June 26, 2003
Hey Bambi,
I’m writing this because I can’t get in to see you, babe, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried, so many times, but I can’t get past the guards at that place they took you to. I’m not your next of kin, and your mum isn’t answering my calls. Nobody will listen to me. I don’t even know if you’ll get this but I’ve got to try.
I miss you so much, and I’m so sorry all of this has happened. You know you’re still my world, don’t you, Jess? I feel so bad I couldn’t help you—that I didn’t spot things earlier. I suppose I was caught up in my own pain and didn’t realize how far away you’d gone.
I knew you were sad, and that you’d lost weight, and you were struggling to talk to people and leave the flat, but I didn’t understand how serious it was. When you were having the nightmares and waking up in a panic, I thought it was normal, that it’d pass. I spoke to the policewoman, the one who’d been around a few times, and she said she’d seen it before in cases like ours and you’d get better in time.
That sounds like I’m making excuses. I’m not. It was up to me to look out for you, to look after you. That was my most important job, and I let you down. I don’t have any excuses, I was just tired and upset and angry all the time myself, and trying not to show it in case it made you feel worse. I kept telling myself it’d get better, and before I knew it six months had gone, six months without Grace and without things getting any better.
That day we had to call the ambulance was one of the worst days of my life. I called your mum because I didn’t know what else to do, and she got them out, the doctors and stuff, the people who decided you had to go away.
I know they were right, Jess, and I hope you’ll forgive me. You were crying and clinging on to me, and then holding the doorframe with your fingertips, kicking and screaming, begging me to stop them. Saying you’d be better, you’d be good, if I’d let you stay at home. With me and Gracie.
I wanted to, I really did—but I knew your mum was right. I don’t want to blame her, because she was right. It might have been an accident, leaving all the gas on, I know—we all forget things sometimes. And when you said you wanted to stay with Gracie, I’m sure you just meant in the place we lived with her.
But there’d been all those other things I’d been trying not to notice. You weren’t eating, or washing, or doing anything. You jumped out of your skin every time you heard a car in the street, and sometimes you’d just stare at me like you had no idea who I was. Like you were lost in your own world.
I had to call your mum, Jess—nobody loves you more than me, but I just thought you needed her. I couldn’t get you to stand up, you slid down the wall in the kitchen and lay on the floor, like all your bones had melted. There’d been those roadworks outside all day, with the drilling, and the noise was really getting to you, and when I came back from the kebab shop I found you like that. With the cooker on, which I’m sure was a mistake.
So I called your mum, but I didn’t know what would happen. You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know they’d take you away. I’ll never forgive myself for letting it get that bad in the first place—I only hope that one day you can forgive me.
I hope you can stay strong, and that they’re helping you in there. I couldn’t do that for you at home, so I have to hope that they can do that for you in there. At least they’ll stop you from hurting yourself.
I can’t stand the thought of you alone and scared and thinking I’m not nearby. I am—I’ve spent hours outside the hospital, just waiting to see if I could visit. It’s getting a bit tense now—some of the staff are OK with me, but some of them want me to bugger off. I don’t know why I can’t visit—all I’ve been told is that you’re too sick right now. I’m sure they know what they’re doing, and the rules will change soon. If not, I’ll ask your mum to speak to the staff, or take me in with her. I hope it’s soon—I want to hold you tight and let you know I’m still here. Let you know that, baby, I love you. I always will.
Joe xxx
July 5, 2003
Hey Bambi,
How is it going in there? I feel a bit daft writing these letters, not knowing if you’re getting them, or if they’re going in the bin. But your phone is still at home, and I can’t get through when I call the hospital. They say patients in your unit aren’t allowed to use the phone.
I’m starting to think there’s more going on than you being too sick to see me. I don’t think it’s normal to not allow visitors. It’s been a few weeks and I think maybe I’m on some kind of blacklist—story of my life, eh, Jess? I’m not sure, but I think perhaps your parents have told them not to let me in, and they’re in charge it seems.
We should’ve run away to Gretna Green like we joked about and got married, then nobody would be able to keep me away from you. Probably I’m just being paranoid—you know what I can be like, thinking The Man is out to get me.
