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stefanie_beanTitle: Surfing the Bardo
Chapter Title: Chapter 4: Unmailed Letters (Part 1)
Genre: Angst with a happy ending; Friendship/Romance
Characters: Hugo Reyes, Claire Littleton, Kate Austen, Aaron Littleton, James "Sawyer" Ford
Relationships: Slow burn Hurley/Claire, past Jack/Kate, eventual Sawyer/Kate
Rating: M
Length: 3102 words
Status: WIP
Notes: TW for canon trauma, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts.
Summary: After Kate and Claire return from the Island, Claire starts to rebuild her relationship with Aaron, while she and Hugo explore their growing feelings for each other. Meanwhile, Kate has to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. And while things start out rough, they eventually do get better.
Chapter 4: Unmailed Letters (Part 1)
The two women drank iced tea in Margo's house, refilling their glasses from the pitcher because it was easier than starting on the task at hand. Storage-locker boxes contrasted strongly with the rich upholstery and glossy wood of the antiques which filled the living room. When Margo rattled the ice in her glass for the third time, Kate decided to take the plunge. “So, this is the last of it?”
Margo nodded. “I've been through every box. Unlike his father, Jack was highly organized.” She gestured towards the thick leather binder which lay on the coffee table.
It contained the sum of Jack's legal and financial life, including the trust papers which he had delivered to Margo two days before boarding Ajira 316 for Guam. That is, for the Island. As trustee, Margo had complete power of attorney over everything, and she had apologized to Kate for that more than once. “He didn't know if you would be... available.” It was her Upper East Side way of saying that Kate could have well been hauled off to jail, and thus incapable of handling Jack's affairs. Margo was nothing if not eminently capable, as Kate had come to learn.
Not only capable, but kind as well, once her frosty exterior began to melt. For months after Kate had returned from the Island with baby Aaron in arms, she had been convinced that Margo disliked her. Now, Margo's cool scrutiny didn't even give Kate pause, for Margo applied it to everyone who crossed her path.
“Well, I suppose we should get started, then.” Margo rose, without waiting for Kate's nod of agreement.
The packing tape on the boxes had been neatly sliced. Kate hung back, suddenly shy. One dreadful weekend last January, with Kate at his side, Hurley had sat in this very living room, choking out Jack's final story through tears. Margo had sat ramrod-stiff, repeating, “I knew it. I knew something had gone terribly wrong.”
Soon afterward, Margo had sent movers to empty out the condo which Jack had moved into, after leaving Kate. The furniture and drapes had been leased, so back they went. Even the bed, Kate had thought at the time, full of bitterness. Even the bed where they had slept together for the last time.
The contents of the leather binder had satisfied the lawyer, and all that remained were the personal effects. Bric-a-brac, Kate said to herself, turning over the ugly phrase in her mind.
Margo opened the first box. “I wanted you to have a chance to examine everything.”
“I appreciate that.” Kate waited for Margo to start, but Margo nodded for her to go ahead.
Kate hesitated. “What about Sarah?” Jack's ex-wife had been the one Jack had called, after the accident on the bridge. But she had missed Jack's memorial service, having just delivered her baby.
Margo gave a sniff. “Well, if you think there's anything Sarah should have, feel free. It wasn't Jack's way to be bitter.” As an afterthought, Margo added, “Was Claire busy today?”
“Claire said she trusted me to pick for her,” Kate answered. Deep down, Kate suspected that Claire felt intimidated and even overwhelmed by Margo. But if Margo harbored any leftover resentment towards her husband's daughter, she kept it firmly under wraps. It was merciful, really, because Kate couldn't have borne Margo and Carole fighting. Or worse, if Margo had directed any fury against Claire and Aaron.
Rummaging through a box of clothing, Kate pulled out an Irish sweater of cream-colored yarn, hand-knit. She slid the fabric between her fingers, then set aside the reserve she always kept up around Margo. Pressing the sweater to her face, she breathed in deeply, drinking in the scents of lanolin, moth spray, and an undertone that might have been Jack. “I'd like this, if you don't mind.”
