Fake It Till You Make It

Veronica spent the night in her parents’ bed.

The next morning she was brought a cup of tea and a pad of paper. She had instructions to compose letters to both Mrs. Lehman-Carver and to Sarah-Lisa.

She looked at the blank paper, having no idea what to say. Her parents suggested she begin with “I’m sorry.” And as if that was enough help, they both left the room.

Veronica struggled. The paper was blank and she couldn’t imagine filling it with words. Or with ideas. Her handwriting was so undeveloped compared with Sarah-Lisa’s. She decided to pretend she was someone else. A person who possessed more integrity, a person who could actually write a meaningful letter.

Dear Sarah-Lisa,

Thank you for inviting me to your party. I was not a very good citizen and I should not have cut all your beautiful sweaters. I am sorry. I was wrong. I am sorry that since I have not come to any of your other parties, this is the party you will remember me by. I love animals very much and I miss my dog. I lost my temper. I am sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I cannot forgive myself unless I apologize to you.

I am very sorry.

Truly,

Veronica

Mrs. Morgan walked in with a breakfast tray and presented Veronica with pancakes and juice.

“You need to keep up your strength,” she said. “How is the letter coming?” Veronica handed her mother what she’d written. Mrs. Morgan read it over.

“Excellent,” she said. Veronica put syrup on her pancakes and took a bite. “Now another letter, to her mother.”

Veronica’s soul had more squeezing to do. Ugh. Mrs. Lehman.

“Fake it till you make it,” her mother said, and left the room. Veronica ate the pancakes and drank her juice. The letter to Mrs. Lehman was a little easier because she didn’t know her.

Dear Mrs. Lehman,

Your daughter has the most beautiful things in one room I have ever seen. I am so sorry that I was jealous. I will work out something with my parents and pay to replace all the sweaters I ruined. Please send us a bill. I am so sorry I ruined your evening with my behavior.

I am sincerely more sorry and ashamed than you will ever know.

Sincerely,

Veronica Louise Morgan

Veronica put the breakfast tray on the floor and went to sleep.

In the afternoon her mother came in. “Put your coat on,” she said. “We are going for a walk. Daddy too.”

Veronica got out of bed and got dressed. She put on her coat and scarf in a daze and stood dutifully next to her parents. Mr. Morgan and Mrs. Morgan took hold of their daughter, one on either side, and supported her as they walked out of the apartment, in and out of the elevator, and onto the street.

“When I was a child,” Mrs. Morgan said, “the whole community came on the seventh day of a shiva and walked the grieving family around the block. Daddy and I want to be your community. We thought we were doing enough. But we haven’t been.”

When Veronica was very little her parents used to walk with her like this, one on either side. On the count of three they would lift her in the air. She would make them do it again and again.

“Honey,” her father said, “you loved that dog. And you were so good to that dog. You took such amazing care of that dog. We are proud of you.”

“We sure are, Veronica. You have an incredible heart.”

The Morgan family walked along Fifth Avenue past the hospital, down 102nd Street with its funny brownstones mixed in with big apartment buildings and north on Madison Avenue past the bagel store and west on 103rd Street until they were headed south on Fifth. When they ended up back at their apartment Veronica let them lift her over the threshold.