Anyway, I hope you’re feeling a bit better, whether I get to see it or not—you’re what matters. It doesn’t look very cheerful in there, but I don’t suppose it would. I’ve been talking to Belinda—her mum was in and out of psychiatric (Have I spelled that right? I don’t think I have—I can put a shelf up straight, you can do the spelling!) hospitals all her life, as you know.
Belinda says even though they look grim, they usually do the job in a crisis. So I have to hope that’s what will happen here too. That before long, you’ll be out, and stronger, and we can be together again.
I miss you a lot. The flat is so quiet without you, without Grace. I’m not working at the moment—Bill down at the garage was really good with time off after the accident, but he’s had to get someone else in now. Apparently I was spending too much time stalking you outside the hospital! He says I can come back when things are more sorted, but for now he needs someone he can rely on and I guess that’s not me at the moment.
But don’t worry about that—I’ll be fine, and I’m getting everything ready for when you come home. I’ve painted the living room that weird color you like—duck egg? what a stupid name for a paint!—so I hope that cheers you up when you get back. I’ve given it all a good clean, and I found a brilliant poster of Titanic in the charity shop—it reminded me of our first date night.
We were, like, the only people in the world who hadn’t seen it by then. Actually I have a confession—I had seen it. I just pretended I hadn’t because I wanted to be in a dark room with you, doing the sneaking-an-arm-around-your-shoulders thing. It was really cute when you ran around outside afterward, holding your arms up and saying, “I’m flying, Jack!”
Feels like a million years ago, doesn’t it? We’ll watch it again when you get home. We’ll pretend the sofa’s a lifeboat, and snuggle up together, and eat that toffee popcorn you love. I hope you like the poster anyway—I got a frame for it and everything, like a proper grown-up!
Just so you know, Jess, I haven’t got rid of any of Grace’s stuff. I know you didn’t want to. But I have put some of it in boxes, because looking at it all day was making me too sad.
Anyway, I’m off to try your mum and dad again, see if I can get an update. Stay strong, and don’t forget—baby, I love you.
Joe xxx
August 1, 2003
Hey Bambi,
I’m sending this to the house, because I don’t know where you are. One of the staff at the hospital finally took pity on me, and told me you’d been moved, so I could stop hanging round outside. I’ve definitely been there too long—I was sat with an empty coffee cup the other day and someone put loose change in it!
Your mum says you’re still too fragile to see me, that you don’t even want to at the moment. She says I remind you too much of Grace. She says I should stop trying to see you, for your own good, but she’ll pass the letters on. That seems to be the best I can get.
I don’t know what to think, Jess. I don’t think she’s right, at least I hope not. She says you need to move on from Grace, like you need to forget her, and that can’t be true, can it? I know you need to feel better and recover, but I hate to think the only way to do that is to boot me out of your life, and pretend our baby never existed. That sounds much more like something your mum and dad would think than something you’d think.
But maybe I’m wrong. You’ve been through so much, too much for one person to handle, so maybe this is what you need to do to survive. That’s OK. Just get through it, that’s what matters.
I miss you and I love you, baby. I said it the wrong way round this time. Joey Ramone would be pissed off with me.
Joe xxx
September 14, 2003
Hey Jess,
I’m dropping this off at your house to make sure it gets there. Last time I posted it, and then worried in case it got lost. I’ll knock at the door too, but even if your mum’s in, she probably won’t answer. I’ve never been her favorite person. She basically makes the sign of the cross every time she sees me.
I hope you’re OK, and doing better, and feeling stronger. Less Bambi-like—I realized I keep calling you that, and it makes me think of you all weak, with wobbly legs, like you were last time I saw you.
I haven’t got long—Bill’s given me a couple of shifts at the garage to see how I get on—but I wanted to come by because it’s your birthday today, and I know it’s probably a crap one. Last year’s was funny, wasn’t it? Grace “helped” make your cake, and used that squeezy icing stuff to put big smiley faces all over it. Anyway. Here’s your traditional packet of gum—don’t say I never treat you!