“You don't have to ask.”
Kate pulled out a few more sweaters, as well as a couple of crisp Egyptian cotton shirts. The dress slacks, suits, and the rest all went back into the box, to be delivered to the charity store of St. Dismas parish.
“There's so little here,” Kate remarked as she re-taped the box. “Before we left, his rooms were so bare.”
“I suspect he'd already cleaned it up before the flight.”
When Kate was done, Margo said, “For this one, you might want to brace yourself.”
Margo's tight grimace sent a flicker of anxiety through Kate's middle. When she had slid into Jack's bed for the last time, his condo had been scrubbed spotless, stripped bare of books, paintings, most everything. All gone. In the dark hollow of their last night together, Kate had untangled herself from Jack's warm, inert limbs, to get a drink of water. In the bathroom, she poked through cabinets bare of almost everything except a toothbrush and some travel items.
That night, she had been swamped by a cold realization. Jack's home looked as if he wasn't planning on coming back. Hurt twisted around her like a jungle vine. If he wasn't returning, where did that leave her? Puzzled, sad, she had crawled back into the comfortable spot next to him, spooned him from behind, and kept her hands to herself so not to wake him. She had fallen asleep with her face pressed between his strong shoulders, as his breath rose and fell in time with hers.
Today as every day, she wished she had roamed all up and down the length of his lean, firm body, roused him out of sleep, kept him up until dawn, because it had been the last time, and now he was gone.
Kate pulled up the cardboard flap, feeling Margo's gaze, as if she waited for Kate's shock, wonder, despair.
The long box was surprisingly light for its size. Inside, rolled-up papers of all kinds were laid side by side: navigational charts for aviation, star charts for both hemispheres, a World War II military map of the Pacific with little ships printed on it. Kate leafed through printouts of airline schedules heavily marked in red, their margins full of scrawled notes. She almost pricked her hand on a compass, the high-school geometry kind with a pencil clamped on one side and a sharp metal point on the other. There was also a strange, circular piece of brass equipment that she didn't recognize. She turned it over in her hands, curious.
“It's an astrolabe,” Margo said. “A way to navigate at sea, using the stars.” She paused, as if apologizing. “It's a Tunisian antique. I found the bill of sale in his desk. Why would Jack want such a thing, Kate?”
Kate knew, and wished she didn't. After Jack's death, Margo had gone through all of his credit card receipts, line by line: the bar bills from Singapore or Tokyo, the overnight stays in Bangkok or Sydney hotels. At the time she had asked Kate if Jack was going down the same path as his father, but Kate had remained silent.
A hot flush of shame covered Kate's face as she argued with herself inside. What could Margo have done to stop Jack, anyway? Called the family lawyers, or the doctors at Santa Rosa? Tears sprang to her eyes, and her voice shook. “Margo, I'm sorry. He told me he was flying every weekend, hoping to crash.” She rushed on, ignoring Margo's harsh, drawn-in breath, the steel in her expression. “I should have called you, maybe we could have done something—“
“Such as?”
“I don't know. Told someone, tried to get him some help.” (So that he wouldn't have gone back. But where would that have left Claire?) Kate felt like a bug pinned to a board, unable to escape or go on. “It's my fault, because I wouldn't answer his calls. And then, when I did—”
“No one blames you, Kate. You were protecting your... the child. Because I certainly didn't protect mine.”
There was no answer to that, so Kate picked up a flight schedule covered with numbers scrawled in pencil. “This was all he thought about. Not Aaron, not me. Ever since that night he went to see Hurley, he was like a train stuck on tracks that lead only to one place.” She crumpled the schedule and tossed it back into the box. “Burn it all. Put it in the rubbish, I don't care.”
“You don't mean that.”
“I sure as hell do.” Kate got up to pace the beautifully-appointed room, so old-fashioned with its thick textures and heavy furniture. “I should have called you right away, after that crazy night when Jack met me at the airport and told me about making those flights. That's not what a sane person does, Margo. It could have bought us 72 hours, at least. Maybe it would have been enough.”
