Untold Story

by Monica Ali

  I had a hunch, though, that if I moved to the city things would just turn up—opportunities. I was right, wasn’t I? Alicia came along. Skin Deep came along. You should see me at the salon. Alicia’s clients have started asking for me!

  Better get my beauty sleep.

  Your Lydia

  5 October 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  I am making strides, aren’t I? You taught me a lot of things about how to cope. Lots of practical stuff. Sometimes I found it irritating, because I liked to think I knew it all.

  All the household finances—I’m managing very well now. Honestly, I am. I write it all down like you told me to. But I still had more to learn. You told me to budget for the monthly bills. I thought you meant the grocery shopping and the telephone. I suppose you did, but it was quite a surprise when the first bill came for the electricity. I don’t know what I imagined before—that the electricity came with the house? That it was free? You walk into a room and switch on the light in KP and nobody ever tells you how much it costs. When I walk out of a room now I switch off the light. You see, a whole new me!

  Your semiqualified citizen,

  Lydia

  15 October 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  I need your disapproval like I need a rash on my face. Take your stupid raised eyebrows and shove them. Go on, back off, go away. I’m not listening.

  And do not tell me to calm down.

  Lydia

  16 November 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  No, I haven’t been sulking. I just haven’t felt like writing to you. Either way, it’s silly. When I write to you, I’m writing to a dead person. When I don’t write to you, you still don’t go away.

  I’ve moved. I lost two months’ rent that way, but I don’t care. I didn’t want to be in Charlotte any longer. Yes, I did fall out with Alicia, since you ask. Not that it’s any of your business. I’m making a fresh start. I’m committing myself to it. You’ll see. This time it will be different. I’m not letting myself get sucked down ever again.

  Polite and friendly but a little bit aloof. That’s the way I’m going to be from now on. I’m glad I have your approval. Thank you.

  My love, as always,

  Lydia

  18 November 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  Guess what I did today. I went to Mark Twain’s boyhood house. It’s about an hour’s drive from where I’m living now, and it’s been turned into a museum. I haven’t read any of his books. I’ll bet you read them all, because you’ve read everything. Those books that you gave me got lost in a move. The removal company lost a box. I gave them hell, of course, but it didn’t bring the box back.

  I went on a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi in the afternoon. So beautiful. I think I’m going to like it here. It was time for a complete change, and I didn’t much care where I went really, but I have a good feeling about my new home. I made a good decision, didn’t I?

  Your Lydia

  20 November 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  The house I’m renting is one-story, brick, two bedrooms, in what they call a “ranch style.” It’s not the prettiest house ever but it’s clean and tidy and fine.

  The neighbors are quiet and respectful, and you can set your watch by the yellow school bus and the postman’s van. Does it sound dull? I think I could definitely be friends with Maggie, and Liza Beth (not Elizabeth, thank you). Next door there is a Mormon family, the Petersons, who called on me after I’d been here for a week or so, all dressed in their Sunday best. If Mr. Peterson has a second or third wife (how many are they allowed?) he didn’t bring her around. Only one wife and five children. He said if I had any fixing up that needed doing he’d be glad to help. That’s sweet, isn’t it?

  I’ve done some impossible things in my time, haven’t I, Lawrence? I know I’ve said this to you already—after the first date we went on, I told my friends I was going to marry the Prince of Wales. Well, it turned out to be no idle boast. Then I did the impossible again and divorced him. And now—living an ordinary life. Without being totally miserable. That’s what I want. Can it be beyond me to achieve such a thing? Sometimes it still seems like a distant dream.

  In all my dark hours, when I could scream and howl, I find myself turning to you. When I swam out that night, one year, two months, and ten days ago, maybe I wasn’t in my right mind. It wasn’t only a folly but a kind of atrocity I committed. How can I live with that? By reassuring myself that you, sane, sensible, careful, rational Lawrence, didn’t tell me that it couldn’t be done. That it shouldn’t be done. I have more faith in your judgment than I have in mine.

  Maybe it’s time for me to stop writing these letters. I should really be standing on my own two feet by now, shouldn’t I?

  Affectionately yours,

  Lydia

  25 November 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  You thought I’d never be able to see the boys again. Does it feel good to be right? Does it? How smug are you feeling now?

  I’ll never be able to bring them to me. The idea is monstrous. You knew that. You should have made me see. I relied on you and you let me down. Why didn’t you make me see?

  Lydia

  27 November 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  Less than a month until Christmas. The shops (the stores, as I call them now) are full of decorations and fairy lights. My second Christmas. I wonder if I will be on my own again this year. I should be used to it by now. They weren’t letting me have the boys anyway, were they?

