jumps and sinks at the same time, and I go from feeling a sense of relief to feeling nothing but panic in no time flat. What the hell does the letter say? I find a chair in the kitchen and fall into it as my eyes go to following over her last words to me:

Dear River,

We’re here. I just started at my new school, just in time for Thanksgiving! And we had to make a list yesterday of what we’re thankful for. You made my list! And so did Winnie-the-Pooh! P.S. He’s getting better at shaking hands. I think I’ll teach him how to roll over next. He’s stubborn, so it’ll probably take me a while, but maybe by the time I see you next, he’ll be able to do both.

Anyway, I’m liking eighth grade so far. I hope you’re liking it too. I bet you’re already a baseball star this year, and you haven’t even had your first game yet! I miss you. It’s not so bad here. Oh, I haven’t even told you where here is yet! Nashville, Tennessee. And before I started school here, I thought about where I was going to tell everyone I was from — because people always ask you that when you’re new. It took me two seconds to come up with it. From now on, whenever anyone asks me where I’m from, I’m going to tell them Detmold, Missouri. I know it’s not exactly the truth, but the truth is, that’s the only place I ever felt like I was home. For a summer, I was home with you, River.