The Nice Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Caden Monroe

  * * *

  I folded the letter, stuffed it into an envelope, and mailed it before I could chicken out. My second, third, and fourth days of school were slightly better than the first, but not by much. My house was almost completely silent all the time now, and I was starting to freak out. Something big was going down, either between my parents or to one of them, and they weren’t talking to me about it.

  When I got back from school on Monday afternoon, a letter from Ever was sitting on the kitchen island. She had neat, bubbly cursive script handwriting, and each line of the front of the envelope was so straight I’d swear she’d used a ruler when she wrote the address. And the envelope itself smelled funny, like she’d sprayed it with perfume. Was that normal? I didn’t know. It smelled like Ever, though, and that was an incredible thing. I may or may not have sniffed the envelope a few times before opening it.

  * * *

  Dear Caden,

  I’m so glad you actually wrote me! I was starting to think you’d forgotten. I’m glad you didn’t. I almost decided to write you first. I’m not sure why, except it seemed like you should be the one to go first. Does that make any sense? Is that too traditional? I guess maybe. I hope that doesn’t bother you.

  I’m sorry your first day of school was so bad. Mine was okay. Eden and I are in only about half of our classes together, which is fine with me. When we do too many things together all the time I start to get a little claustrophobic. That’s not the right word, though, really. I’m not sure how to put it. It’s a twin thing. It’s not claustrophobia exactly, because that’s more about fear of small spaces. This is more about…identity? If I dress like Eden and look like Eden and talk like Eden and have all the same classes with Eden and have all the same friends as Eden, I start to feel like me myself as ever is getting lost a little bit, like I’m just a twin, just one of a pair instead of someone totally unique and myself and not like her at all. I mean, I am like her, I suppose, in some ways. We are twins after all, and we share like all of our DNA and whatever. But inside our heads and stuff? We’re totally different. And I hate feeling like I’m stuck inside this twin-bubble even though I love her and couldn’t ever live without her.

  No, it’s not weird for me to use the word “ever” in a sentence. A lot of people ask me that, so I figured I’d give you the answer before you asked.

  As for school? Yeah, I know what you mean. The seniors are assholes. I know it’s probably different for guys, but senior girls are just as big of assholes as the guys, I’m pretty sure. With senior girls, they’re just evil, but they’re usually subtle about it. Usually. It’s this snipey, snippy attitude. They make fun of your outfit, which is a big deal for girls, if you didn’t already know. They make fun of your shoes or your makeup or your purse, simply because you’re not them. I’m pretty on top of fashion, I guess, but I just don’t care enough to make sure I have the newest style purse or the latest shoes or whatever. It’s just stupid. I like to look good, sure, but it’s not as important to me as it is some other girls. The popular clique senior girls, it’s all they care about. They’re so vapid and shallow it makes me sick. They drive their daddy’s BMW or Mercedes or Range Rover and act like they earned it. I know my dad has as much money as theirs, and I know that everything I have, all the clothes and whatever, is because of his job, not because of anything I did. These stupid senior girls, the cool, in-crowd ones? Have you ever seen that old movie Clueless? Probably not. It’s this movie about all these, haha, clueless rich girls at a school in Beverly Hills, and they all act so superior because their daddies are rich. And that’s how these idiotic Bloomfield Hills bitches act. Like how much money their daddy has versus mine versus the other girl and whoever is so important, like it’s a social ladder, you know? And I just don’t care. I don’t.

  I just want to paint and sculpt and not miss Mom anymore.

  And by the way, your letter was totally fine. You sounded just like you, and that’s what I wanted. It’s fine to ask questions. Friends ask friends questions, right? So ask me anything, and don’t ever feel weird about how your letters sound. No one will ever read them except me. Promise.

  I guess I’ve rambled on enough for now, so I’ll end here.

  Funny, I almost wrote “let you go” like I was talking on the phone.