  I was a bit sharp with you in my last letter. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. There’s not a day, not an hour, when I’m not battling to keep it down. Yes, it’s always about my boys but I can’t write about them.

  Maybe there will be a time, when they have children of their own (that’s what I keep thinking) when they would be able to understand. I have to believe that. They will come to me and I will explain. They’ll forgive me, won’t they?

  I know it can’t be soon. I damaged them once and I can’t risk damaging them again. I have to be very, very sure. I have to wait.

  I’m glad I can still talk to you. You’re the one person who never abandoned me. Sometimes I felt the boys had abandoned me. I know they didn’t. But those feelings came up. Have I shocked you? No, you already knew.

  Yours in admiration,

  Lydia

  3 December 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  I have spent the entire last week in a lather. Somehow I convinced myself that Maggie knew. I was having coffee one morning with her and Liza Beth and Elsa Peterson, and Elsa said, “How long did you say you’ve lived in the US, Lydia?” and Maggie said, “Lydia’s quite mysterious when it comes to her past.” She winked at me. I totally froze. I mean, that’s the first time someone’s said something like that. And the wink! Why wink like that unless you know something?

  I glossed it over. But I kept thinking about other little comments she’s made. Like, one time, she said I was very maternal, a natural with her kids, and she kept asking about how much time I’d spent around children. I practically had my bags packed. For five nights straight I didn’t sleep at all. Joe Peterson came over to mend the kitchen tap that was dripping (he’s been a good neighbor and friend) and he said, “Lydia, you look all tuckered out.” I cried and cried. He sat me down at the kitchen table and we had a sort of heart-to-heart. I’ve been in desperate need of that. You can’t imagine how hard it is, not having a single friend in the world.

  You’re thinking it can’t have been much of a heart-to-heart because there’s so much I have to hide. Well, for once, Lawrence, you are plain wrong. There was plenty I could talk about. Like how it’s difficult to be a woman living alone, how I hardly know anyone in the neighborhood, how my marriage never stood a chance, how I don’t know what to do with my life now that it is entirely mine, to do with whatever I like. Joe is a very easy person to talk to, very patient, very kind. By the time we’d finished ta
lking I had calmed down. Maggie came around the next morning to ask if I’d like to help with the costumes for the school Christmas play. Of course she hasn’t a clue. I’m going to do some sewing. I haven’t done any for such a long time.

  Isn’t it astonishing that even though I’m nobody now, people still think I’m worth knowing?

  I think that eventually my boys could be proud of me. What do you think? Maybe all three of you will be proud of me.

  With my love,

  Lydia

  6 December 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  I got cracking with the costumes straightaway. Three outfits for three wise men out of three old sheets. Not exactly haute couture but I made a tidy job of them. Maggie’s coming round later with the next batch to be sewn, the shepherds. I know this is a big leap to make, but perhaps I will end up doing something professionally after all. Designing dresses, working in fashion. You did say I have all sorts of experience that I’ll be able to put to good use. You’re the fourth wise man.

  Joe popped over last night and we had a lovely chat again. He’s offered to tidy up the yard for me, it’s running a bit wild. I said I’d pay him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. People can be so kind when you least expect it.

  I always felt my grandmother’s presence, even after she left this earth. People scoffed when I used a medium to contact her. You never did, but now I do think that was a bit silly. I can talk to you without help from anyone.

  Your Lydia

  12 December 1998

  Dear Lawrence,

  Looks like I’ll be on my own again for Christmas. No one’s speaking to me. Not Maggie, not Liza Beth, obviously not Elsa Peterson. I felt like going round there and saying, look Elsa, I don’t want your husband, you can have him. Why did he have to tell her? He said, “Lydia, it would have been on my conscience.” So now he’s told her it’s all okay for everyone except me.

  I have to get away from this place. Don’t expect me to stay here after all this. Have I done something so very bad? Is it always me in the wrong? Why are you blaming me, and not him? Am I the one person in the entire world who never deserves to be happy?

  Lydia

  30 January 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I’m not even sure that you care where I am or what I’m doing so I haven’t bothered to write to you. For your information, I’ve moved again, but it’s not so very different here. Was my life really worse than this before I dived off the boat? Tell me that. In what way is this an improvement?

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s better because I’ve stopped caring. If you can stop caring then you can’t be hurt. In the morning I wait for the day to end. After that I wait for the night to end. They always do. The next day and night always come around. You can rely on that.

  I can hardly hear you, Lawrence. Speak, if you have anything to say.

  I am still your Lydia

  25 February 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I can’t write down a scream, can I? I can’t write down endless blank hours. Write it down. Write it down, you tell me. But what? Here I am. I exist. I’m making these marks on the page. I must exist. I am no more alive than you.

  Talk to me.

