"There's still Tristan to worry about." I walked to the sofa and sat at one end. "He wanted me to know about the changeling switch and about Cainsville. Now that I do, there must be some response he's expecting. I'll have to deal with that."
"We'll deal with that," he said, sitting at the opposite end.
I nodded and twisted, sitting sideways, knees pulled up, glass resting on them.
"I also had a call from the state attorney's office this evening," he said. "About your parents' case. Things are finally moving on that. They want to speak to us."
"Lots to do, then."
"Yes, lots to do. Lots to talk about."
"Should we start now?"
"In a few minutes," he said as he eased back onto the sofa. "No rush."
I smiled, curled up, sipped my drink, and relaxed. Plenty to do another day. For now, we had this, and it was enough.
--
After Gabriel went to bed, I lay on the sofa, lost in a warm fog of Scotch and happiness. I shouldn't be happy. I had a hundred reasons not to be happy, and maybe it was fifty percent Scotch and fifty percent ebbing adrenaline from the evening's events, but damn it, I was happy. And that's when I remembered Todd's letter. That's when I decided to read it. Yes, it would ruin this fuzzy-headed bliss, but this was the right time--when I was alone, feeling good and feeling safe and feeling a little tipsy. When whatever that letter brought might not hurt me as much.
I took it from my purse. Then, not wanting to turn on a light in case Gabriel saw it under his door, I walked to the window, sat with my back to it, and opened the letter by moonlight.
It was a single sheet, written in that familiar hand, a little blocky, a little oversized, as if by someone without much experience putting words on paper. Or perhaps by someone whose only experience writing to me had come at a time when I needed those big, blocky letters.
OLIVIA.
That's how it started. Not to Eden, but to Olivia. Not to a child, then, but to a woman. I relaxed a little and leaned back against the cool glass before continuing.
I'm sorry.
There's no way to start except with an apology, though I suspect it's not what you want to hear. You know I'm sorry. I'd be a monster if I wasn't. But I still need to say it. I'm sorry for so many things, and I won't list them here or this letter will go on so long that you'll crumple it and toss it aside. So I will say only that I am sorry.
I'd like to see you. I know you've been to see Pamela, and maybe you've gotten whatever you need from her. I have to presume that you don't want to see me. That you don't need to, and maybe it's easier, just facing one of us, and she is your mother, so I understand that. But I would like to see you. I would very much like to see you.
I've hesitated to write and say that because I know you're going through so much, and you don't need this on top of it, and if you've decided not to see me, that's your choice and I will respect it, but I know Pamela made her plea in the papers, and so there is the chance that you haven't come because you aren't sure I want to see you, so I have to speak up and say yes. Unreservedly yes. I want to see you.
I promise I will make this visit as easy on you as possible. It can be as short as you need it to be, and if it is not repeated, I'll understand that. I just want to see you.
I know I said I w
ouldn't list all the things I'm sorry for, but I need to say one, before I sign off. The one thing I am most sorry for.
I am sorry for leaving you. I told you so many times that I never would, and then I did, and whether it was by choice or not doesn't matter. I made a promise and I broke it, and I am so, so sorry.
Love always,
Todd
Todd. Not "your father." Not Dad. Like the opening, so careful and so respectful. It didn't matter. I read that letter and I heard his voice and I didn't see "Todd" at the end. I saw the first words I'd ever learned to read, on a surprise gift he'd given me. To Eden. Love always, Daddy.
I folded the letter and started to cry.