It’ll be her birthday soon too. I know you know that. We got a letter the other day, from the council, about applying for schools for her. It felt really weird. For some reason I decided to put it in the toaster, which set the smoke alarm off.
Love you loads and hope I see you soon,
Joe xxx
December 18, 2003
Hey Jess,
I don’t know if you’re getting these letters, or reading them if you are. Maybe you’re not strong enough yet, like your mum said last time I managed to corner her (I waited near the house, hiding in the bus stop until she cracked and had to come out and get the milk, ha ha!). At least she talks to me when I turn up—your dad just glares at me.
I’m getting worried that I’m making things worse for you by writing. That I’m being selfish and I should just back off like they say I should. So maybe it’s good if you’re not getting these, or not reading them.
Maybe I’m talking to myself, and maybe that’s all right. Maybe this is a kind of therapy for me. Feels weird, though, all this writing—gives me blisters on my finger. I feel more comfy with a wrench than a pen.
You were always the one who liked writing—I liked doing. That’s one of the hardest things about this, not being able to fix it. I’m good with my hands and my brain is good at solving problems, like leaky car radiators or weird flat-pack furniture. Problem is I feel useless right now. I feel like a flat-pack myself. I can’t solve anything, or fix anything.
I went to see Belinda, but she’s got her hands full, with the baby and work and college. You should see him now, Jess—he’s huge! Last time you saw him he was a blobby-faced chunk. Now he’s crawling around laughing all the time. I don’t know how she’s managing on her own, but she is—she’s even more determined now, with Malachi to provide for. So she’s busy and knackered and I think she forgot what day it was, which is OK. The whole world doesn’t revolve around me.
Then I called around to see the Crazy Bunch, but it was the usual shit-storm there—too many kids, telly on full blast, ciggie smoke everywhere. He was in his usual shouty form; she was setting up some fake account to sell things she doesn’t actually have on eBay. The stuff of dreams. They definitely didn’t know what day it was, and were only interested in finding out if Bill ever deals in dodgy motors.
So, there we go. One year on, and I feel like I’m being a pain in everyone’s arse for even remembering. But I can’t help it—this time last year, we were getting ready for Christmas with a three-year-old. Us three against the world.
It was the first one where she really understood what was happening, but I still think you were more excited, Jess. Everything felt so good, didn’t it? You were thinking of going back to college. I was earning enough money for once. She was perfect, all chubby cheeks and dimples and mischief. She had those Barney the Dinosaur leggings and the red wellies and wouldn’t go out of the house without her backpack, because she thought she was Dora the Explorer.
You’d made all those decorations from cardboard and silver paint, the ones shaped like angels, tied to glittery string so they looked like they were hanging from the sky.
I remember coming home, finally, from the hospital, and them all still being there—what felt like hundreds of sparkly little angels, flying around the living room. I took them down while you were still in the ward. You’d made them with Gracie, and I didn’t want them to upset you when you were released. Stupid, really—you were always going to be upset, with or without the silver angels.
We didn’t even get to have a Christmas that year. I still have the presents, wrapped and ready, and nobody to give them to—Grace’s, and yours. Yours was going to be really special. I hope I get to give it to you at some point. I carry it with me, just in case.
Anyway. It’s one year on. I suppose we’re both still alive at least. Where there’s life there’s hope, right?
Maybe you don’t even know what day it is. Maybe you don’t have a calendar. Maybe you’re OK. Probably better than me right now. I feel pretty down, Jess, without the two of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so lonely.
There aren’t any decorations in the flat this year. Don’t see the point—what a miserable sod! I’m sorry for banging on. The last thing you need is listening to me whinge—but I don’t even know if you are. Listening, I mean. Kind of hope you’re not, while I’m being so pathetic—not my usual alpha male routine, this—but it’s that sort of day. I’m feeling sorry for myself, and maybe today I’m allowed.
I’m sorry we’re not together to help each other. I miss you, and I can’t believe our baby girl has been gone a year. Every day I wish things were different. That we hadn’t been in that place at that time. It all feels so random and unfair—a few minutes either side and our lives would have carried on. She’d be four now, and we’d be looking forward to another Christmas together.
