50. Reminders of Home

50

REMINDERS OF HOME

PATRICK

25 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

On my walk home from the workshop after a long day with minimal issues, a light snowfall begins. Barely even a flurry. I have to tilt my head up and stick my tongue out. Taste the flakes to even register it because it's so dark. But it's happening. I hug my coat closer to my body from the sudden rush of welcome cold.

Elves emerge from their homes. Plant themselves on their doorsteps. Excitedly shout to their neighbors, "Come quick! Look!"

I smile to myself as the shimmer of our protective snow globe shell winks in the starry sky. Status quo is returning steadily.

On the mat inside the door of the dream house, an envelope is waiting for me.

Inside the envelope, there's a hand-drawn birthday card. In the pandemonium, I probably would've forgotten all about it had I not received this. I always said I wasn't good with words, and Quinn always said he wasn't good at drawing. Except there's a valiant effort made here, which touches me.

In the center of the paper is Quinn's interpretation of our dream house. My dream house?

He's drawn it lovingly and pretty accurately from memory with colored pencil and light shading for depth. The one noticeable difference is that the roof is separated from the rest of the main structure. From inside, dozens of colorful balloons float out between the gaps and up into the sky.

Above the drawing he's written: It's your birthday, so… Below the drawing: raise the roof!

I chuckle at his corny architecture pun before rushing up to my office to read this in comfort.

Dearest Patrick,

Happy early, or on-time, or belated twenty-seventh birthday! (I'm unsure if this will ever make it to you so I wanted to cover all my bases just in case.)

It feels wrong that we're not together to celebrate. I know why we can't be. I accept why we can't be. But hurt can't know or accept. Hurt just is.

I hope the magic is back to normal.

I don't think I made it clear enough when I left, but I'm proud of you, Patrick. What you've done for the North Pole in the last year is nothing short of spectacular. I don't think I've seen you that impassioned or inspired since college.

I guess what I'm saying is that if this truly is your calling, even if it means we can't be together, I'll understand. We had many beautiful years, and it would be selfish of me to demand more when you're meant to be somewhere else.

Wow. This got depressing for a birthday card, but I already spent more hours than I'd like to admit drawing this, so… sorry for that.

Wishing you a joyous day and a successful run this Christmas.

I love you, Pat. Always will.

Quinn

I don't even know how many times I end up reading the card. My eyes automatically loop back to the beginning each time I finish. A tear I'm unable to catch falls on the card and smudges the pen ink. That's when I know I have to set it aside or else I'll ruin this wonderful card from a wonderful man that I miss more than anything.

When I shift the clutter on my desk to write back, a hint of yellow pokes out from under a pile of papers. It's my portfolio from New Jersey. I forgot that I sent Hobart after this ages ago.

When I open it, I'm greeted by those blasted toilet partitions and parking plans from Carver & Associates. I'm surprised they didn't confiscate these when they fired me. Doesn't matter, though, because beneath them both are the plans for Kacey's nonprofit workshop.

"Damn," I mutter to myself. I was supposed to have this built and functional for her by September. It's December now. I've missed the mark by a long shot.

The next morning, earlier than usual, after sending off my next letter to Quinn, I return to headquarters, where I key in Kacey Ortega. A photo of her pops up. Tan skin, long black hair, chestnut-brown eyes.

In her saved core memories, there's video of her working alongside her nonprofit volunteers (including, most recently and surprisingly, Quinn and Veronica) in a scrubby recreation center basement with a leak in the ceiling. It's untenable and frustrating. It's visible in the sets of their brows as they put together a ramshackle Halloween party. Not only did I mess up with Quinn, but I did wrong by Kacey.

Quinn's words about my passion lying here assuaged some of my outstanding guilt, but now it's back and uglier.

It no longer matters that I wanted to be the lead designer on a project or head my own firm. I wanted those things because they would be concrete markers of success that would force my parents to realize that architecture is a legitimate career.

As Bradley helped me understand, I'm tired of looking to them for validation. It's time to look in the mirror and find it there instead.