  I hope school gets better for you. I’m looking forward to your next letter.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Your friend,

  Ever

  indelible ink inscriptions

  Dear Ever,

  It’s hard to write this letter. I’m not sure what to even say, but I feel like I can tell you things, because we’re friends, and somehow these letters are almost like a journal. I know you read them, and I read yours.

  My mom has cancer. I just found out today. Breast cancer. I guess she’s known for about two months and they never told me. They wanted to wait and see if the chemotherapy would help before telling me, or something. I don’t know. But I guess it’s not helping, and they don’t think anything will.

  My dad told me. He used the same kinds of words I’m guessing the doctors used with him, big words, medical terms. All it means, once you cut through all the bullshit, is that Mom is going to die.

  Shit. Seeing that in writing is so much different than thinking it.

  What do I do?

  She’s afraid, and my dad is afraid. I’m afraid. But we’re not talking about it. They talk about keeping up spirits and thinking positive and fighting to the end, and all that morale-raising shit. They don’t believe it. I don’t. No one does.

  How can you, when each day passes and I can see her getting skinny, like the skeleton inside her is coming out through her skin? Am I supposed to tell myself it’ll be okay, when it won’t?

  Shit. I’m not a very good pen-pal, I guess. I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. It’s depressing.

  I’m not even going to bother writing anymore. You don’t have to write back, if you don’t want to.

  I hope you’re okay.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Your friend,

  Caden

  * * *

  Caden,

  Of course I’d write you back. I’ll always write you back. This is what pen pals are for, after all, right? I’m okay. I learned a lot at the arts camp, and I’m using it all in my photography. Maybe next letter I send you I’ll include a print of one of my photos. Daddy is thinking of making me a darkroom in the basement, so I can do my own developing.

  I guess I’m not sure how to talk about your news about your mom. I’m so sorry that’s happening. I know “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” doesn’t really help, but I don’t know what else to write. I wouldn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. When someone you love is hurt, or dying, or dies, it’s not okay. I know how you feel. I lost my mom too. She was in a car accident. I think we talked about this at camp. I told you, and I don’t tell many people. But I feel like I can trust you. Maybe we understand each other, or something. Like, in some kind of way that words don’t really explain. I feel that way. And I know what you mean about these pen-pal letters being like a journal. I write them and send them knowing you’re going to read them, but I never feel embarrassed to write things that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

  So I’ll tell you this: write me as much as you want. I’ll write you back every time. I promise. I’m your friend.

  I’m sorry you’re going through this. No one should have to go through it, but you are, and you have a friend in me. You can talk to me about what you feel.

  Be strong, Caden.

  Your friend for always,

  Ever

  * * *

  I read Ever’s letter ten times before I finally folded it back up, slid it carefully into the envelope, and tucked the envelope—which smelled ever so slightly of perfume, like her—in the front of the shoe box which contained the others from her. The
re were six letters so far, one for every week that had passed since the end of the Interlochen summer arts camp. I picked up the lid to the box, which had once contained the very shoes I was wearing, a pair of Reebok cross-trainers. They were a year old, now, and getting too small. I wasn’t sure why I had kept the box, but I had. It sat in the bottom of my closet, buried on the left side beneath an old hoodie and a ripped pair of jeans, until I had gotten the first letter from Ever Eliot and needed somewhere safe and private to keep the letter.

  Now, the blue box with the red Union Jack flag had six letters in it, and it sat under my bed.

  I slid the box back under the frame of my bed and moved to my desk. Even though I had a laptop and there was a printer in the living room, I still wrote the letters by hand. I took a long time for each letter, because my handwriting was almost illegibly sloppy most of the time.

  I sat staring down at the spiral-bound notebook for a long, long time, the pencil in my fingers, unable to summon the words. I blinked, took a deep breath, clicked the top of the mechanical pencil and started writing.

  * * *

  Ever,

  It feels stupid to write “dear” all the time. So I’ll leave that part off, I guess, unless I think of something else to put there.

