Chapter 35

Light of My Life,

You’re moping. I get it — heartbreak sucks.

Well, I don’t really get it, because I’ve never been in love, per se. Not unless you’re counting my obsession with Sophia Vergara who, one of these days — you mark my words — will realize that the love of her life is a twenty-one year-old amputee in Georgia.

But you, my darling sister, have been in love. And afterward, your little heart was broken and I was forced to listen to John Mayer breakup songs for almost two years. (Our apartment walls are treacherously thin, for future reference.) Maybe even now, a few years down the road, you’re reading this letter because you’ve been reminded of that same heartbreak. Maybe you’ve experienced a fresh one. I don’t know, I’m not there. (Dead, remember?)

I do know one thing, though. You’re brave. It takes guts to give your heart to someone else, and trust that they’ll take care of it. And some day, you’ll find that someone who makes all the other someones in your life seem insignificant.

When that day comes, when you’re absolutely sure he’s the one you’re supposed to be with, give him the red envelope at the back of this box.

I may never have been in love, but I’ve witnessed more of it than most ever get to.

People think of hospitals as being full of only sickness and sadness — patients dying, relatives mourning. But they’re wrong. I’ve spent a good part of the last five years in and out of hospitals, first in Jackson and now here in Atlanta. Of course I’ve seen the grief and the illness and the death here. That’s all you’ll see on surface level. Look a little deeper, though, and those things are insignificant compared to the immense love that fills the walls of these buildings.

The baby wards, where new parents hold their little bundles close and plan out bright futures full of joy. The hopeful families who keep smiles on their faces in spite of the odds. The ones who’ve traveled around the world to hold the hand of a loved one who’s lying in a sickbed with a fate unknown.

That’s love.

There are all kinds of love in this world, sis. Great loves and little loves. The fleeting ones, and the ones that last a lifetime. I might be dead, and you might be a crazy person fueled by far too much estrogen, but I love you more than anything.

Well, actually, that’s a little dramatic… Maybe not more than anything. But more than most things. More than Cadbury chocolate bars and all of my favorite sports teams. More than Sophia Vergara those really great popsicles they give out during chemo sessions.

Keep your chin up. Things will get better. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even this year — but someday.

You’ll find that great love again.

Until then, know that I love you.

Jamie

We haven’t met. We probably never will.

But, if you’re reading this, it’s because you love my sister and, for reasons I’ll never get to know about, she loves you too. I’m going to go ahead and presume that you’re a nice guy — my sister wouldn’t settle for a jerk. I’ll even give you the benefit of the doubt by assuming that you’ve got a slew of redeemable qualities that make you “good husband material” or “good father material” or whatever bullshit standards modern women use to justify their decisions when it comes to choosing a life partner.

You might be wondering why I wrote this letter. Contrary to what I’m sure Lux thinks, it’s not to scare you off or to tell you something mortifying about her or to threaten to haunt you from the great beyond if you mistreat her. It’s not even to tell you how great my sister is, or that she deserves to be treasured because, again, I’m going to assume that you know that already.

Instead this letter is one I felt compelled to write because, if I know my sister as well as I think I do, she probably won’t ever tell you the things I’m about to. Not because she’s a big secret keeper — the girl is literally one of the worst liars I’ve ever met — but because it’s too painful for her to talk about. And, trust me, I wouldn’t be telling you unless I thought you needed to know, in order to better understand her — to better love her — for the rest of your life together.

It made her who she is today. It shaped the woman you’ve fallen in love with.

So, I’ll rip off the Band-Aid as quickly as possible: you aren’t the first man to hold my sister’s heart in his hand.

When we were kids, little more than seventeen, she met a boy who changed her life. Their love was the kind that was evident even when they were standing on opposite sides of a room — their bodies would orient like two planets sharing the same orbit, tugged together by forces out of their control. It was there in the light touch of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her into the car. It was there in the beaming grin she unleashed whenever he came to the door. And it was there in the way he loved me, simply because I was the closest extension of her.

