More Than We Can Tell
: Chapter 2

Happy birthday, Son.

I hope you’ll make me proud.

[email protected]

The note was in the mailbox. The envelope is addressed to me.

Not to me now. He’d never call me Rev Fletcher. He might not even know that’s my name.

It’s addressed to who I was ten years ago. There’s no return address, but the postmark reads Annapolis.

I can’t breathe. I feel exposed, like a sniper rifle is trained on me. I’m waiting for a bullet to hit me in the back of the head.

Ridiculous. I’m standing on the sidewalk in the middle of suburbia. It’s March. A chill hangs in the air, the sun setting in the distance. Two elementary-school-age girls are riding bikes in the street, singing a song and laughing.

My father doesn’t need a bullet. This letter is enough.

He didn’t need a bullet ten years ago, either.

Sometimes I wish he’d had a gun. A bullet would have been quick.

He knows my address. Is he here? Could he be here? The streetlights blink to life, and I sweep my eyes over the street again.

No one is here. Just me and those girls, who are riding lazy figure eights now.

When I was first taken away from my father, I couldn’t sleep for months. I would lie in bed and wait for him to snatch me out of the darkness. For him to shake me or hit me or burn me and blame me. When I could sleep, I’d dream of it happening.

I feel like I’m having a nightmare right now. Or a panic attack. The rest of the mail is a crumpled mess in my hands.

I need this letter gone.

Before I know it, I’m in the backyard. Flame eats up a small pile of sticks and leaves in one of Mom’s Pyrex bowls. Smoke curls into the air, carrying a rich, sweet smell that reminds me of fall. I hold the envelope over the bowl, and the tongue of fire stretches for it.

The paper feels like it’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times, in thirds and then in half. The creases are so worn the paper might fall apart if I’m not careful. Like he wrote it ages ago, but he waited until now to mail it.

Happy birthday, Son.

I turned eighteen three weeks ago.

There’s a familiar scent to the paper, some whiff of cologne or aftershave that pokes at old memories and buries a knife of tension right between my shoulder blades.

I hope you’ll make me proud.

The words are familiar, too, like ten years doesn’t separate me from the last time I heard him speak them out loud.

I want to thrust my entire hand into this bowl of fire.

Then I think of what my father used to do to me, and I realize thrusting my hand into a bowl of fire probably would make him proud.

My brain keeps flashing the e-mail address, like a malfunctioning neon sign.

[email protected]

Robert.

Ellis.

Robert Ellis.

The flame grabs hold. The paper begins to vanish and flake away.

A choked sound escapes my throat.

The paper is on the ground before I realize I’ve thrown it, and my foot stomps out the flame. Only the corner burned. The rest is intact.

I shove back the hood of my sweatshirt and run my hands through my hair. The strands catch and tangle on my shaking fingers. My chest aches. I’m breathing like I’ve run a mile.

I hope you’ll make me proud.

I hate that there’s a part of me that wants to. Needs to. I haven’t seen him in ten years, and one little note has me craving his approval.

“Rev?”

My heart nearly explodes. Luckily, I have razor-keen reflexes. I upend the bowl with one foot, stepping square over the letter with the other.

“What?”

The word comes out more of a warning than a question. I sound possessed.

Geoff Fletcher, my dad—not my father—stands at the back door, peering out at me. “What are you doing?”

“School project.” I’m lying, obviously. I’ve been forced into a lie by one little letter.

He surveys me with obvious concern and steps out onto the porch. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

I don’t sound fine, and he’s not an idiot. He comes to the edge of the porch and looks down at me. He’s wearing a salmon-pink polo shirt and crisply pressed khakis—his teaching clothes. He turned fifty last year, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He stays in shape, and he’s well over six feet. When I was seven, when a social worker first brought me here, I found him terrifying.

“Hey.” His dark eyes are full of concern now. “What’s going on?”

My thoughts are a tangled mess.

I should step off the letter, pick it up, and hand it to him. He could make it go away.

I think about my father. I hope you’ll make me proud.

I’m almost shaking from the inner conflict. I don’t want Geoff to know about it.

