Dear Mr. Knightley (33 page)
Judge Montgomery’s office was comforting and just what you’d expect: wood paneling, covered in books (the old leather/legal kind), and a faint pipe tobacco smell. He’s an old friend of the professor’s, so there was much backslapping and manly hugging.
He then looked at me, and his eyes got soft and round. “You have found a lovely daughter, Robert. And I understand she has a brain like yours and Franny’s.” He then reached across and hugged Mrs. Muir. “You look beautiful, Frances. Now let’s get this under way.”
He read from some forms, and we all signed. He then asked about my name, and I said I wanted to add Muir. Mrs. Muir got tears in her eyes and the professor beamed.
“Wise choice, my dear. I know you will treasure the name and the family.”
I then signed my new name:
Samantha Moore Muir
.
It was much scarier than I imagined—it was like physically
handing my heart to someone. It aches even though no one hurt it. The Muirs only offered to love it. Does that make sense? It doesn’t to me, but that’s how it feels.
Afterwards we went to lunch at Fonterra Grill, right next to Topolobampo. Of course my mind drifted to Alex. I wonder about him more often than I’d like. Other than the card and chocolates, which arrived yesterday, I haven’t heard from him since he left. Not a single text, e-mail, call—nothing. If I didn’t feel like I missed something at the end, I would call him. Part of me wants to demand an explanation and tell him how deeply he has hurt me. I almost trusted him . . .
That’s a lie. I did trust him. While I didn’t let him in completely, it was only a matter of time. I believed he was worthy. At the very least, we were friends—even he said that—and I don’t understand this silence. But I won’t trespass. And I won’t beg. If Alex’s farewell was final, so be it. I’ll forget him soon. In a few months this won’t feel so dark.
The Muirs hear from him, though. The professor mentioned how excited he was when they told him about the adoption and how disappointed he was to miss the day. And upon arriving at their house this afternoon, we found the most spectacular bouquet of flowers in the hallway.
Dear Mom M and Pops, I am so thankful for this day and wish I could be there to celebrate. Delighted Sam is joining the family. Please give her a hug and know that I love you all deeply. Love, Alex
Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is blasé. He wouldn’t fly to Paris. He wouldn’t come here. He makes his
own schedule and he certainly makes enough money. Do we mean so little to him? The Muirs think of him as a son. And I . . . What do I think of him?
I’m confused. Under duress or torture, I might say I loved him. But I don’t want to feel that way—not now, not him. It’s the whole Icarus thing. This summer I knew reaching for Alex Powell was too high, but I let myself enjoy him and our time together, and look what happened. Sure, he opened up and at the end said he loved spending time with me. He even said I was beautiful occasionally, but other than that last night, he never touched me or kissed me or made any attempt to be more than a friend.
As I replay the summer in my mind, I think I should have caught on. He maintained a careful distance. He said it himself, and I recalled it during the marathon: “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.” Now I’m all done. I will give him no more of my time, my heart—any part of me. And I doubt I’ll read his next book, even if it is the “best one yet.”
Putting the confusing Mr. Powell aside, today was something delicate and delicious, and I’ll hold it forever. I have a family now, a real family in my heart and officially on paper. Thank you. Thank you for all this, Mr. Knightley. It started with your generosity and Father John’s insistence on Medill. I’m sorry I resisted.
Love,
Samantha Muir
P.S. I forgot to tell you about something else quite extraordinary. I came over last week with my final project’s rough draft for the professor’s review. He launched into the Industrial Revolution, the invention of the automobile, World Wars I and II, FDR, the Fifties, the Sixties, Woodstock, birth control, salary equalization—I don’t think he drew breath for forty-five minutes—and landed at Hemingway (he always lands there), children, and our foster care system. I have no idea how he got there, but he did.
By the end Mrs. Muir and I were stifling laughter because he didn’t need an audience and wasn’t even aware of our presence—he was pontificating. Then he woke from his delirium, rounded on me, and demanded, “So what type of daughter are you? Are we equal? Will you call me Professor forever? Am I to be Robert?”
He stood, gesticulating like we were three hundred students in a lecture hall. His motions were too grand for his small study—his “tell” for nerves.
I stood up and announced, “You will be Dad!”
I shocked us both, Mr. Knightley. I wondered if I’d crossed a line as he stared at me. Time stopped. His eyes got teary and soft, and he opened his arms. I stepped into them, and he whispered, “My girl.”
Then Mrs. Muir joined in. “Me too. I get to be Mom, right?”
The professor answered, winking at me, “Of course you do, my dear, and it’s about time.”
It felt awkward at first. My memories linked to those names aren’t good, but I simply forged ahead. “Mom” and “Dad,” on the other hand, felt comfortable by salad.
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m at the Muirs’ right now and our Christmas production is under way: tree trimming, cookie baking, gift organizing, movie watching, and song singing. They’re off to a cocktail party, but I begged off to write you. And I will sign this missive with my new silver pen, thank you very much. It’s a lovely gift, Mr. Knightley. I appreciate it a great deal.
Exams ended, and Christmas break has started. I will return to Medill for graduation in January, but all my classwork is done. I don’t have a job yet—that remains the last sign that I really was the one clinging off the back ledge. Everyone else I know has an offer. But I made it. And for some reason, I’m not worried about my job prospects. I truly believe I will be okay.