“Enough?”
“Enough to bring Jack to his senses.”
With a sigh, Margo closed the box of star charts. “Kate, when I first heard yours and Jack's story, it felt like I'd fallen into some unlikely dream. Your friend Hugo sat right where you are now, and my mind raged against every word he said. But it's impossible to disbelieve him, isn't it?”
“It's a superpower, all right,” Kate snorted, hiding behind sarcasm. Hurley couldn't be lied to, and his capacity for truth could be terrifying.
“In twenty minutes, everything I had thought about Jack's father, about Jack, everything that happened... All of it was wrong. Kate, I know you're not religious, but it wouldn't have done any good to lock Jack up. What I mean is, it wouldn't have worked. No place could have held him; no jail, no mental hospital. He would have escaped, or someone would have let him out, just as they did Hugo. It would have been like trying to lock up St. Peter.”
Kate frowned. Hurley had this effect on people, where those who started out sensible started spewing nonsense. There was no arguing with Margo, though. At least she hadn't burst into accusations or recriminations, as her own mother would have. Kate unrolled a beautifully printed map, colored in soft blues, browns, and greens. “Fine, I'll take them back to the house. Claire is into the star stuff, so maybe she'll get more out of it than I can. Anyway, it's good for her to have something of Jack's.”
The small, knowing smile on Margo's face reassured Kate, and she let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.
Margo had already moved on to the last container, the one labeled “Bedroom.” Inside, surrounded by black socks and rolled-up ties, was a jewelry box made of glossy, reddish wood. The lid was embossed with two enameled elephants, their curved trunks touching. “It's empty,” Kate said in a disgruntled voice as she opened it. She felt slightly cheated, as if Jack had been hiding something. When she turned the box upside-down, a soft thud came from inside. Not a rattle, exactly, but definitely a sound that didn't belong. “I've never seen this before.”
“It was high on a closet shelf, behind some suitcases.”
Kate studied the rounded script on the underside. “From Thailand, apparently.”
Now it was Margo's turn to look uncomfortable. “He spent a month there after the divorce. His father suggested he take a leave from the hospital, relax overseas.” She hesitated, as if the words stuck in her throat. “There was a woman.”
To Kate, the enameled box suddenly grew ugly as an accusation. “How did you know that?”
“He told his father, and that was the last I heard of it. I assumed it was something passing. Unimportant.”
Kate started to tremble. Perched precariously on her knees, so did the jewelry box. “Did she... give this to him?”
“I don't think so. The receipt was from a duty-free shop in the Phuket airport.”
A wave of relief hit Kate with such force that she leaned back. The box slid from her knees, falling to the hardwood floor with a loud crack as the hinged top flew open. A piece of wood sprang out with a clatter. “Oh, my God, what—“
Both women stared in shock at the jewelry box's false bottom. It lay at their feet, along with a handful of envelopes scattered across the floor.
Margo whispered, “I could have sworn it was empty.”
Kate picked up the wooden piece. “It was probably for hiding jewelry. You put the costume stuff on top, and the expensive pieces underneath.”
At first, neither of them moved towards the letters. Finally, Margo gathered them up, then raised her pale face to Kate's. “They're for you.”
The cream-colored envelopes almost fell out of Kate's numb, shaking hands. Each one was sealed, and addressed to her in Jack's spiky handwriting. He'd used a fountain pen, with dark ink thick like paint.
There were five in all, two on Oceanic Airlines stationery. Each looked ready to be mailed, complete with Jack's return address, and even a stamp, except for the last. That one bore only a single word: her name. Kate.
“I had no idea,” Margo murmured.
“How could you? They were hidden.”
“Just so you understand, Kate, I would never have kept something like this from you—“
“Margo, it's all right.” All the same, Kate ran her finger over the envelopes' seals, hating herself yet checking all the same. Each looked intact. Then Kate felt ashamed, because even if her own mother would have read them, Margo never would.