Geoff. Not Dad. My father already has a hold on me, and I’ve had this letter in my possession for fifteen minutes. Now that I’ve lied, I have to keep lying.

I do not like this feeling.

I can’t look at Geoff. “I said I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.” My voice is rough, almost a growl. “Okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“No.” My fingernails dig into my palms, and my heart races like it needs to outrun something.

“Rev—”

I finally snap my head up. “Would you just leave it?”

He waits a beat, and my anger hangs in the air between us for the longest moment. “Why don’t you come inside and talk to me?” His voice is low and mellow. Geoff is the master of chill. It makes him a good foster parent. It makes him a good dad. “It’s getting late. I was going to start dinner so we can eat when Mom gets home.”

“I’m going to Declan’s.”

I expect him to tell me no. I don’t realize how badly I want him to tell me no until he says, “All right.”

It’s not a rejection, but somehow it feels like one. All of a sudden I want to beg for forgiveness. For the lying, for the anger, for doing something that protects my father.

But I can’t. I pull up my hood and let hair fall across my face. My voice is penitent. “I’ll clean this up first.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and I fish the bowl off the ground, scooping the burned pieces into it, keeping my foot over the letter. My movements are tight and jerky. I still can’t look at him.

“Thanks,” he says. “Not too late, okay?”

“Yeah.” I fidget with the bowl and keep my eyes on the edge of it. A breeze teases at the hood of my sweatshirt, but it keeps me hidden. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, and a nervous tension settles across my shoulders. I chance a glance up. He’s not on the porch.

Then I hear the sliding glass door. He didn’t even hear me. He’s gone back inside, leaving me out here with the mess.

My best friend isn’t home.

I’ve been waiting in the shadows like a criminal, sitting on the blacktop at the back corner of Declan’s driveway. The chill in the air wasn’t bad before, but it’s soaked into my bones now, freezing me in place.

Light shines through his kitchen windows, and I can see his mother and stepfather moving around inside. They’d invite me in if they knew I was out here, but my brain is too heavy with panic and indecision. I fish out my phone to send him a text.

Rev: Are you working?

Dec: No. Movies with J. What’s up?

“J” is Juliet, his girlfriend. I stare at my phone and focus on breathing. I hadn’t realized how much I was counting on Declan being here until he wasn’t.

I uncurl from the shadows and start walking. I can’t go home, but I can’t stay here unless I want to freeze to death. I should go to the gym, but they teach beginners on Thursdays, and if I rolled with someone tonight, they might not walk away from it.

I must be silent too long, because Declan sends another message.

Dec: Are you OK?

My fingers hesitate over the face of the phone. I’d been ready to tell him about the letter, but now … it doesn’t feel right.

I force my fingers to work.

Rev: All OK. Have fun. Hi to J.

My phone rings almost immediately. It’s him.

“What’s going on?” he says in a rushed whisper. I wonder if he’s actually calling me from inside the movie theater.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” My voice is rough and low.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Declan knows every secret I have. It’s not like me to be reticent.

“Do you need me to come home?” he says quietly.

His tone reminds me of Geoff. Like I need to be handled. Maybe I do, but I don’t like the reminder.

I force my voice to be easy. I get halfway there. “Yeah, will you pick me up a pint of chocolate ice cream, too? Dude. No. You’re at a movie.”

“Rev.”

“It’s nothing, Dec.”

“Something happened.”

“Nothing happened. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I push the button to end the call.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

My cell phone buzzes almost immediately.

Dec: What is up with you?

My father sent me a letter and I don’t know what to do.

I can’t write that. Even thinking it feels weak and immature. I have a purple belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, but I can’t deal with three lines of chicken-scratch on a piece of paper that showed up in the mailbox.

Rev: It’s nothing. I’m fine. Sorry to bother you.

He doesn’t write back. Maybe he’s pissed. Or maybe I am.

Good. I don’t even know why that makes me happy.

I lift my phone again. I start a new e-mail. Add my father’s e-mail address.

I type Leave me alone in the subject line.

I don’t type a message.

I just press Send.

And then I walk, letting the darkness swallow me up.