I glance over the rest of the letter, not even skimming so much as checking the handwriting to see if there’s a note from Vic, something to indicate why he decided to mail this. Doesn’t that break a rule or something? I know her name, of course—the Butterflies have been national news for almost four months now—but our cases are only connected through the agents. Isn’t there some Bureau regulation about keeping things separate?
But then, Vic was careful, wasn’t he? He didn’t give my address to Inara; he mailed it himself. I don’t have to reply, I don’t have to give her my information. How does she even know about me, though?
I go back to where I left off.
I saw your picture on Eddison’s desk a few weeks ago, and Eddison being the prickly bastard that he is, I was curious. I didn’t think he even liked people. Vic was the one to tell me who you were, or rather, what you were, at least when they met you. He said you lost your sister to a serial killer, and my first thought was “Huh, me too.”
I think that’s the first time I ever called any of the girls my sister, and I was surprised by how much it hurt. To lose them again in a new way, maybe, or that I felt that way about them and I never said.
I’m not asking what happened to you. I know I could look it up, but I don’t want to. To be honest, I’m far less interested in what happened to you than I am in what you chose to do after.
It was easy to be strong in the Garden. The others looked to me and I could let them because I knew how to tread water and I could hold them while they learned. We’re out now, though, and they’re looking to me to be as strong as I was in the Garden, and I don’t know how to do that with everyone watching.
I don’t know how to do any of this. I was always broken, and I was always okay with that. I was what I was. Now people are clamoring to see how I’ll fix myself, and I don’t want to fix myself. I shouldn’t have to. If I want to stay broken, isn’t that my choice?
When Vic mentions you, or just hears your name, he looks like it’s one of his own girls being talked about. Eddison actually seems to like you, and I was fairly convinced he hated anything with a pulse. And Mercedes smiles, and looks a little sad, and I’m coming to understand that she’ll smile at anyone, but she’s only sad for the people she loves.
They adopted you, in their way, and now they’ve adopted me and I’m not entirely sure how to let them.
You don’t have to write back. I find I can’t talk to the other girls about any of this because they need me to seem stronger, and I don’t want to let them down. But Vic smiled when I asked if it would be okay to write, so I’m hoping it’s a better idea than it feels.
How do you put yourself back together when the pieces permanently lost are the only reasons anyone’s looking at you?
Um.
She’s asking me how to do something I’m not sure I’ve actually done. If I had to guess, that’s exactly why Vic sent the letter: because she’s right. We shouldn’t have to fix ourselves if we don’t want to. We shouldn’t have to be strong or brave or hopeful or any such bullshit. Mum has always emphatically stated that it’s okay to not be okay. We don’t owe that to anyone else.
I need to sit on this for a few days.
When Mum comes home a few hours later, laptop bag and briefcase in one hand, bags of takeout in the other, I have my journal out, searching for a way to explain how much it meant when Pierce said I was welcome at the chess pavilion. “Get the plates?” she asks, leaning down to kiss the frame and almost lighting her scarf on fire. She drops the bags beside her, the takeout with more care than her computer.
She looks beautiful and fierce in her work clothes, the grey pencil skirt and blazer severely tailored and not much softened by the lavender silk blouse and patterned scarf. Her long hair is pulled back into a tight twist and pinned to within an inch of its life, and her heels are just high enough to be authoritative, just low enough to still kick your ass. The only things that seem out of place are the things that carry over with her to after-work, the emerald-and-gold bindi and nose stud, and the slim gold hoop curving over the middle of her lower lip.
Mum very purposefully left her family and most of her culture behind in London when we came to America twelve years ago, but she kept the bits she liked. Mostly she kept the things that kept people from assuming we were Muslim. Mum didn’t much care if she was being somewhat sacrilegious as long as it kept her brown daughters safe. The bindi, the jewelry, the mehndi when we do it, they’re all supposed to have more weight than we give them.
I get up and get the plates and silverware. After bringing the takeout bag into the living room, I head back and grab a couple glasses of milk and some clean Tupperware. I wait, though, to let Mum dish out. It’s that self-control thing. I just feel better letting her control the portions.
She comes back downstairs in yoga pants and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt that used to have the logo of Chavi’s high school printed across the front. You can still see bits of it, if you squint and already know what it’s supposed to say. The rest is faded and peeled and comfortably worn. Her hair is out of its pins, twisted into a haphazard braid down her back. This is the Mum who likes to bury her fingers in soil and help things grow, who’s always been as quick as her daughters to launch a pillow fight.
Plopping down onto the carpet so we can treat the coffee table like an actual table, she reaches out for the boxes and starts dishing out. Orange shrimp and lo mein noodles for her, sweet-and-sour chicken and white rice for me, each meal split about evenly between the plates and the Tupperware containers. She parcels out the sack of egg rolls but doesn’t try to separate the bowls of soup—wonton for me and egg drop for her. Takeout soup just doesn’t reheat well enough to bother. Tomorrow, we’ll both have the leftovers for lunch and some other kind of takeout for dinner.
Most of the kitchen is still in boxes, something that is unlikely to change in the coming weeks. Cooking is just not a thing that’s going to happen.
“How was chess?” she asks around a shrimp.
“It was good. I’m looking forward to going back.”
“Get a good feeling from everyone?”
“Almost everyone.” Her gaze sharpens on me, but I shrug and bite into a piece of sauce-covered chicken. “I’ll avoid the exception.”
“You’ll take your pepper spray just in case?”
“It’s on my keys. Outer pocket of the coat.”
“Good.”
We eat in silence for a while, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable, just a way to let the day process and filter out so we can enjoy the evening. Eventually she turns on the TV to a news channel and mutes it, skimming the headlines on the ticker and under the inset photos. When we’re done eating, we both stand to clear the table. She grabs the leftovers and trash, and I take the plates and silverware. We have a dishwasher, currently blocked off by two stacks of boxes, but there’s not really a reason to use it, not for only two of us. I rinse and wash everything and pop it on the drying rack next to the sink.
Mum settles back onto the carpet after, turning on the Xbox and a Lego game. I curl into the couch with my current journal.
For a long time, the only words on the page are Dear Chavi.
Chavi started the journals even before I was born. She took plain composition books and decorated the covers, and started writing me letters so she could prepare her baby sister for life. When I got old enough to learn how to write and start keeping my own journals, it just made sense to write back to her. We didn’t exactly read each other’s books. Sometimes we’d copy out sections or entries for the other, or read a bit aloud. We used to sit next to each other on one bed or another and write after Dad shooed us to bed—because if Dad was tired, we must all be tired—and I can’t even think how many times I fell asleep with my face on the page and a pen in hand, and woke up to my sister tucking me in next to her.
“Are we leaving Chavi behind?” I ask suddenly.
Mum pauses the game and looks over her shoulder at me. After a moment, she sets the controller on the table and leans against the couch.
“Going to France,” I clarify. “Are we leaving her behind?”