She carefully placed the letters in the Thai box, fighting the overwhelming urge to race out of the house. She hated to leave Margo with the sorry task of hauling the remainders of Jack's earthly life to St. Dismas, but the letters begged to be grasped, handled, opened. She couldn't rest as long as they sat there, glowing with some invisible force like radiation. “I have to go, Margo,” she finally said.
Margo's sad expression carried no blame. “Naturally. Although we were going to talk about Malibu Springs, if you recall. On the phone you said that you were still unsure.”
If anything irritated Kate about Claire, besides that momentary lapse when she had once held a knife to Kate's throat, it was her tendency to rely on signs, portents, the influence of the stars. She seemed to live and move amidst a swirl of unseen forces. But maybe Claire wasn't so foolish after all. What sort of world had Kate herself fallen into, where dreams became real, where a woman the spitting image of older-Claire had almost spirited Aaron away? Where poor, crazy Hurley's ravings had turned out to be true?
It wasn't just Claire who lived inside Hurley's world of signs and ghosts, was it? They all lived in Hurley's world now.
“I've decided,” Kate said. “I'm ready to move.”
“A wise choice. Ray and Jeanine had a lakeside cottage near there, before she passed. It's a beautiful place.”
“We'll start packing up tomorrow.”
“Just let me know, and I'll have movers there in a few days.”
Kate rose to go. “We don't have much.”
“You have yourselves, and my darling nephew. That's more than enough.” Tall and grey, she led Kate to the door, regal as a queen with husband and son both slain in battle. Her hug was surprisingly warm, as if she wanted to impart a fraction of her strength to Kate with the unspoken words, If I can bear this, so can you.
*:*:*:*
Letting herself in through the back door of the Antelope Drive house, Kate was greeted by the delicious smell of caramelized onions and melted cheese. She had unloaded the last of her burdens when Claire rushed to her, followed by Aaron.
He was covered with green goo, with globs plastered to his hair and stuck to his smock. “Mommy, Mommy, look!” He practically danced with excitement.
She bent down next to him. “What is it, Goober?”
“Mommy Claire and I made Play-Doh. See? Godzilla!” He waved about an indistinct lump with a smaller one for a head, and a longer, oval one for a tail.
“It's all over the kitchen,” Claire said. “But it's just flour, and washes up nicely.” She turned to Kate, her own face beaming with excitement. “Margo rang up, and she's so glad that you decided—“ She stopped short at everything Kate had brought in. “What's all this, now?”
“Just some of Jack's things that Margo and I went through.” She tapped the long box. “We thought you might like these. Star charts, maps, for astrology and stuff.”
It was the right thing to say, because Claire brightened like a sunflower. “I thought you didn't believe in any of that. Anyway, thanks. It's nice to have something of my brother's.”
The Thai box was buried underneath Jack's sweaters and shirts. Kate hated to sidle away from Claire, who seemed happy for the first time in a long while, but she couldn't fight the call of Jack's letters any longer. “I'm kind of bushed, Claire.” She glanced over at Aaron, still squeezing the “Godzilla” into different shapes. “Do you think you could give him his bath, tuck him in?”
“Of course. What about supper, though? Mum and I made cheese-rice casserole.” She stared at Kate's armload, as if she could see right through it. “Never mind. There'll be some in the fridge if you want.”
Once in her room, Kate closed the door and clicked the lock, at the same time telling herself that she was being over-dramatic. When she and Jack had lived together, Jack had insisted that Aaron be taught to knock first and not barge in. So she was safe, for awhile. She spread the letters out on her bed like tarot cards, at first planning to open them one at a time, to draw them out and make them last as long as possible. Finally she finally said to hell with it, and tore into one letter after another, even the last one, so stark and different from the others.
Her mouth went dry, as her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest. Those bold black strokes on the page were nothing like having him lying beside her in bed, yet his presence filled the room. Trembling, eyes blurred with tears, she saw that each letter bore a date in its upper right hand corner, the neatly-drawn numbers oddly legible compared to Jack's script, which looked like scratch-marks carved into the earth by some large, powerful bird.
