After dinner with Landon Saturday night, John and I sat on the couch like a normal couple and watched a Netflix video while Landon played video games with his friends down the hall. I popped popcorn for everyone and called my son “Baby Boy” when I brought it into the room. He rolled his eyes at me, but I knew he secretly liked it.
Later that night, John took Landon’s friends home while I lay on the second bed in Landon’s room and listened to him update me on his life. He requested Pop-Tarts again, but this time, instead of refusing, I said, “I’ll see.” Maybe I could use them as bribery for chores or something.
John came home, said good night to Landon, and then told me what work he had lined up for next week while we cleaned the kitchen together.
“Sounds like a full week,” I said when he’d finished listing his out appointments—four bids, a final measure, and an install.
“It feels good to be busy again,” he said while rinsing his hands. He turned off the water and picked up a dish towel. He leaned against the counter. “How about you? What’s on your agenda?”
“I’m meeting some of the book club members for lunch on Monday,” I said with a nervous smile. I still could hardly believe I was going to do it. “I even turned down a shift at the Long Beach store so I could make it work.”
“Really?” John said, smiling in that funny way of his that made me think he was half teasing me. But I knew he liked the idea. I’d confessed to him how lonely I felt and how I was beginning to think Keisha had been part of me trying to resolve it. Or run from it.
“It was even my idea, though Ruby helped me choose the place. Apparently she and Gabe had lunch there last week.”
“Good for you,” John said, truly impressed. “And good for Ruby.”
“And I’m going to run on Monday too,” I said, hoping that would help prove to him I was healing. “I’m hoping I can do four miles even though I haven’t run for months.”
His smile widened, and he stepped toward me, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist so he could still look at me. “I’m proud of you, Shan,” he said, soft and intimate.
I basked in his words. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to trust me. I wanted him to feel about me the way I felt about him: grateful, safe, better.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You coming to bed?” he asked.
“In a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got one more thing to do.” I wondered if he would question me or think I was being too vague—he had reason to be suspect when I wasn’t completely upfront—but he didn’t bat an eye.
“Do whatever you need to do,” he said, letting me go and giving me a quick kiss good night. “You know where to find me.”
He went to bed while I headed for the desk in the study, sat down, and pulled out a piece of off-white stationery. When had I last written a letter by hand?
I liked the feel of the pen in my hand and hoped it would help me break through my remaining resistance and help me be more involved in the words I put on the page. So many new starts in my life right now—or restarts, depending on how I looked at it.
I brushed invisible dust off the paper, adjusted the pen in my grip, and started writing.
Dear Ilana,
I’ve thought about you a lot this last week and sent some prayers your way—I’m hoping they reached you intact. I know you can’t write back for a couple of weeks—Tori explained the rules when she gave me the address—and maybe you won’t want to write back at all, but, just in case you, like me, could use a friend, I thought I’d tell you about the impact your situation has had on my life—how you’ve inspired me.
For you to really understand, though, I should start by telling you about my stepdaughter, Keisha . . .