When I get home from tryouts, there’s a letter on the table with my name on it.
Veronica Conway.
The return address says it’s from Pine Knolls and the handwriting is one hundred percent, abso-total-lutely Mom’s.
All of these clues add up in my mind, but the pieces click together slowly, like a snail is solving the puzzle. I picture a snail in one of those detective hats, with the wide brim all around, holding a mini magnifying glass and notebook. Usually, the thought of something like that would make me smile, but not today.
Today I’m too sad, and all I can do is stare at the envelope I’m about to open.
I should open it, right? That’s why I wrote Mom a letter in the first place. To hear how she’s doing. I won’t be able to know that unless I open the envelope.
My fingers slowly make their way toward the flap. It’s sealed with tape, which makes me smile the teensiest bit. Mom always says that envelope glue is her least favorite taste in the whole world, worse than even liver and onions or that gross prune juice she gives me when I have … uh … stomach issues. If she can’t find a sponge, she always tapes the back of the envelope, then pops a sticker on top, usually from a huge sheet of multicolored hearts she keeps in the junk drawer.
There’s no sticker on this envelope, but there is tape. Which makes me think that the real Mom is still out there somewhere, quirks and all. That if part of her is on the outside of this envelope, then part of her must be on the inside, too.
That there could be good news in there.
“What if there isn’t, though?” I whisper to myself.
I remember one time a few years ago when I overheard Dad mention something called “Schrödinger’s cat” to Mom. At first, I’d thought he and Mom had finally conceded to my years-long battle for a kitten. It turns out that Dad was talking about some concept in a book he was reading.
Apparently some philosopher came up with this idea that if there’s a box, you have no idea if there’s a cat in it or not. And until you open up that box, both options are possible. So it’s basically like there both is and isn’t a cat … at the same time!
It didn’t make much sense to me then. I’d just whined at my parents that if there was always a cat in the box, it’d have way more fun living with us.
Now, though, I get it. Today, I have my very own Schrödinger’s letter. If I open it up, I might get bad news about Mom. But if I leave it closed, the good news will never disappear. It will always be there.
Buzz!
I look down at my phone as it vibrates with a text from Dad, relieved to take a momentary break from this potentially life-changing decision.
At the hardware store until eight. There’s money beside the stove for dinner.
Yay. More pizza. I grimace, then check the time. It’s six o’clock, but I’m not hungry. Apparently losing your best friend can mess with your appetite. I look around the kitchen, trying to figure out how to distract myself so I don’t think about the words floating around inside that envelope. I’m not in a TV mood and I finished my last library book last night. I don’t even have any homework this weekend! I could practice, but even hearing music makes me think of Claudia.
I wonder if she’s thinking about me.
I try to read a book, but I can’t concentrate, even though it’s super good. I turn on the TV, but Netflix isn’t connecting.
“Of course!” I throw up my hands and flop back against the couch, then head into the kitchen for a snack. I can’t deal with pizza again, but I need something to quiet my rumbling stomach. I grab an apple and some peanut butter, then sit at the kitchen table, the sealed envelope in front of me.
I think about when I was a kid and I used to pick daisies in the backyard. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. I’d pick petals off and imagine that if I ended on “he loves me,” I’d grow up to marry Flynn Rider from Tangled.
I de-petal an imaginary daisy in my mind. Open the letter, leave it sealed. Open the letter, leave it sealed …
I hold it up and rotate it before my eyes, trying to see if the envelope is see-through. Maybe if I can see a word or two, I’ll be able to tell if it’s good news. The envelope is thick, though. Nothing shows through.
I take an apple slice and dip it in peanut butter, then chew really slowly. I’ll open it when I finish this slice.
No, the next slice.
When the whole apple is gone, I stare at the letter, my heart pounding out of my chest. The closest thing I have to Mom is inside. It makes me angry—I should have the real Mom here. But it also makes me grateful. At least Mom can write to me. At least she’s healthy.
I hope.
I think.
I guess it’s time to find out.
Dear Veronica,
I miss you, too. I miss you more than words can say. I’m going to try, though, because right now, words are all I have. The written word is hard. There’s so much pressure for me to craft the perfect message here. On the phone I could just start talking. I’d plan beforehand, of course, but there’d be no way for me to go back over my words again, to edit and delete and rewrite them until they’re perfect. In person, I could just hug you, and hope that my touch is able to communicate all the love and regret in my heart.
Here, I have to stare at my words as I write them. I have to know that once your eyes are on this letter, I can’t explain exactly what I mean or clarify some small detail. You can’t hear my tone. The letters, the words, the sentences … they’re all here, unchanging.
I need to realize that I can’t change the past, though. Once I write this letter, it’s done. I can’t alter it, just like I can’t alter the things that I did to hurt our family. To hurt you.
I’m so sorry that I wasn’t the mother you needed me to be. I’ve been learning in here that I need to make amends for the things I did wrong, but that I also can’t excuse them away. I messed up. I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.
I know that you’ll never understand how I valued drinking so much. I still don’t understand it myself. I don’t understand how a bottle … a glass … a few sips of liquid pulled me away from the love that you and your father gave me every day.
I could say that there’s something in my brain that made me vulnerable to this addiction. I could say that that same brain told me to drink and that it was hard to disobey that voice in my head.
I could say that. It would be the truth, too.
It would also be an excuse. I don’t want to lean on excuses anymore. I want to move forward and make changes.
I’ll always be an alcoholic, Veronica. I may battle this disease forever. But I promise you with all of me—with every heartbeat of love I have for you—that I will fight this disease forever. I will not take another sip of alcohol because each sip takes me away from you.
Being your mother is the great privilege, honor, and gift of my life. I treasure it more with every day, especially since I almost lost it. I pray that I haven’t lost it and that you haven’t given up on me.
I love you so much, honey, and I’m so proud of you. Whether or not you make the softball team. Whether you play softball or choose something else entirely to love.
Family Day is next weekend and I would love if you and your Dad would come. I’ve sent him a letter, too.
My love always,
Mom