  I’m writing, but I’m not really sure how long this letter will be. Mom is in the hospital full-time now. She stopped the chemo, said no to surgeries. I guess they said they could do a surgery and it had a 20% chance of working, and it was really dangerous. She said no. They already removed her breasts. She has no hair. She’s like a stick covered in paper, now. She’s my mom, in her eyes, but she’s not. I don’t know how to put it.

  Ever, I’m scared. I’m afraid of losing her, yeah, but I’m afraid for my dad. He’s losing his mind. I don’t mean that in an exaggeration. I mean it for real. He doesn’t leave her side, not even to eat. No can, or even tries to make him leave.

  Will it make me sound selfish if I say I’m afraid of losing him too? It’s like as sick as Mom gets, he’s there with her. Going with her. But I’m only 15, and I need my parents. I know Mom is going to die, but does Dad have to go too? He loves her so much, but what about me?

  I hate how whiny that sounds.

  Please send me one of your pictures.

  * * *

  Your always friend,

  Caden.

  * * *

  PS, I tried something besides “sincerely” because that sounds stupid too. But I’m not sure if what I put is more stupid.

  PSS, Is there a difference between saying “photo” and “picture”?

  * * *

  I thought about signing it again, but didn’t. Before I could chicken out, I folded the letter carefully and put it into an envelope, stuck a stamp to it, and put it in the mailbox. I was home, and Dad was at the hospital. He always made me come home and do my homework before coming to the hospital. Something about “normalcy.”

  Like any such thing existed anymore.

  Sometimes, I would just sit at my desk with a pen and paper, like I was going to write a letter to Ever, but I didn’t write it and I wouldn’t, I knew I wouldn’t, because I was delaying. Not going to the hospital. That’s what I was doing. I was avoiding going, pretending like I was going to write a letter when all I was doing was making an excuse not to have to see Mom dying. I knew I should see her, because she’d be gone soon and I wouldn’t have a mother anymore, but I just…I didn’t want to see her. I wanted for her either to be suddenly miraculously fine, or just…to die. To not suffer anymore. I didn’t want her to die. Of course not. But that’s what it felt like, deep inside me. I never said so, not to anyone, not even to Ever, but it was there inside me, and it was horrible.

  So I sat, and tried to just not feel anything. I wasn’t even drawing anymore. What was the point?

  After putting the envelope in the mailbox, I sat on the front porch and delayed the walk to the bus stop a mile from our house, where the bus would pick me up and take me to the hospital where Mom was a skeleton in a bed, her insides being eaten by some invisible little creature bent on stealing my parents from me.

  The distant mumble of the mailman’s strange mailman car/van/truck thing echoed off the overhanging oak branches and 1950s brick house walls. Rumble…stop…rumble…stop, closer and closer. I knew he had a letter for me from Ever. I could feel it. I’d started to get a strange buzz in my stomach when the mailman had a letter for me from Ever. It wasn’t anything magical or weird. I just…knew.

  Finally the mail truck stopped in front of my house and Jim the mailman poked his salt-and-pepper head out of the open doorway and reached into the mailbox and took my letter, rifled through a stack on his lap and stuffed bills and junk mail and circular ads into the mailbox, and then he held a white envelope in his gnarled fingers and pointed it at me, brown eye twinkling, winking. I hopped down the three steps from porch to sidewalk and jogged over and took the envelope from him.

  “Every week, Caden. You and this girl, one letter every week.” His voice cracked a lot, deep as an abandoned mineshaft, broken by decades of cigarette smoke and gruff from yelling in Vietnam, I think. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, and if he wore a short sleeve uniform shirt in the summer, you could see the shiny twisted skin where he’d been injured somehow. He limped when he had to set a box on the porch.

  I nodded. “Yes sir. One letter a week.”

  “You sweet on the girl?”

  I shrugged. “We’re pen pals. Friends.”

  Jim grinned with one side of his mouth. “Ah. You are. She’s pretty, ain’t she? Got long legs and soft hands, don’t she?”