I’m not sure I believe in soul mates but, if there were ever two spirits shaped solely for one another, I have to believe it was those two kids from different worlds, who loved so strongly in spite of the many odds stacked against them.

You’re wondering what happened — why is she with you when, if I’m even remotely correct, she should be with someone else entirely?

You’re also wondering why I’m telling you this — what possible point could my story serve, except to piss you off beyond measure or make your own love for my sister pale in comparison?

Don’t worry, I’m getting to that.

As most things eventually do, their love ended. And it shattered her.

I’ve never seen my sister — my happy, hopeful, full-of-heart sister — so decimated as when their love fell apart. She never told me the reason — I’m sure she thinks I went to my deathbed with no knowledge of her sacrifice — but I’m not a stupid man. I put the pieces together easily enough.

It seems ridiculous even now, so many years later, to be writing these words, but sometimes the truth really is stranger than fiction. And the truth is, my sister was blackmailed into leaving the man she loved. Someone close to him forced them apart. I guess you could say she made a deal with the devil — and she lost.

I don’t know the exact terms of their agreement, but I’m guessing it was something like this:

She’d agree to remove herself from the life of the boy she loved and, in exchange, I’d get to live out my days with the best treatment money could buy. Her happiness, her life, traded for mine.

You see, we were poor. We had nothing. The house was in foreclosure and my parents couldn’t afford groceries, let alone my bone-grafts and rehabilitation costs. And then, one random Tuesday afternoon, my sister stormed into my bedroom, fresh traces of tears on her face, and said we were leaving — just the two of us. We were getting out of Jackson and never coming back, never to see our friends — or the boy she loved — again.

That same day — miracle of miracles! — the new owner of our house told my parents they didn’t have to move out after all. Lux suddenly had funds to put a down-payment on a small apartment in the city. Within a week I was at the best medical facility in the state, receiving treatment from some of the foremost oncologists in the country, whose waiting lists are typically longer than the state of Texas. Whoever bumped me to the top of those lists had serious connections — and, I’m guessing, is the same person who forced us out of Jackson.

At the time, I didn’t question it. Selfishly, I was glad for Lux’s sacrifice, if it meant I had a shot.

Because of my sister, I lived.

We never saw the boy again.

And I never saw my sister again. At least, not whole and happy.

She puts on a brave face because she thinks that’s what the world needs to see. But deep down, she’s been hurt, badly, by love. And the true miracle is, despite her own heartbreaks, she’s still the most giving person I’ve ever known. I’m sure you’ve realized already how much she cares for those closest to her. Once you’ve found a place in Lux’s heart, she keeps you there forever.

So I ask you, please — for the sake of my sister, who gave up her happiness so I might live a few brief years — don’t hurt her. Don’t manipulate or lie to her. Don’t expect her to be something she’s not.

And, if that boy should ever come back into her life, don’t hate her if she still needs him, if she still loves him.

I won’t lie to you or tell you I didn’t try my best to get them back together — I wrote him letter after letter, all of which were “Returned to Sender” by the postal service. And you shouldn’t lie to yourself by pretending Lux is someone she isn’t.

She’s human, just like the rest of us. She has flaws, and baggage, and memories that give her sleepless nights, and far, far more than her fair share of grief to deal with.

I hope that if she’s found you, it means she can finally put some of that to rest. I hope you’ll not take this letter as an attack or a warning against loving her — because that would truly be your loss. I hope, more than anything, that she’s found someone who completes her again.

Please — take care of her for me.

Oh, and here’s a free piece of advice: if you give her a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and a bottle of Merlot, she’s far easier to deal with. Especially during “that time of the month.”

You’re welcome.

Jamie

PS: Bash, if it’s you reading this, you should know I’m grinning down at you right now, buddy. I knew it all along — you guys were always meant to find your way back. I miss you, my friend. But I’ll rest easier knowing our girl is in good hands.