She arranged the letters in order by date, and began to read.
(continued)
Chapter Title: Chapter 4: Unmailed Letters (Part 1)
Genre: Angst with a happy ending; Friendship/Romance
Characters: Hugo Reyes, Claire Littleton, Kate Austen, Aaron Littleton, James "Sawyer" Ford
Relationships: Slow burn Hurley/Claire, past Jack/Kate, eventual Sawyer/Kate
Rating: M
Length: 3102 words
Status: WIP
Notes: TW for canon trauma, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts.
Summary: After Kate and Claire return from the Island, Claire starts to rebuild her relationship with Aaron, while she and Hugo explore their growing feelings for each other. Meanwhile, Kate has to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. And while things start out rough, they eventually do get better.
Chapter 4: Unmailed Letters (Part 1)
The two women drank iced tea in Margo's house, refilling their glasses from the pitcher because it was easier than starting on the task at hand. Storage-locker boxes contrasted strongly with the rich upholstery and glossy wood of the antiques which filled the living room. When Margo rattled the ice in her glass for the third time, Kate decided to take the plunge. “So, this is the last of it?”
Margo nodded. “I've been through every box. Unlike his father, Jack was highly organized.” She gestured towards the thick leather binder which lay on the coffee table.
It contained the sum of Jack's legal and financial life, including the trust papers which he had delivered to Margo two days before boarding Ajira 316 for Guam. That is, for the Island. As trustee, Margo had complete power of attorney over everything, and she had apologized to Kate for that more than once. “He didn't know if you would be... available.” It was her Upper East Side way of saying that Kate could have well been hauled off to jail, and thus incapable of handling Jack's affairs. Margo was nothing if not eminently capable, as Kate had come to learn.
Not only capable, but kind as well, once her frosty exterior began to melt. For months after Kate had returned from the Island with baby Aaron in arms, she had been convinced that Margo disliked her. Now, Margo's cool scrutiny didn't even give Kate pause, for Margo applied it to everyone who crossed her path.
“Well, I suppose we should get started, then.” Margo rose, without waiting for Kate's nod of agreement.
The packing tape on the boxes had been neatly sliced. Kate hung back, suddenly shy. One dreadful weekend last January, with Kate at his side, Hurley had sat in this very living room, choking out Jack's final story through tears. Margo had sat ramrod-stiff, repeating, “I knew it. I knew something had gone terribly wrong.”
Soon afterward, Margo had sent movers to empty out the condo which Jack had moved into, after leaving Kate. The furniture and drapes had been leased, so back they went. Even the bed, Kate had thought at the time, full of bitterness. Even the bed where they had slept together for the last time.
The contents of the leather binder had satisfied the lawyer, and all that remained were the personal effects. Bric-a-brac, Kate said to herself, turning over the ugly phrase in her mind.
Margo opened the first box. “I wanted you to have a chance to examine everything.”
“I appreciate that.” Kate waited for Margo to start, but Margo nodded for her to go ahead.
Kate hesitated. “What about Sarah?” Jack's ex-wife had been the one Jack had called, after the accident on the bridge. But she had missed Jack's memorial service, having just delivered her baby.
Margo gave a sniff. “Well, if you think there's anything Sarah should have, feel free. It wasn't Jack's way to be bitter.” As an afterthought, Margo added, “Was Claire busy today?”
“Claire said she trusted me to pick for her,” Kate answered. Deep down, Kate suspected that Claire felt intimidated and even overwhelmed by Margo. But if Margo harbored any leftover resentment towards her husband's daughter, she kept it firmly under wraps. It was merciful, really, because Kate couldn't have borne Margo and Carole fighting. Or worse, if Margo had directed any fury against Claire and Aaron.
Rummaging through a box of clothing, Kate pulled out an Irish sweater of cream-colored yarn, hand-knit. She slid the fabric between her fingers, then set aside the reserve she always kept up around Margo. Pressing the sweater to her face, she breathed in deeply, drinking in the scents of lanolin, moth spray, and an undertone that might have been Jack. “I'd like this, if you don't mind.”