  I hated these conversations adults always wanted to have with me whenever Ever came up. I shrugged and backed away from him. “I guess. She is pretty, yeah. Listen, though, I gotta—”

  “Letters ain’t no substitute for the real thing.”

  “We’re just pen pals.”

  He nodded, gnawing thoughtfully on the inside of his mouth. “Gotcha.” He waved. “See ya ’round, Cade.”

  “See ya, Jim.” I held the letter balanced on my palm for a moment, watching Jim rumble away, then carried the letter, the sketchpad, and the pencil case to the bus stop, and waited for the bus. Ever’s letter was on top of the sketchpad, between the smooth cover of the notebook and my palm. I would open it later, read it later.

  Without conscious volition, the sketchpad opened, my fingers flipped pages to a blank white rectangle, and then a pencil, the dark outlining one, began moving over the page. The back of a mail truck appeared, a hand reaching for a mailbox. Details appeared, filled in. The truck itself became blurred, smudged and smeared out of focus, while the hand and forearm gained clarity and sharpness and detail. The cords of the forearm, the gnarled knuckles, the fine graying hairs on the back of the hand and fingers, disguised shapes of letters clutched in the fingers.

  A guttural diesel bellowing announced the arrival of the bus, and I boarded, paying the fare and finding a seat near the middle against the window. The bus resumed forward motion with reckless speed, and I watched the road flit and blur, holding the notebook open to my drawing of Jim’s arm.

  My heart was a stone in my chest, my stomach a knot pulled tight.

  I had to walk half a mile from the bus stop to the hospital, and my feet dragged. I pushed through the doors, passed the reception desk to the elevators. As the doors whooshed open, I had trouble swallowing. Whenever I blinked, my eyes felt heavy and hard and damp.

  By the time I got to room 405, I couldn’t breathe. Dad was in the chair beside Mom’s bed, where he always was. He was bent over her, face to her knees, one of her hands clutched in both of his. Her palm rested against the back of his skull. Her index finger twitched.

  I stopped in the doorway, watching a private moment. I was intruding, I knew I was, but I couldn’t look away.

  “Don’t go, Jan.” I heard Dad’s voice, but it wasn’t even a whisper, it was broken shards of sound ripped from his throat, sorrow made word.<
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  I drew them. It was automatic. I sketched Dad, his huge broad back hunched over, the bed and the thin bumps of Mom’s skeleton and skin beneath the blanket, her shoulders and neck tilted against the bed-back, her hand on his head, one finger slightly curled against his shaved scruff. I stood there in the doorway and drew, the same scene over and over and over. Neither of them saw me, and that was okay with me.

  I lost count of how many times I drew them there, until my pencil went dull and a nurse nudged me aside with a cold hand on my forearm.

  Then Dad sat up and turned around and saw me. His face contorted, twisted, his private grief morphing into the concern of a father.

  “Don’t…don’t cry, Cade.” Mom’s voice, thin as a single strand of hair.

  I hadn’t realized I was, but then I looked down and saw that the page I’d been drawing on was dotted with droplet-rounds of wetness, and my face was wet, and the lines of my sketch were wrong, distorted and angular and just…wrong.

  “Why?” I wasn’t sure what I was asking, or of whom.

  Dad only shook his head, and Mom couldn’t even do that.

  “Show me something…you drew,” Mom asked me.

  I flipped through the sketches of them, past hands and eyes and doodles of nothing and a bird on a branch and a winter tree like roots in reverse or an anatomical diagram of arteries or bronchioles. I found the duck I’d drawn at Interlochen, the best one, the final one, and I gently tore it out. She was too weak to take it, so I tucked it into her hand, into her fingers, pinching her thumb and forefinger around the middle at the edge. She gazed at it for a long time, like it was fancy piece of art at the Louvre.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s a duck, Mom.” I was supposed to act normal, I knew. Protest, argue like always, act like a petulant teenager.