  Lydia

  14 March 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  If I could keep the vomiting down to once or twice a day that wouldn’t be too awful. You know, at my worst it was six or seven times in one day. I’m nowhere near as bad as that. It’s not as though I’m harming anyone.

  You are really very faint. You haven’t left me, have you?

  Love as always,

  Lydia

  27 March 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  Every day for the past month I have wanted to write you a proper, long letter and tell you everything. I have all these thoughts swirling around. Then when I sit down there’s nothing. I’m all empty again. I go and eat. You know what I do after that. It’s getting worse. What shall I do, Lawrence? I want it to stop.

  With love,

  Lydia

  11 April 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I left my life. I left my children. I left everything. And I left you. I let you die without me there. How could I have done that? I could only think of one person. So I left everything but I took that one person with me. I thought I was leaving her behind too.

  With my useless but eternal love,

  Lydia

  14 June 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  You know I’ve moved on once more. Another fresh start, a new beginning. I thought you would be skeptical but you seemed to approve. That makes a difference, you know. I feel you watching over me again. Always when I am walking I feel you near. So I walk and walk.

  You were with me when I made an appointment with the craniosacral therapist a few days after I moved in. “Ma’am,” you said, “if I may be so bold as to venture an observation—you have tried all of these therapies before.” I told you to be quiet, of course. And to stop calling me ma’am. But I didn’t go. I canceled the appointment, and instead I went for a walk. I have to say you were right. It is surprisingly difficult to be angry with anyone, even with yourself, when you are surrounded by trees, trees, and more trees. I always hated the country. My husband’s mistress was mistress of our country house. “Their” country house, I should say. Balmoral was bloody awful, as you know. Endless jigsaws and shooting at animals. I couldn’t stand it.

  Now it’s just me and the trees, and I can walk without wondering where the photographers are and where the pictures will appear. My legs are stiff at the end of the day. I am getting muscles in my calves. Swimming helps stretch it all out. I toyed with joining a health club but it was very expensive, and I’m not touching the money you said to keep aside for when I’m ready to buy a house of my own. The municipal pool is only crowded at weekends.

  I have to think about getting a job. The money for bills and food and rent won’t last forever. Thank you for reminding me.

  Your devoted,

  Lydia

  23 June 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I don’t know how long this calm will last. I don’t trust it yet. But I’ll carry on doing what I’m doing. If nothing else I’m going to be very fit. I find myself looking forward to the day: walk, swim, walk, that’s all. I don’t have to drag myself out of bed.

  In hope,

  Lydia

  2 July 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I have been thinking it all through, over and over, on my walks. I changed everything, so I thought everything would be different. And nothing was. Not really. Not different enough, anyway. I always had someone to blame before. I’ve run out of culprits now.

  Sometimes I don’t think at all when I’m walking. I look at the colors of the leaves. I look at the way the moss shines on a stone. Or I find myself squatting down, studying creatures on the forest floor. Today I watched two huge stag beetles locking antlers. Then I went for a swim in the afternoon. I was starving this evening. It’s good to eat when you’re hungry. I’d forgotten that. In the last month I’ve only had four episodes. Not perfect, but a lot better.

  Thank you for bearing with me.

  Your Lydia

  6 August 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  You can’t escape from yourself, but you can learn how to live with yourself. You can try, anyway. If it’s possible for someone else to teach you how, I never found that person. And goodness knows I looked hard enough.

  I just read through all my letters. Still demanding, aren’t I? No more, I promise. I’ve kept them all in a box and I’m going to hang on to them. Maybe at some point in the future I’ll look at them again.

  Truly yours,

  Lydia

  30 August 1999

  Dear Lawrence,

  I’m going to stop writing these letters now. I can choose what to put in a letter and what to leave out. As though you can only see what I want you to see. A letter just gives you a tiny bit of a p
erson. I’d like to give you more than that, my whole life as a letter to you.

  There will be days when I don’t make you proud. I hope they will be few and far between.

  I always knew when I fell short of your standards, Lawrence, even when you pretended to approve. You did that too often. You were too kind.

  There’s that little lift in your eyebrows. I know what you’re thinking. Tomorrow, she’ll be writing again to tell me off for something. That’s okay, Lawrence. Maybe I won’t be able to change. I might manage it, though, if I put my heart into it. I nearly said, if I put my mind to it. I’d rather count on my heart, wayward though it has been sometimes.

  I see you, Lawrence. I know you see me.

  Your ever-loving

  Lydia

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Wednesday came around again Lydia helped Amber change the window display. They lifted down the four mannequins and stripped them and dismembered their arms. The mannequins bore their indignities with Mona Lisa smiles.

  “I was thinking I should put the evening gowns in,” said Amber. “But maybe all four would be too much.”