A few days later, I returned to my cabin after my shift at the equipment kiosk to find a package and a letter sitting on my bed. Had Hannah picked them up for me? I doubted it; she’d become so busy lately that she was rarely anywhere other than the pool. Could it have been Bax? I grinned to myself at the idea that he’d been thoughtful enough to retrieve my mail and leave it for me here.
I looked at the letter first. It had a return address of Williams Correctional Facility, complete with a stamp in angry red ink as if to say, “Make no mistake, this was sent from a federal prison.” A brick dropped into my stomach. I hated that the very thought of my father made me anxious. Somehow, it was worse now as I was getting closer and closer to D-Day. Decision Day.
Reluctantly, I slid a finger in the seam and ripped it open. Inside was a piece of lined notebook paper, the kind I had taken notes on at school for years. My dad’s handwriting, predictably neat and uniform, spelled out the date, which was ten days ago.
Dear Ashlyn,
How are you? I’m writing to you on paper I bought at the commissary with the money I earned mopping the floors. I also bought packages of ramen and spices and stamps. My friends gave me a tip that these things can be used to barter with other inmates, so I took their advice. I haven’t had to use them yet, but every day is different here, so better safe than sorry.
I dropped my hands for a moment and stared out into the empty cabin. Unbelievable. Dad never takes advice from anyone. I continued reading, shaking my head.
The food leaves a lot to be desired, so it’s understandable that spices are in high demand. The stamps, obviously, are for writing to friends and family. I hope you’re continuing to work hard. I know you’re doing a good job. Write if you get a minute.
Dad
In many ways, it had all the hallmarks of any conversation with my dad. He talked about himself. He showed zero emotion. He reminded me to work hard. And yet, that line near the end gave me pause. I know you’re doing a good job. Did he? Did my dad know I was doing a good job? Despite so many years proving otherwise, I hoped in the very recesses of my heart that he did. That he knew I tried my best. Always. That, somehow, he realized that I needed to hear him say so. It was just a crumb, but it was something. I read it again. And again. And again. Until I finally had to shove the letter under Hannah’s pillow because I couldn’t breathe.
Only after I had regained my composure did I pick up the package. The address was written in sparkly green marker, my first clue to the sender’s identity. The second clue was the stick figure drawing on the back of the package—a girl I assumed was supposed to be me based on the very long lashes drawn on her face—in front of a giant house that looked vaguely like mine. A speech bubble next to stick-Ashlyn’s face said, “Home sweet home!”
“I hope so,” I said to the drawing. It felt so close. I just needed to ask. No big deal. And if my dad knew I was doing a good job here . . . I ripped open the top of the package and turned it over on the bed. Out slid a small, square hardcover book. It was purple, of course, and on the front was a photograph of me and Tatum from Homecoming our sophomore year. I smiled at the memory it ignited. The picture was one of a series taken that night at our local department store. We hadn’t actually made it to the dance, mostly because of my terrible radar when it came to picking dates, but instead had capped off our evening with an impromptu photo shoot as a way to make ourselves feel better about the crappy evening. This photo was the twin with the one that had sat, framed, on my dresser at school last year. Tatum and I were posed as if we were each other’s date for the dance. A hand on a shoulder, an arm around a waist, stiff smiles. I laughed, remembering how much fun it had been after realizing our Prince Charmings were actually charmless. And, bonus, it was a nice memory to hold onto the next day when my dad lectured me about making good choices and spending time with “quality people,” which was an obvious implication that my date was not.
Also on the cover, in a swirly font, it read, “Dear Ash, Love Tate.” I ran a finger over the words. We’d spent this summer and last, plus the year in between, writing to each other more than actually being in the same room. I wondered if this was how our relationship would always be—lived more in writing and on screens instead of in person.
The next page was the dedication: For my best friend who is on her way home
Ever the optimist, I thought. And then out loud, “It’s so far from a done deal, friend.” I flicked through the rest of the pages. Tatum, genius that she was sometimes, had made an album of hope for me. She put in photograph after photograph of our childhood memories, combined with ones from the past year and this summer. There we were in seventh grade, wearing the gym uniforms we hated so much that we often talked about burning them and anonymously sending the ashes to our gym teachers. There was one of Tatum, her boyfriend Seamus, and her friends Abby and Hunter, at Seamus’ high school graduation this past June. Seamus looked handsome in his cap and gown, his arm snugly around Tatum’s waist as she kissed his cheek while Abby and Hunter smiled happily at them. Tatum’s stepsister, Tilly, dancing across a stage at what I guessed was her final high school performance. Tatum and me in ninth grade rocking out in my room in our pajamas, lip-syncing into our hairbrushes. Seamus and Hunter’s band, The Frisson, performing last summer on a stage covered in twinkle lights. Tatum and Abby working on the school paper. Tatum and Tilly posing over a mixer in the kitchen, waving spatulas. Entwined around the pictures were graphics of flower garlands, stars, geometric shapes in patterns—all things I knew Tatum had designed herself.