Anyway. Stay strong, Jess—because where there’s life there’s hope. We’ve got to believe that. I just wish I had a time machine, and I could change everything back to normal for all of us.
As usual—baby, I love you,
Joe xxx
January 1, 2004
Hey Jess,
Guess what? I have a hangover! I’m sure I’m not the only one, it’s New Year’s Day. I went to Belinda’s last night, she had the old gang around, and even with little Mal there we managed to do some damage (not Belinda, though—she was a sober mama!).
There was a lot of vodka, definitely some Jack Daniel’s. I have a vague recollection of a drinking game involving Buckaroo and shots.
That all sounds like a lot more fun than it actually was, and it’s definitely not fun this morning. I don’t usually drink that much, you know I don’t. But it’s been a shitty year, and my mates were all there, and I needed to blow off steam. Plus—this is not something I’m proud of—seeing Belinda with Malachi had a weird effect on me. It made me feel jealous. I saw her with her baby, and I wanted mine, and I was jealous. Isn’t that crap?
I am a bit crap, I’m starting to think. I spoke to your mum today. To be precise, I spoke to your mum and your dad, at around 1 a.m. I was tired and emotional, as they say, and decided to wish them a happy New Year. Duh. I should maybe have got the message after your dad hung up the third time—but I was acting like a vodka knob.
I called again this morning to apologize, and your mum basically told me to stop calling. Stop visiting. Stop trying to see you—because it’s not going to happen. You need to get better, and apparently there’s no place for me in that brave new world, and no point in me harassing them. She said you’re OK with that because you know you’ll get better faster if I’m not there to remind you of all the bad stuff.
I’m not sure I believe her, Jess—but maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I’m deluding myself?
All I do know is that I love you, and I miss you. I miss you and I miss our baby and I miss our life together. But it’s been over six months since I’ve seen you or spoken to you, and I’ve been writing all these letters and sending cards and I’ve never heard back.
I don’t know if you’re getting them, or if you’re too weak to respond. For now, I’ll carry on—because I need you to know how much I love you. How much I want to fight for you, and fight with you, and help you get better. How much I want to be at your side.
Belinda was listening to me moan about it last night and said I should see a lawyer. She says someone at her firm might help. She thinks even though I’m not next of kin, I lived with you for long enough to have rights, and I could force them to tell me where you are and to let me visit you. She says I need to stop distrusting everyone involved in the legal system, and stop seeing myself as an outsider, and start taking action. That’s Belinda for you—power to the people!
I’m going to think about it but I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do. I am desperate to see you, Jess, I really am—but I am starting to wonder whether your parents weren’t right all along.
When I met you, your life was on track—you were a clever girl, going places. Now look at you—and sometimes I think it’s all my fault. That you’d have been better off if I’d never spoken to you that first day, and left you to pick your own makeup off the ground. You’d have been embarrassed and stressed out, but probably you’d be finished at university by now, and starting some amazing career, instead of being in hospital. I feel like if I’d left you alone, you wouldn’t be broken.
This is a miserable letter, isn’t it? What a morose wanker. Must be all those shots coming back to haunt me. Maybe I should be more positive—it’s 2004. It’s a whole new year. Anything could happen!
Anyway, don’t forget—baby, I love you—
Your very hungover Joe xxx
May 8, 2004
Hey Jess,
Went out with the crew last night for my birthday. I was planning to stay in, and have an “it’s my party and I’ll be a miserable sod if I want to” vibe. But they dragged me to the pub, that one under the arches in town, with the really good jukebox? I played some tracks for you—they had the Ramones on there, and “Disco 2000” by Pulp. Belinda did her “look at me I should have been famous” dancing to “Groove Is in the Heart” all around the pub, scaring the old men drinking their pints of bitter, and then I got a bit sad and put “Nothing Compares 2 U” on. Never a party classic, that one.
I went back to the flat after. I pretended you were there and had an imaginary conversation with you. You told me how much you loved me, and you made me cheese on toast, and we fell asleep together on the sofa. Except we didn’t.
