Dear Mr. Knightley (31 page)
I stepped into my best Edmond Dantes—thirteen years in prison teaches you to fight—and said, “I’m looking for the Ridley house at 1360, but I can’t find it. You can help me or I can head to the police station two blocks down. Shouldn’t take me more than a few seconds to run.”
At the Ridley name, all three boys blanched and pointed. “Coach? He’s that house.” And they backed away.
I guess no one messes with Coach Ridley. But I didn’t see it. When I arrived, he couldn’t have been more mild and kind. His wife was lovely too. They welcomed me like I was Kyle’s sister, as did their two kids and their grandkids.
“We did it, Sam. We got our boy. Can you believe it? Can you believe he’s home?” Coach hugged me.
“I’m thrilled, Coach. I can’t tell you what this means for kids like us. Kyle’s whole world will change.” Tears pooled in my eyes, and Coach pulled me close for another hug.
“You’ve got a family now too. You remember that.”
I smiled, and Kyle beamed all night. I thought he was going to shoot from his seat during grace. I’ve never seen a grin so wide.
Coach Ridley stood at the head of the table and prayed like nothing I’ve ever heard.
“God, you gave us your Son, and now you’ve given us ours. We are so humbled and rocked to our very core to be blessed with this boy. Keep him close to you, Lord. Keep our eyes wide open when any danger approaches, any fears invade, or any enemy comes to steal the peace, the love, and the grace you’ve granted us. You are our God, and we are your children. Never let us forget. Amen.”
His voice bellowed over the table with such confidence that I knew—I knew no one can mess with this family. Bad things may come. But these people are God’s.
We ate, played charades, and laughed. It was a true home filled with true love. When it was time to go, I thanked them and headed to the door.
“Sam, how’d you get here tonight?” Mrs. Ridley asked.
“I took the ‘L.’ It’s only a few blocks, Mrs. Ridley. I’ll be fine.” I was slightly panicked, but I’m also tired of fear.
“Carl, Sam took the train here,” she called into the next room.
Coach was beside me so fast, I jumped. I can’t move that fast.
“I take it all the time, sir. Really, I’m fine.”
“You are not. Once you’re on, you may be fine; but you shouldn’t walk around alone at night. You must tell us before you come visit so we can meet you at the stop.” He called back into the living room, “Kyle, come on, son, we need to walk Sam to the train.”
Kyle popped up with a “Yes, sir” and followed us out the door. I see why the boys trembled when I mentioned Coach Ridley. His very essence demands integrity. Kyle’s in good hands.
As the train pulled up, Coach turned to me. “Thanks for coming, Sam, and come often. You’re family now.”
I couldn’t stop the tears from pooling, then falling. I nodded, hugged them both, and boarded my train. As it pulled away, I saw Coach put his arm around Kyle’s shoulder. And I cried.
Everything I ever dreamed for Kyle is happening. My idea of “normal” was mere window dressing compared to this. Kyle’s got the real deal: a family who will stand by him and guide and love him for the rest of his life. You can tell there’s no halfway with the Ridleys.
And Kyle will need that strong, singular devotion because it’s going to be hard for him. I thought writing our story was tough, but Kyle will need more courage now. He’s changed so much in these last few months, but fears still plague him. He must lay them down, surrender his heart, and learn to trust others completely—I think that’s what having a family, having
true love, really takes. I can’t quite process that. Surrender is foreign to me.
I’m proud of him—so proud, so happy, and so sleepy.
I’ll write more soon,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Classes are going well. Running is going well. The marathon is next Sunday. This week’s rest will give me more study time for midterms. Forget going out, forget fun . . . The job hunt has charged the air and no one is even nice anymore. I’ve stayed away from the nationwide fray by limiting my applications to the Chicago area. Kyle and the Muirs are here, and I see no reason to leave the only town I’ve ever known. But it’s an aggressive fight for the local jobs too.
On a bright note, Susan Ellis called yesterday to encourage me to apply at the
Tribune
. I know seven classmates applying there. Debbie’s one of them, and everyone concedes she’s best. So, while I was flattered Ms. Ellis called, I doubt my chances. I called Mike to see if she’d called him with the same encouragement, and she hadn’t—she’d offered him a job, two rungs up the ladder. Jealously surged for a few minutes before reason prevailed. I’m not in Debbie’s league and I’m not in Mike’s. I stopped pouting, submitted the application, and then searched for some more township papers to which I can apply.
I told Johnson, thinking he’d be pleased, but he wasn’t. He didn’t know I was Chicago-centric and demanded I send applications and writing samples to the
New York Times
, the
New Yorker
, and a host of other long-narrative papers and magazines. Now I must expand my scope—because Johnson agreed to mentor my final project, and I can’t afford to tick him off.
I dread all that rejection, but I dread a job offer from New
York more. Alex is there. He’s gone from my life now—no calls, no texts, nothing. I’d hate for him to ever think I chased him. If this is what he wants—silence and rejection—I’ll honor it. I’ll send some New York applications to satisfy Johnson, but that’s as far as I’ll take it.
Enough about the job hunt. It’s all anyone talks about, and it’s wearing.
I skipped Governmental Policy yesterday to clear my head and went to Kyle’s first cross-country meet. Kyle ran like the wind and won. He’s only a sophomore and already the team’s star. And he smiles. Kyle smiles and laughs and possesses that teenage sassiness you only get when you feel secure. I love it.