There’s more of this waiting for you when you get here.
The last page of the magical little book was the one that made me cry. I’d cried an awful lot this summer. I’d cried an awful lot in the last year, actually. I’d been upset at what had become of my life, and rightfully so. But this time, it was the possibility of what could be that started the waterworks.
Tatum cleverly chose a photograph from my family’s annual Christmas party a few years ago. Every December, Mom and Dad had the house decorated with glitter and snowflakes and lights and at least five trees throughout the house. Though the party was for Dad’s clients, this was Mom’s baby. She was in her element, choosing the food from the caterer’s menu, selecting the perfect outfit and jewelry, checking off the RSVPs. I had to admit, I loved it too. Getting ready for that party—when I was small, with Mom, when I got older, with Tatum—was so special. It was the first time I was allowed to wear makeup. It was the first time I was allowed to wear shoes with heels. Sometimes I was allowed to carry drinks or trays of appetizers to the guests. There was always an overwhelming feeling of being almost an adult at that party. It was the most special night of my year.
In the photograph, I stood at the bottom of the curved stairs in our foyer. The railing was decorated with pine boughs, red velvet ribbons, and white lights. I was wearing a navy-blue dress; my dad’s pearl hung, floating on its silver chain at my neck. Tatum, in a white and gold sweater dress, stood next to me, our elbows grazing, with Tilly on her other side in a pale pink dress. Behind us, up the staircase, were our parents. Moms in the middle, dads at the top. My dad’s hand rested on my mother’s shoulder and her face was turned, just a little, to the side, as if she were trying to catch a glimpse of him. Around us, all over the foyer, were guests holding champagne glasses, raised in a toast. We were smiling. Our cheeks were pink. We looked happy. We looked like a family. The family I always hoped we would become.
Sneaky Tatum. She knew exactly what she was doing by making this photo the grand finale of her little book. This photo was hard evidence that we’d been that happy family, even for the half a second it took for the flash to go off and capture our image forever. It happened once, it could happen again.
I turned the last page over and noticed there was more. Written on the jacket page were messages. Handwritten. There was one from Tatum, of course, telling me she was counting the days until I got back and she’d have a pint of mint chocolate chip ready and waiting. I loved her for knowing just what I needed.
But it was the messages that followed hers that left a lump in my throat. One was from Abby telling me she was going to recruit me to write for the paper next year. One was from Seamus telling me to hurry home so he didn’t have to listen to Tatum say how much she missed me all the time. Another was from Hunter, which wasn’t actually a message since we didn’t really know each other, but song lyrics from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.
Home is wherever I’m with you.
There was even a note from Tatum’s step-grandmother, Blanche, whom I’d met last summer and liked instantly. She wrote a phrase in Spanish and then translated it for me.
¡Levántate! ¡El sol sale para todos! Get up! The sun rises for everybody.
They were more Tatum’s support network than mine, but there was the promise that I would be welcomed into the fold when I got home. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms as I closed the book and hugged it to my chest. It was enough—just the thing I needed to push me over the edge and leap. Hannah and Baxter were right. I needed to find my voice and use it. I’d spent so much time saying things in my head, never letting those thoughts come off my lips. I’d used the words of others to express myself, protecting myself. I wrapped myself in an armor of silence and the written words of other people. But now? I could draw strength from those words in a different way. I could use them to give me courage to break out and say what I needed to say.
Dear Tate,
Thank you for the book. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given me. I’m lucky to have a friend like you in my life. Please thank the others for their messages as well. I’m looking forward to seeing them. And because I know you’re wondering, I’m going to ask. Soon.
Love always,
Ash
I picked up the envelope to throw it away and heard something rattling. I shook it and a pen fell out, along with a tiny folded piece of paper.
Give this pen to Hannah and your friends from work. They need to sign this book too.
XO, Tate
My breath caught in my throat as I gripped the pen. There was only one way to repay her kindness. Call my mother and tell her I was ready to come home.