Chapter 65 Cass

CHAPTER 65 CASS

April 2013

New York

My home for the night was a four-room suite at the Mandarin Oriental overlooking Central Park. An extravagant purchase for what I hoped would be an extravagant evening. The valet delivered my many bags of mail. I tipped him $100, extending the single bill between us and making eye contact. I silently implored him to understand that I wasn’t one of those same-old rich people; I was salt of the earth. Then I wondered if that was the story all wealthy people told themselves. Once the door closed behind him, I pushed aside the coffee table and dumped the letters on the carpet, one bag after the other.

I sat on the couch, the city twinkling at my back, and stared at my paper mountain. How to begin? A prayer, like before a big meal? A glass of champagne to commemorate the moment? Or, I could just lean forward and randomly grab a letter, start reading, which is what I did. I snagged one whose corner was jutting out, held it in my hands—thick and rectangular like a birthday card. I looked at where it was from: Minneapolis, Minnesota. The handwriting was loopy—probably a woman’s. I opened it, inhaled its message: I loved the book, you’re amazing, the ride at Universal Studios was rad!

I placed the letter on the carpet, separate, then reached for another.

This went on for many hours, until the second pile was the same size as the first—a mini mountain range at my feet. I stood and stretched my arms overhead, forced a yawn. My phone told me it was 3:53 in the morning, but I was wide-awake.

My favorite items so far had been the artwork of Puck. In crayon, from little kids; in oil paint, from old men. I dropped onto the couch, twisted left, twisted right, loosening up my lower back. Age, coming for us all.

I leaned forward and plucked another piece from the pile. A business envelope, words on the other side. I spun it in my hands, noticing first the stamp, affixed with precision in the top right corner, then my eyes drifted to the return address and the air left my body, an electric shock hit my chest.

AK

Bolton Landing, NY

But, it couldn’t be. I caught myself before my heart exploded. The handwriting bore no resemblance to Amanda’s, which had been flamboyant. I’m channeling Marilyn Monroe , she’d explained—I hadn’t thought of that in years. It’s not—it’s not her. It’s another person with her initials. Plenty of A first names, K last names. And yet my heart had swelled to double its size, was choking off air.

Amanda is dead, I reminded myself. Adrenaline flooded my body. Not a good feeling.

I carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a piece of loose-leaf folded precisely in thirds and goose bumps ran across my arms. I quickly unfolded the letter:

Dear “Cate Kay,”

FUCK YOU.

–A

Something about the quote marks rocked me. I launched myself onto the pile of unopened mail, flinging aside letters, digging, and separating, my eyes flying across return addresses and then—I found one. Same business envelope, same handwriting, same return address. I touched it, reverent. Then I placed it carefully on the couch and dove back into the heap.

When I was done, I had found five envelopes.

Around me was a sea of paper. I crawled to the couch, sat next to my treasure. Calm down, I told myself. Amanda is dead, this is just some terrible coincidence. The universe playing games with me. I arranged the letters in chronological order, by postmark. Then I closed my eyes, bowed my head.

Dear universe , I whispered, if there’s any chance that this is real, that she’s—I’ll give anything. Anything to make it real. All the money, anything, everything—whatever I have. I don’t need any of it. I promise.

I opened my eyes, reached for the letter from 2008, opened it. Same loose-leaf paper, same precise folding, same heat waves coming from my chest. This one wasn’t much longer than the first:

Dear “Cate Kay,”

Who inspired the name Samantha?

–A

My heart, a big, deep thud. Amanda had always wished her name was Samantha; I’d wanted mine to be Kelly. I tore open the next letter ( and Puck? ), then the next ( New York sunsets? ). All were cryptic in the same way, and I became frantic, going faster and faster. Then, the penultimate letter: I’m alive again now, really living, and I wish I knew you were, too.

I sucked in the deepest breath possible, sucked in a little more, and opened the final letter, dated 2012, unfolded it. A sea of blue ink:

Dear Cate with a K,

Do you remember during rehearsals for Twelfth Night when Mr. Riley was trying to show us the blocking for that one scene, but we just couldn’t get it? He was so stressed, and you and I slowly inched toward each other on the stage until we were pressing our shoulders together, just watching his meltdown. They were rare, those meltdowns, but when they happened—oof, right?

Anyway, then Eric asked some dumb question, and Mr. Riley just lost it, yelling out: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have got to get on top of our ducks!” And you and I slowly looked at each other and just doubled over laughing? (Those ducks, we had to get on top of them… and stay there!) We couldn’t stop, and Mr. Riley came over to us and was like, “Is something funny, ladies?” Then for the next year, or however long it was, we’d tell people struggling with anything—big, or small—to get on top of their ducks, then just walk away straight-faced.

I know you remember. I know everything we shared is threaded through you as it is me.

In the last dozen years, anytime someone says the phrase “get your ducks in a row” it feels like my heart catches a splinter. If that was the only time my heart felt that way, it would be okay, I could handle it. But it’s also anytime I see a crack in a mirror or a chicken nugget or a red car or a Honda of any color or a romantic comedy or a boat or a sunset on any night, ever.

You’re everywhere, always—in all my conversations. A student told me last week that we speak five thousand words a day. Instantly you appeared next to me, giddy over this factoid, trying to do the math: okay, so let’s say half our words are to each other, that’s 2,500 multiplied by 365 days multiplied by—how many years have we been friends? I pictured you calculating the many millions of words between us.

However many, they were hardly enough.

My life is nothing like what I imagined. And not because of the accident, but because you’re not in it.

Come home, Annie. I still love you.

Amanda.

An earthquake rumbled through me. I pictured it rippling through the hotel floor, the surrounding skyscrapers, the miles beyond. Amanda, alive.

I sat upright, rigid, staring straight ahead. My throat began closing. An act of self-preservation. Nothing else inside , my body was saying, not even air . Then, finally, a gasp, and the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I dropped the letter, brought my hands to my face, silently sobbing into them until even sitting upright felt like too much and I let myself fall to the right. A pillow was tucked under me, and I wrenched it out and curled into it like I was back in the womb, pressing my face into the purple velvet.

Images of Amanda appeared—her gunning the boat engine, hopping while tying a shoe, fighting to keep her eyes open while I told a story—and I was sobbing and laughing and sobbing. I didn’t want to open my eyes, didn’t want the Amanda movie in my mind to end, but I had to get moving. I needed to shower, pack my bag, call the valet for my car.

Amanda was waiting for me.