And my walks to and from his house and the ‘L’ are quite an adventure now. Yesterday I arrived half an hour early, and the same three boys who harassed me last month were loitering on the platform. I almost stayed on the train when I spotted them, but jumped off at the last minute before my courage fled completely.
“Ma’am, you goin’ to see Coach?”
“I am.”
“It’s not real safe. Coach told us to keep an eye out for you. We’ll walk you there.”
“Thank you.” We chatted along the way, and I found they aren’t scared of Coach Ridley at all. These boys love him and want to please him. Kyle, being his son, is practically a demigod now.
It’s odd, isn’t it? As Kyle joins a family, I leave one. I thought I’d plow through grad school like I did college, but I made friends here. I found a life here. And I made other friends along the way. The Muirs and Alex will stay in my heart forever. But
the rest of my friends are breaking apart as we hunt down that next chapter. I liked this one. And now it’s ending. I’m so sick of endings, Mr. Knightley.
Enough wallowing and
much work to do,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
It’s over. Not completely. I have to recover and, as I limped to classes today, that may be the hardest part.
The Chicago Marathon was yesterday—in pouring rain and, at some points, 30 mph winds. The course is mapped in a series of loops, so about a quarter of it was directly into the wind. Unbelievable. I hoped they would cancel it, but with forty thousand runners paying about $175 per entry, it takes a lot to shut that engine down. We ran.
At the start, trash bags flew everywhere. Runners often poke holes in the tops of huge black garbage bags and use them as disposable ponchos. It always cracks me up—we foster kids traditionally use trash bags for a much different purpose. Anyway, bags flew in my face and wrapped around my feet. I slipped several times and can’t believe people didn’t fall all around me.
The first twenty miles were typical: five to settle in and the next fifteen in my groove. Muscles ached in different places than usual because my shoes were soaked and lugged extra water, but it was okay. The wind and rain kept me from obsessing about the miles, and I had fans to cheer me: Kyle yelled at mile 12, Hannah and her husband, Matt, held a ridiculous sign at mile 15 that read SAM—ARATHON! RUN, SAM, RUN and the Muirs waved their hearts out at mile 19.
Debbie and Ashley were at mile 22, but I missed them. My mind was elsewhere . . .
Mile 22 to the end is always tricky—you break down mentally and physically. This time it happened earlier. Maybe it was all the wind and water, but at mile 20 the race took on an eerie tone, especially along Lake Shore Drive. Thoughts pounded my brain in rhythm to Lake Michigan’s waves crashing and surging next to us. I couldn’t push them away or direct them.
In the past I’ve usually run scenes from my favorite books in my head—especially
Jane Eyre
, because I love her courage, her decisions, and her voice. I love her stamina. But yesterday Jane failed me. Lizzy failed me. Emma failed me. At mile 21 I had no control over my thoughts, and my past ballooned in my brain: my dad and mom, Father John, the holdup at the White Hen, Cara, Hannah, Kyle . . .
But none of it hurt. I felt distant and safe for much of it. That surprised and relieved me because I had no defense had it felt otherwise.
Then came Alex—all we said this summer, all we shared, all I wanted to share. The truth about how deeply he affected me. Panic washed over me, and I couldn’t shut it down. It’s hard to explain what little control you hold over your body and thoughts at this point in a marathon. Sure, you can stop running, but even that takes cognitive effort and, if you’re not totally broken, it doesn’t occur to you. I kept going. Step. Step. Step. The memory of another day, and another run, with Alex flitted through my mind.
“You’re going to find a great guy, Sam.”
“I doubt it. There’s a lot about me that’d scare any guy off. I wonder if I’m cut out for a healthy relationship.” I tripped so close to laying it all out for him that morning.
Alex ran a few steps. “You are. All it takes is honesty.”
I glanced over at him. He held that same furrowed expression he made whenever bothered or irritated.
“There’s a lot about me that’d scare you . . . or any other woman, off too.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” He fell silent. A few more steps, and he continued, “I don’t like to disappoint people. I let things go on too long and get too complicated because I fear the way they’ll look at me when it’s all done.”
“Your father?”
“He’s one, and maybe that’s where it started, but it doesn’t stop there. I let people down, then run like a coward before it hits the fan—friends, acquaintances, and colleagues. I feel safer at a distance.”
Alex turned his head away, and we ran another couple miles before either of us spoke again. We ended up chatting about a lot of stuff that day. Stuff that didn’t matter much, but the stuff that—as the professor likes to believe—builds a strong friendship. We understood each other.
But on this day, in the pounding rain, that conversation meant something different, something more. Was he alluding to Simone? Partly. But at mile 23 I surmised that Alex told me something else that day—that he would never be mine.
Is that what I had hoped? Did I want that? Do I?
Yes. Yes. I believed it could happen.
Step.
Yes
. Step. I moved through two miles of loss before I tried to focus on the Muirs.
They won’t leave me
. Step. Step. Step.
They won’t abandon me
. Step.
They call me their daughter
. Step.
They love me . . .
No go. My mind drifted back to Alex, no matter how much
I wanted it to rest elsewhere—anywhere.
Alex left
. Step.
You weren’t enough
. Step.
“Sam failed to connect.”
Step.
“Sam has failed again.”
Step. Step. Step. The panic shortened my breaths—not good at that point—and I started seeing stars. I wobbled, and an older man grabbed my upper arm.
“You good?”
“No.”
“You’ve got less than a mile. Repeat after me, ‘I’m okay. I’m okay.’ The phrase is the length of three strides. Perfect cadence to fill your head. Say it.”