“You don't have to ask.”
Kate pulled out a few more sweaters, as well as a couple of crisp Egyptian cotton shirts. The dress slacks, suits, and the rest all went back into the box, to be delivered to the charity store of St. Dismas parish.
“There's so little here,” Kate remarked as she re-taped the box. “Before we left, his rooms were so bare.”
“I suspect he'd already cleaned it up before the flight.”
When Kate was done, Margo said, “For this one, you might want to brace yourself.”
Margo's tight grimace sent a flicker of anxiety through Kate's middle. When she had slid into Jack's bed for the last time, his condo had been scrubbed spotless, stripped bare of books, paintings, most everything. All gone. In the dark hollow of their last night together, Kate had untangled herself from Jack's warm, inert limbs, to get a drink of water. In the bathroom, she poked through cabinets bare of almost everything except a toothbrush and some travel items.
That night, she had been swamped by a cold realization. Jack's home looked as if he wasn't planning on coming back. Hurt twisted around her like a jungle vine. If he wasn't returning, where did that leave her? Puzzled, sad, she had crawled back into the comfortable spot next to him, spooned him from behind, and kept her hands to herself so not to wake him. She had fallen asleep with her face pressed between his strong shoulders, as his breath rose and fell in time with hers.
Today as every day, she wished she had roamed all up and down the length of his lean, firm body, roused him out of sleep, kept him up until dawn, because it had been the last time, and now he was gone.
Kate pulled up the cardboard flap, feeling Margo's gaze, as if she waited for Kate's shock, wonder, despair.
The long box was surprisingly light for its size. Inside, rolled-up papers of all kinds were laid side by side: navigational charts for aviation, star charts for both hemispheres, a World War II military map of the Pacific with little ships printed on it. Kate leafed through printouts of airline schedules heavily marked in red, their margins full of scrawled notes. She almost pricked her hand on a compass, the high-school geometry kind with a pencil clamped on one side and a sharp metal point on the other. There was also a strange, circular piece of brass equipment that she didn't recognize. She turned it over in her hands, curious.
“It's an astrolabe,” Margo said. “A way to navigate at sea, using the stars.” She paused, as if apologizing. “It's a Tunisian antique. I found the bill of sale in his desk. Why would Jack want such a thing, Kate?”
Kate knew, and wished she didn't. After Jack's death, Margo had gone through all of his credit card receipts, line by line: the bar bills from Singapore or Tokyo, the overnight stays in Bangkok or Sydney hotels. At the time she had asked Kate if Jack was going down the same path as his father, but Kate had remained silent.
A hot flush of shame covered Kate's face as she argued with herself inside. What could Margo have done to stop Jack, anyway? Called the family lawyers, or the doctors at Santa Rosa? Tears sprang to her eyes, and her voice shook. “Margo, I'm sorry. He told me he was flying every weekend, hoping to crash.” She rushed on, ignoring Margo's harsh, drawn-in breath, the steel in her expression. “I should have called you, maybe we could have done something—“
“Such as?”
“I don't know. Told someone, tried to get him some help.” (So that he wouldn't have gone back. But where would that have left Claire?) Kate felt like a bug pinned to a board, unable to escape or go on. “It's my fault, because I wouldn't answer his calls. And then, when I did—”
“No one blames you, Kate. You were protecting your... the child. Because I certainly didn't protect mine.”
There was no answer to that, so Kate picked up a flight schedule covered with numbers scrawled in pencil. “This was all he thought about. Not Aaron, not me. Ever since that night he went to see Hurley, he was like a train stuck on tracks that lead only to one place.” She crumpled the schedule and tossed it back into the box. “Burn it all. Put it in the rubbish, I don't care.”
“You don't mean that.”
“I sure as hell do.” Kate got up to pace the beautifully-appointed room, so old-fashioned with its thick textures and heavy furniture. “I should have called you right away, after that crazy night when Jack met me at the airport and told me about making those flights. That's not what a sane person does, Margo. It could have bought us 72 hours, at least. Maybe it would have been enough.”