Do you ever feel like there are plans for you? Not ones you make, but plans for good that will come about if you trust and remain patient? It’s a strange feeling, but it has crept upon me lately and I can’t shake it. I told Mrs. Muir about it, and you won’t believe what she found: “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’ ” I didn’t make that up. It’s a direct quote from the Bible—Jeremiah 29:11. It describes my feeling precisely—there are plans, good plans just out of reach. And I wait, feeling hopeful and peaceful, not desperate and tense. That’s brand-new. The Muirs keep praying for me, and there’s power in that too. So I won’t fret about the
job, but I will work. I owe my future and your generosity my best effort.
I finished my annual reading of Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
today. The tradition started several years ago, because I felt so aligned with Scrooge. I understood his fear, confusion, and longing as each ghost took him through his life and he was reminded of the pain he endured, then caused. I let go of people and relationships to protect myself too, and then I detached so completely that I lost the ability to connect. I still remember my first day at Medill when I met Debbie, and she looked at me like I was from another planet, before she and her friends left the table.
I’ve changed. I laid down those characters and I faced my ghosts, but unlike Scrooge, my transformation builds slowly. That’s the one thing that still bothers me about that story. How was Scrooge’s transformation so complete and joyful? How did he lay down so much so quickly? Did he ever slip back? We are led to believe he changed forever. He found freedom.
I haven’t found it—freedom remains elusive. And there’s something more Scrooge possessed that I don’t. Joy. The professor says it has to do with surrendering my heart, my plans, and my will. I think that first requires a softening of the heart—a “cease-fire” on fighting inside. I do feel that, so maybe I am beginning to understand.
Speaking of elusive, I got an e-mail from Alex yesterday. For a man so eloquent in person and even more so in print, he can be an uncommunicative jerk.
Coming to Chicago for final research. Have dinner with me Christmas Eve? Wait and hope, Alex.
A confusing note. I haven’t heard from him in months, other than that vague good-wishes-on-your-adoption note—and now a dinner invitation? And “Wait and hope”? Those were my winning words in that literary game we played the first day we met, Edmond Dantes’s final written words to Maximillian. They are instructions to young lovers, instructions for life. The irony that those words articulate my feelings for the future has not escaped me—but that has nothing to do with Alex.
Nevertheless I accepted his invitation—the malicious fury it ignited proved too tempting. I honestly feel as angry now as I did in Cara’s hospital room. I wonder if I could “decimate” Alex with words too—might be worth a try. When I told the Muirs about the invitation—not the fury—they insisted I invite him to join us for our church’s midnight service. Alex agreed.
Now I must go. There are cookies in the oven, and I promised not to burn them again. Thanks for the pen, Mr. Knightley, and Merry Christmas.
Love,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sick. I feel like I’ve been this way forever. Have you ever been so sick for so long that you think you’ll never recover? That’s me. I had a nice Christmas with the Muirs. Alex came to town for Christmas Eve. We went to dinner, but he left before church. That was my fault.
We’d gone to dinner at Café Matou downtown. He seemed nervous, and I was angry. I wanted to hurt him—make him pay for playing it safe, for trying not to “disappoint” me by withdrawing. Petty and peevish of me, I know. And I got it all wrong.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call this fall.” Alex looked so sincere. He was trying to connect, but I wanted no part of it.
“Or write. Or text.”
“You’re right. I dropped the ball.”
“It’s not a big deal, Alex. You had your book to finish, and I graduate next month. Besides, I still have to find a job. No worries. We’ve both been busy.”
“I tried to forget you.”
“Excuse me?” I meant it to sound like a question, but it swam in sarcasm.
He rubbed his forehead. “I thought up a million reasons to stay away, but I love you and you make me feel so alive. We understand each other. But then I worried about honesty. There’s so much about me you don’t know. Things that may make you hate me. And while I love that we can talk, really
talk, I wondered how honest you’ve been with me. We owe each other that.” He stared at me. “Don’t you think that we’re worth that?”
“I’m not following you.” I’d caught his “I love you,” but the rest of his garbled speech was vaguely reminiscent of Mr. Darcy’s first declaration to Elizabeth—the one in which he claims to love her and then proceeds to insult her.
“I thought if I kept away, I might feel less. And you’d forget me. You’d find someone without the baggage we both carry. You didn’t need to know about all the mess in my life. The mess I’ve created. It could stay secret. I could be done.” He leaned forward. “I thought I’d be okay. There are a lot of women in New York, right? You said so yourself. I just have to let it happen. And the same holds true for you, Sam. Tons of men could love you. Who wouldn’t?”
“Excuse me?”
Are you for real? You can’t think this sounds good.
He raked his hands through his hair. He’d let it grow this fall, and it reached beyond his fingertips. “But I can’t do it, Sam. There isn’t anyone else. There’s only you. It’s been only you for a long time now.” He looked at me expectantly, like this final point cleared everything up.
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Marry me? . . . I’m asking you to marry me. Will you marry me?”
Alex spread his hands across the table, his eyes eager and begging. I wanted to stop time.
Marry him?
I closed my eyes for a moment, wondering what it would be like—Alex Powell’s wife. Someone he loves. Getting to rake my hands through that hair every day. I wanted to rest in that moment.