Love you,
Joe xxx
June 10, 2004
Hey Jess,
It’s been a weird old year, hasn’t it? Strange how life carries on, even when you think it can’t. When you think it shouldn’t—when something so big has happened in your own existence that everything is disrupted by it. Like an earthquake has opened up massive tears in the ground and all the buildings and stuff you thought would always be solid have disappeared, sucked into a big, gaping hole.
But while all of that is happening—while your life is getting sucked into a pit of rubble—nobody can really see it apart from you. Like it’s a hallucination or an alternative reality, and to everyone else, you just look normal.
Reminds me of that poem in the film—the one about stopping all the clocks in Four Weddings. Can’t remember who wrote it but I’m sure you can. Everyone else’s life is going on around you but yours has stopped, and even if you look normal, you feel about a million light-years away from normal.
So, things haven’t been brilliant at my end—I hope they’re better at yours. Your mum and dad are, quite rightly, at the end of their tether with me now. I’m sure they’ll tell you, anyway, about the thing with the shed and the police.
It wasn’t me, though, Jess, honest. I wouldn’t ever do anything like that, you know I wouldn’t. At least I hope you know—but it’s been a year since I saw you. I’m sure you’ve changed, and so have I—but not that much.
The shed thing wasn’t me. It was Liam, one of the latest foster kids at the Crazy Bunch house. In a moment of lunacy I went there and had a moan to Mother Bunch, and next thing you know, the whole family is in on it, and they’re drawing up war plans, and it was mental. You know what they’re like—they hate each other’s guts unless there’s someone else in the firing line, then suddenly they’re united against the common enemy.
Poor Liam, he’s only fifteen, proper ginger, and not the brightest. Somewhere out there a village has been deprived of its idiot, put it that way. He’s only been with them a few months, and has your typical makes-you-want-to-weep backstory—shitty parents, and now he’s with that lot, so a happy ending doesn’t look likely.
He was listening to them all fume and get fired up about your mum and dad—they managed to turn it into some big class warfare rant, and I think the word “compensation” was mentioned, and there was a lot of anger. All very weird, as I can say with 99 percent certainty they don’t actually give a toss about me—they must have been bored.
So this Liam, poor dumb kid, decides to “make a stand” that night. He made a stand by setting the shed on fire. That definitely showed them, didn’t it? So next thing I know the police are involved, and your dad is ready to hire a hit man, and your mum’s in tears on the phone, and everything goes even more tits up than it was before.
It wasn’t me, and I was round at Belinda’s when it happened, so nothing came of it. But you know how I feel about the police. Even though they were decent to us after the accident it still freaks me out when they knock at the door. Your dad isn’t stupid—even though it wasn’t me he knew it must have been something to do with me. He said he’d prove it one day, that I’d obviously set it all up.
It probably would’ve made life easier if I’d told him who it actually was, but I couldn’t dump Liam in it like that, could I? Liam will get himself in trouble soon enough without my help anyway, but I didn’t have it in me to turn him in.
I tried to warn him, Liam, to tell him to not get too involved with the Crazy Bunch, to just take the food and shelter and not let them suck him in—but he’s young. He’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal. He just wants them to love him—he doesn’t realize they’re not capable of it.
Nothing I can do about that, I suppose. I did try to fix things at the other end, with your parents, but—big shocker here—I couldn’t. I felt really bad about it all—they were just settling down for bed (you can picture the scene: quilted dressing gowns and cocoa, and barely 10 p.m.) when your mum went into the kitchen to wash the mugs, and saw the garden on fire. She must’ve been terrified. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen where they live, does it? Round here the odd burning car isn’t unusual on a Friday night, but not there.
So, I felt bad. I went to your house to try to talk to them, but your dad was screaming at me on the front steps. His face was red and he was spitting when he shouted and he looked like he might explode—he didn’t even seem to care what the neighbors were thinking, which isn’t like him.
Honest, I wanted to argue back, or at least explain to them how much damage they were doing by keeping me away from you—but I genuinely thought he looked ill. That he could keel over and have a heart attack or something. And then he called me the scum of the earth, a “street urchin ratbag,” and told me I’d ruined your life, which was nice.
