Dear Little Jo,
It was good to see you at school today. You looked so different in jeans and that hoodie. I mean I’ve never seen you in ordinary teenager clothing before. It looked like you were wearing a costume. I’m aware how ironic it is to say that. Back when we first met—or when I first saw you in the hall at school anyway—I thought you were wearing a costume. Remember? And now you’re wearing ordinary clothes, and to me it looks like you’re wearing a costume again.
I also noticed how you turned around fast and walked the other way when I came around the corner in the hall. It’s okay, Jo. I mean I get it. I swear I won’t try to talk to you if you don’t want me to, which you clearly don’t. I’m done causing you pain, Jo. That’s a promise.
So today after school I was watching TV while Mark got ready to leave for work. There wasn’t much in the fridge so I made him an omelet, and I was worrying about it getting cold on the stove while Mark showered because he doesn’t own a microwave.
Mark comes into the room and hands me a letter and goes, “Open it.”
Of course I’d spotted the stack of mail in the hall as usual when I let myself in after school. But I’d only glanced through the envelopes for your handwriting, and this one was typed. I mean why would anything other than a letter from you have come for me at Mark’s apartment? Nobody except you and Bron even knows I’m living here.
So I recognize the return address on the envelope right away, and I fold the whole thing in half to stuff it in my back pocket.
“Open it now,” Mark says.
“I’ll look at it later,” I say. Trying for casual. Trying for no big deal.
Mark sits next to me on the couch. He picks up the remote control and switches off the TV.
“I made you a mushroom omelet,” I say, “but it’s getting kind of cold.” I’m trying for a distraction now.
Mark gets up and goes to the kitchen with the remote control in his hand so I can’t turn the TV back on. He comes back with the omelet. He sits down in his chair and eats it but doesn’t stop eyeing me the whole time. Then he puts the plate on the coffee table and says, “I want you to open that letter and read it to me.”
By now I’m thinking, who cares about the stupid letter anyhow? It’s worse to build up suspense. I mean I didn’t even finish applying to U of M. I didn’t send in half the documents they wanted. It’s not like they’re going to want me based on my transcript all by itself. No way Khang’s recommendation letter could have been that good.
So I pull the envelope out of my pocket and toss it over to Mark. “Read it yourself, asshole,” I say.
The envelope falls on the floor halfway between us. The whole thing is getting more idiotic by the second. It’s like a farce.
“I don’t read other people’s mail,” Mark says. And he smiles at me in that stupid, smug way he has sometimes, so I know he’s referring to our letters, Jo, yours and mine. He’s referring to Uncle Vik reading my letter to you. My love poem.
It’s like a massive hole opens up inside me. A hole made of homesickness, so that I am actually feeling physically sick with how badly I want to go home.
And you, Jo. I’m sick with missing you, with wanting you.
A hole opens up, and I fall right down into the hole. My face gets red-hot. I feel the tears coming up in a rush. I turn away from Mark and press my hand over my eyes, but I’m basically bawling like a baby right in front of my smug asshole of an older brother.
And then something even worse happens. Mark comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder, and I am suddenly certain that he’s about to hit me. I mean I can feel him winding up. I can feel the punch coming at the side of my head.
So I throw myself off the couch, onto the floor. I’m on the rug on all fours. I’m crawling away from him, cowering, crying and whimpering in a voice that doesn’t sound like my voice at all. Saying, “I’m sorry. Don’t. Don’t hurt me. Don’t, don’t, don’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
This is me being completely delusional. Because Mark isn’t coming after me at all. Mark has never in his life lifted a finger against me or against anyone as far as I know. He would never do something like that. He’s just sitting there on the sofa staring at me with a shocked expression on his face. He’s gone kind of gray. Stunned.
It takes me a full two, maybe three minutes to get ahold of myself. Then I sort of just sit there on the floor with my back to the wall, wiping away tears and shaking all over. Looking at Mark while he looks back at me.
I watch his face change from shocked to sad to furious to sad again. Neither of us says anything for a long time.
Then Mark picks up the letter and comes over and holds it out to me. When I reach out to take it from him, he holds on to it for a second. He says, “He is not going to hurt you again, Adam. All right?”
“What about Mom though?” I say, before I can stop myself.
Mark jerks his head a bit. “He’s not going to hurt her either,” he says. “I promise you. We’re making certain, Sylvan and me.” He says they’re dealing with Uncle Viktor, that down the road we’ll likely be having a conversation about legal options but for now the objective is day-to-day safety. Stability. He says there’s lots of time and no need for me to think about any of it until I’m ready. “We got you, Adam,” he says. “All right?”
“All right,” I say.
He hands me the letter. “Now open your goddamn college mail.”
So I rip open the envelope, and it’s an invitation to visit the campus to speak to the admissions committee. It gives some dates and times and a number to RSVP.
Mark makes me call the number right away. He says to tell them I’ll be there next Wednesday. Then he calls Sylvan and tells him to book off work; we’re going on a road trip to Duluth, the three of us.
It’s probably nothing. I mean they’ll probably just ask me why I didn’t bother sending in the Autobiographical Creative Essay part of the application. It’s probably too late to submit one even if I bring it to them next week.
Sincerely,
AK