“Enough?”
“Enough to bring Jack to his senses.”
With a sigh, Margo closed the box of star charts. “Kate, when I first heard yours and Jack's story, it felt like I'd fallen into some unlikely dream. Your friend Hugo sat right where you are now, and my mind raged against every word he said. But it's impossible to disbelieve him, isn't it?”
“It's a superpower, all right,” Kate snorted, hiding behind sarcasm. Hurley couldn't be lied to, and his capacity for truth could be terrifying.
“In twenty minutes, everything I had thought about Jack's father, about Jack, everything that happened... All of it was wrong. Kate, I know you're not religious, but it wouldn't have done any good to lock Jack up. What I mean is, it wouldn't have worked. No place could have held him; no jail, no mental hospital. He would have escaped, or someone would have let him out, just as they did Hugo. It would have been like trying to lock up St. Peter.”
Kate frowned. Hurley had this effect on people, where those who started out sensible started spewing nonsense. There was no arguing with Margo, though. At least she hadn't burst into accusations or recriminations, as her own mother would have. Kate unrolled a beautifully printed map, colored in soft blues, browns, and greens. “Fine, I'll take them back to the house. Claire is into the star stuff, so maybe she'll get more out of it than I can. Anyway, it's good for her to have something of Jack's.”
The small, knowing smile on Margo's face reassured Kate, and she let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.
Margo had already moved on to the last container, the one labeled “Bedroom.” Inside, surrounded by black socks and rolled-up ties, was a jewelry box made of glossy, reddish wood. The lid was embossed with two enameled elephants, their curved trunks touching. “It's empty,” Kate said in a disgruntled voice as she opened it. She felt slightly cheated, as if Jack had been hiding something. When she turned the box upside-down, a soft thud came from inside. Not a rattle, exactly, but definitely a sound that didn't belong. “I've never seen this before.”
“It was high on a closet shelf, behind some suitcases.”
Kate studied the rounded script on the underside. “From Thailand, apparently.”
Now it was Margo's turn to look uncomfortable. “He spent a month there after the divorce. His father suggested he take a leave from the hospital, relax overseas.” She hesitated, as if the words stuck in her throat. “There was a woman.”
To Kate, the enameled box suddenly grew ugly as an accusation. “How did you know that?”
“He told his father, and that was the last I heard of it. I assumed it was something passing. Unimportant.”
Kate started to tremble. Perched precariously on her knees, so did the jewelry box. “Did she... give this to him?”
“I don't think so. The receipt was from a duty-free shop in the Phuket airport.”
A wave of relief hit Kate with such force that she leaned back. The box slid from her knees, falling to the hardwood floor with a loud crack as the hinged top flew open. A piece of wood sprang out with a clatter. “Oh, my God, what—“
Both women stared in shock at the jewelry box's false bottom. It lay at their feet, along with a handful of envelopes scattered across the floor.
Margo whispered, “I could have sworn it was empty.”
Kate picked up the wooden piece. “It was probably for hiding jewelry. You put the costume stuff on top, and the expensive pieces underneath.”
At first, neither of them moved towards the letters. Finally, Margo gathered them up, then raised her pale face to Kate's. “They're for you.”
The cream-colored envelopes almost fell out of Kate's numb, shaking hands. Each one was sealed, and addressed to her in Jack's spiky handwriting. He'd used a fountain pen, with dark ink thick like paint.
There were five in all, two on Oceanic Airlines stationery. Each looked ready to be mailed, complete with Jack's return address, and even a stamp, except for the last. That one bore only a single word: her name. Kate.
“I had no idea,” Margo murmured.
“How could you? They were hidden.”
“Just so you understand, Kate, I would never have kept something like this from you—“
“Margo, it's all right.” All the same, Kate ran her finger over the envelopes' seals, hating herself yet checking all the same. Each looked intact. Then Kate felt ashamed, because even if her own mother would have read them, Margo never would.