I thought everything would cool down, but I got a letter about a restraining order this morning, which isn’t very cool. It won’t be a hardship, keeping away from them, to be honest. Every time they try to convince me this is your choice, or for your good, I come one step closer to believing them—and believing them kills me. Believing them is what makes me feel like I’m getting swallowed up into those earthquake holes.
I’m sorry about the shed. I’m sorry my alleged family are such fuckwits. I’m sorry for swearing. I’m sorry you’re not here, and I’m sorry our Gracie is gone. I’m sorry about everything.
I’m not sorry that I love you.
Joe xxx
September 10, 2004
Hey Jess,
Happy birthday, gorgeous—here’s your pack of gum! Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re OK. I can’t deliver this to your parents’ house—that pesky restraining order’s still going strong!—so I’m posting it a few days early and hope you get it in time. Or at all.
I’ve been thinking, love, and this will probably be the last letter I write. This might be a huge relief to you. Logic tells me either you’re seeing these letters and not replying, because you don’t want me in your life, or you’re not seeing them—in which case, Ruth and Colin, if you are reading: FUCK YOU!!! And fuck your restraining order!
(I’m pretty sure that if they just read that, it made your dad snort through his nostrils and rant about foul language being the sign of a foul mind. So I repeat—FUCK YOU!!!)
Anyway. You’re seeing them or you’re not—but I can’t carry on. There’s just too much to tell you, and only so many times I can pretend you’re listening. The longer it goes on, the sadder I feel, and if I’m honest I feel other stuff too—I feel hurt and angry, and lonely. I lost my baby, and I lost you, and nobody in the entire world seems to really give a toss. I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I? But I can’t keep on with this. It’s bad for me, and I need to make some changes.
I’ve fallen behind with the rent, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t care anymore. It was our home—mine and yours and Gracie’s—but it’s not been a home since you left. It’s just been somewhere I sleep, and wait, and try to convince myself things will be all right in the end.
I don’t think I can stand even one more night in there, sitting on our sofa, listening to our records, remembering the days when we needed the safety gate into the kitchen and those special shields on plugs or that orange plastic step she used to get on the loo. I keep looking at that picture she drew that you got framed, of the three of us under a rainbow, where I look like a giant spider and your smile is bigger than your actual face and we have a black Lab as well (though it kind of looks like a black slug?).
Everything was so good then. We had such a lot of fun. I loved the way she used to get her words all mashed up, but look really serious when she said them. Like when she was cold she wanted us to “put the radios on” instead of the radiators; and the way she said “yellow” as “lellow,” and the way she abbreviated all the berries because they were too long and annoying—so even now, I still say “strawbs” or “bluebs” or “rasps.” And how she thought chocolate éclairs were actually cakes called Clare that were chocolatey—chocolatey Clares! I was in the supermarket the other day and I saw some boxes of them and burst out crying. People were walking around me in the aisle, like I had a contagious disease.
All of the laughter and sunshine she brought into our lives is precious, and I’m not saying I want to forget a moment of it. But I don’t think I can carry on living in the middle of it either, with her toys and clothes and the Dora backpack and her little lilac bed and that book about the hare.
It’s not just her, it’s you as well. I miss you so much it feels like a physical pain. Like someone has their fist inside my chest and is clenching their fingers around my heart. I love you so much—always did. You had me at “thank you,” which were the first words you ever said to me.
After that—on those first dates and our first nights together and when we moved into the flat and we had Gracie—it should have been me thanking you. Being there with you, raising Gracie together, was the happiest I’ve ever been. I’ve never felt so loved and wanted and needed. Even the worst days had joy in them.
Now, I don’t feel loved or wanted or needed, and even the best days are joyless. Parts of you are still here, and like with Grace’s stuff, I’ve not been able to say goodbye to any of it. Your hair is still in your brush, and your lip balm is still in the bathroom, and the silver angels you made are still under the bed. When I’m feeling especially pathetic, I hold that hairbrush, and I smell that lip balm, because they are part of you.
