Dear Irene,
I hope you don’t mind the informality of using your first name, but I feel as if I know you. All of the people in Rita’s life feel that way to me. Like close, close friends. So thank you. Thank you for letting me know about Sal. I did my grieving before I wrote these letters. Enclosed you will find one for Roylene. Will you give it to her? I’d appreciate it. And then a whole stack for Rita, too. I think your idea of slipping a letter under her door is a good one. I’ve expanded that idea (outlined below). Also, I’ve sent this package of letters via Express Mail. I hope they get to you swiftly.
Now, I’ve become quite the organizer of late, and I feel my skills kicking into high gear. I’ve concocted a plan of sorts.
* The first letter to Rita has a tiny “1” on the back of the envelope. Slip that under her door the first day. There are four more. Slip one under the door at the same time (I think morning is best) each day consecutively, okay? I hope this isn’t too much to ask.
* I need to write a letter to Toby. Can you provide me with his V-mail address? There is a part of the plan I need his help with.
* Can you and Charlie begin to work Rita’s garden? Work loud and joyfully so that she can see and hear you.
I think...pray...hope that my little plan works. She needs to survive this. She needs to survive it for Toby and for you and, well, for me.
I love her, Irene. I love her like she’s my own dear mother, or older sister. I don’t know when or how it happened but I don’t think I could go on if she wasn’t going on as well. My own friend Anna (an older woman who’s taken me under her wing) told me that Rita might be a “Soul Sister,” someone I’ve known through many lives. I believe it. Truly.
My first reaction is to come there. To get on a train, or in my car and just GO. Run to her. (I tend to run when I’m upset...) But I can’t. I don’t know how much Rita’s told you about my boy Robbie. But whatever she’s told you it isn’t the whole story. I’ve been shielding her a bit from the whole truth. She’s grown fond of him through my letters, and there’s no need to spread sorrow around during these tearstained years, right? Well, he had a cold in late February which aggravated his heart condition. He spent most of March in the hospital under an oxygen tent. He’s recovering very slowly. But he is a pale boy who spends his time wrapped in blankets and staring out windows. He stares at the yard he used to run through with wild abandon. He presses his tiny hands against the glass.
I cannot leave him. And I cannot bring him. So I cannot come.
This said, I do believe we might have some luck with this plan of mine. (Started by a grand idea from you!)
I’ve enclosed money so that you can send any correspondence back via Express Mail, as well. Please don’t be offended by it. If you don’t need it you can just send it back...but I felt like this particular situation called for skipping a bit of etiquette.
Yours in peace, And with heartfelt thanks,
Glory