She carefully placed the letters in the Thai box, fighting the overwhelming urge to race out of the house. She hated to leave Margo with the sorry task of hauling the remainders of Jack's earthly life to St. Dismas, but the letters begged to be grasped, handled, opened. She couldn't rest as long as they sat there, glowing with some invisible force like radiation. “I have to go, Margo,” she finally said.
Margo's sad expression carried no blame. “Naturally. Although we were going to talk about Malibu Springs, if you recall. On the phone you said that you were still unsure.”
If anything irritated Kate about Claire, besides that momentary lapse when she had once held a knife to Kate's throat, it was her tendency to rely on signs, portents, the influence of the stars. She seemed to live and move amidst a swirl of unseen forces. But maybe Claire wasn't so foolish after all. What sort of world had Kate herself fallen into, where dreams became real, where a woman the spitting image of older-Claire had almost spirited Aaron away? Where poor, crazy Hurley's ravings had turned out to be true?
It wasn't just Claire who lived inside Hurley's world of signs and ghosts, was it? They all lived in Hurley's world now.
“I've decided,” Kate said. “I'm ready to move.”
“A wise choice. Ray and Jeanine had a lakeside cottage near there, before she passed. It's a beautiful place.”
“We'll start packing up tomorrow.”
“Just let me know, and I'll have movers there in a few days.”
Kate rose to go. “We don't have much.”
“You have yourselves, and my darling nephew. That's more than enough.” Tall and grey, she led Kate to the door, regal as a queen with husband and son both slain in battle. Her hug was surprisingly warm, as if she wanted to impart a fraction of her strength to Kate with the unspoken words, If I can bear this, so can you.
Letting herself in through the back door of the Antelope Drive house, Kate was greeted by the delicious smell of caramelized onions and melted cheese. She had unloaded the last of her burdens when Claire rushed to her, followed by Aaron.
He was covered with green goo, with globs plastered to his hair and stuck to his smock. “Mommy, Mommy, look!” He practically danced with excitement.
She bent down next to him. “What is it, Goober?”
“Mommy Claire and I made Play-Doh. See? Godzilla!” He waved about an indistinct lump with a smaller one for a head, and a longer, oval one for a tail.
“It's all over the kitchen,” Claire said. “But it's just flour, and washes up nicely.” She turned to Kate, her own face beaming with excitement. “Margo rang up, and she's so glad that you decided—“ She stopped short at everything Kate had brought in. “What's all this, now?”
“Just some of Jack's things that Margo and I went through.” She tapped the long box. “We thought you might like these. Star charts, maps, for astrology and stuff.”
It was the right thing to say, because Claire brightened like a sunflower. “I thought you didn't believe in any of that. Anyway, thanks. It's nice to have something of my brother's.”
The Thai box was buried underneath Jack's sweaters and shirts. Kate hated to sidle away from Claire, who seemed happy for the first time in a long while, but she couldn't fight the call of Jack's letters any longer. “I'm kind of bushed, Claire.” She glanced over at Aaron, still squeezing the “Godzilla” into different shapes. “Do you think you could give him his bath, tuck him in?”
“Of course. What about supper, though? Mum and I made cheese-rice casserole.” She stared at Kate's armload, as if she could see right through it. “Never mind. There'll be some in the fridge if you want.”
Once in her room, Kate closed the door and clicked the lock, at the same time telling herself that she was being over-dramatic. When she and Jack had lived together, Jack had insisted that Aaron be taught to knock first and not barge in. So she was safe, for awhile. She spread the letters out on her bed like tarot cards, at first planning to open them one at a time, to draw them out and make them last as long as possible. Finally she finally said to hell with it, and tore into one letter after another, even the last one, so stark and different from the others.
Her mouth went dry, as her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest. Those bold black strokes on the page were nothing like having him lying beside her in bed, yet his presence filled the room. Trembling, eyes blurred with tears, she saw that each letter bore a date in its upper right hand corner, the neatly-drawn numbers oddly legible compared to Jack's script, which looked like scratch-marks carved into the earth by some large, powerful bird.
She arranged the letters in order by date, and began to read.
(continued)