Everything crumbled when we lost her, I know—everything broke. But after you were taken away, it got worse. At first I held on, telling myself I had to stay strong and stay steady for when you came home. Maybe I thought we’d even have another baby—not that we could replace her, ever, but we’d always talked about maybe having a brother or sister for her one day, hadn’t we?
But now, it’s over a year since you went into hospital, and I have to face the possibility that you probably won’t come home, not to this place anyway. That maybe you don’t want to, or that it simply won’t be right for you.
I’ve carried on trying to find out more about where you are, what’s happening to you, and I’ve been writing, and sending the cards, and I’ve pushed things as far as I can with your parents. Your mum told me last week, on the phone, that you’re fine and getting better but you still need treatment and that things really are simpler for you if I’m not around.
Normally I’d hear that and I’d argue. I wouldn’t believe it. But now, maybe, I’m thinking it’s true. I don’t have any fight left in me anyway—I’m like a popped balloon.
So, this is the decision I’ve made: I’m going to let the flat go. I’m going to box up anything of yours and see if your mum wants it. I’m going to box up anything of Gracie’s and ask Belinda to store it. She says she’ll use some of it anyway, even though Mal is a boy, because she thinks gender stereotyping is patriarchal bullshit, and why shouldn’t little male humans like pink . . . You know what she’s like, she could start an argument on her own in a portrait gallery!
I’m going to pack myself up as well. I’m going to move, though I’m not 100 percent sure where yet. But there’s nothing left for me here anymore, and the world’s my oyster, much as I don’t want it to be.
You’ve got my phone number, Jess. And just in case you haven’t, in case you’ve forgotten it or something, I’ll put it on the end of this. One day, if you ever want to, maybe you can give me a call.
Maybe I’ll be eighty and everyone else is using new technology where phone calls get routed directly into their brain cells through microchips, and I’ll be the only one with a still-functioning Nokia.
Maybe one day it will ring, and I will pick it up with my arthritic fingers, and I will hear your voice on the end of it. I would love to hear your voice again—other than on the answering machine message that you and Grace did, where you were both trying to sound serious but kept giggling.
I hope you understand, and I hope you don’t feel hurt, and I hope we meet again one day. I hope you always know—baby, I love you.
Joe xxx
August 20, 2013
Dear Jess,
It’s been years since I last wrote to you. I had my reasons for that, and there is way too much to tell you to even try.
I’m about to make a move, about to change my life beyond recognition, and something deep inside me wouldn’t let me do it without one final letter. I’ve never known if you’ve read any of them, and I won’t with this—but I’m OK with that. I need to say goodbye, even if you’re not listening.
I was in the pub a few nights ago, and I saw a woman who looked so much like you I dropped my pint. It slipped out of my hand, and smashed, and when she turned around I realized it wasn’t you at all. But the shock of it—of seeing you there—made me realize I needed to write again, before I leave.
That night I lay awake, wondering what would have happened if it was you. If one day, out of the blue, our paths crossed again.
The conclusion I came to made me sad, but maybe it was also what I needed.
I think if we met again, we might not even know each other. We were still kids when we parted. Still feeling our way through life. I have no idea what has happened to you since—I genuinely hope it’s all been good. That you’re married, and have a tribe of children, and a full life.
A lot has happened to me, things that have changed me. I’m not the same Joe, and I’m sure you’re not the same Jess. I’ve never loved anyone else the way I loved you—but I am no longer that man. Without seeing the things I’ve seen, experiencing the things I’ve gone through, you’d never be able to understand the new me. How could you love the man I am now when you have no idea how he was made?
I wish I could show you the last years—the highs and lows that shaped me. But I can’t, and I never will be able to. Too much time has passed, and too many things have happened.
So I wanted to say goodbye, and wish you all the wonderful things the world has to offer, and say that I’m OK. I survived.
I’m in the middle of packing up my life right now, but I wanted to send you one last gift. Included in this package are a few little notes. Your life is a mystery to me, but if ever you need me, I’ll be there in the only way I can. Each envelope is marked, and ready for you to open as and when you need them. I hope you don’t ever need some of them—but if this is my last hurrah, my final goodbye, then I might as well make it count.
Joe xxx