Dear Edward

by Ann Napolitano

  Edward stops when he reaches the hedge that backs up against the garage. He doesn’t question the sight of the boys in front of him. He feels like his imagination, perhaps fueled by the contents of the letters, has been butting up against reality lately. In his daydreams, he often sees Gary, his blond beard flecked with gray, taking notes on the deck of his research boat. In the gym a few days earlier, Edward thought he’d seen Benjamin Stillman lifting weights in the mirror. The soldier was dressed in his uniform, the same one he’d been wearing on the plane. He was deadlifting an enormous amount of weight. He’d looked real, to the extent that Edward almost dropped the dumbbell he was holding. He spun around, while Mrs. Tuhane barked, “Adler, pay attention!” But, of course, no one was there.

  Edward watches Jordan, who appears to be about nine years old. This was the boy who jumped off the top of a car to impress Shay. His black hair, always untamable, shoots in several different directions. Edward has no problem recalling every plane of his brother’s face, even as his parents’ faces and voices zoom in and out of focus. He doesn’t know why Jordan remains perfectly distinct while his parents blur, but perhaps it’s because he’d always considered his brother to be part of him. They are inextricable, even now. Edward smiles because his brother is smiling at the sword in his hand.

  A question appears in his mind: What can I do for you?

  Immediately, it seems strange that this didn’t occur to Edward earlier, that it took an avalanche of letters from strangers to reveal this as a possibility. Lacey had kissed his cheek for her sister, which surely means Edward can do something for his brother. He can look at a day—today—and think, If Jordan were here, what would he want to do?

  Edward’s not sure where to start, but he’s hungry again, so he decides to start with food. He squeezes through the hedge and checks that John and Lacey’s cars are gone before heading to the kitchen. He can eat the way his brother would choose to, which means the meal Edward carries from the kitchen to the garage is almost exactly Jordan’s last meal on the plane: carrot sticks, a small pot of applesauce, and a hummus sandwich.

  When he opens the door to the garage, a voice says, “What, you didn’t bring any food for me? So rude.”

  Shay is sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, next to the duffel bags. “Don’t be mad,” she says. “We won’t get in trouble, I promise. I’ll lie my pants off if I have to.”

  Edward frowns, but it’s just to register his skepticism. He’s not mad.

  “Besides,” she says, “we’ll get twice as much reading done together.”

  He settles down beside her. “Hand me a letter.”

  She unzips the second duffel bag, which they’re two-thirds of the way through. Shay’s spreadsheet is next to them, to write down the different requests.

  They both read for a few minutes, then Shay says, “Don’t tell me you weren’t happy to see me.”

  He says, truthfully, “I’m always happy to see you.”

  He opens the folder, as if to cross-reference the letter he’d just read with a victim’s photograph. Really, he just wants to glance at the photo of Jordan. It seems possible to Edward that he’d made the decision to stay home today, to be here, because of Jordan. His brother would certainly have played hooky. The fully formed motivation had simply followed in the wake of the action. What would Jordan do? What can I do for Jordan? He is the age his brother was when he died, and Edward feels—hopes—that he’s entered his brother’s orbit in a new way.

  He reads a series of letters with more demands on how he should live. Fulfill every dream. My son was afraid to fail and so never joined a band. Don’t be afraid to take risks.

  My daughter was lazy and put her dreams off because she thought she had nothing but time. Then she got on a plane to visit her sister in Los Angeles. She told me she would start working hard after her trip. Think of how much your mama must miss you, and make her proud.

  I’m sorry for rambling—I’ve been in the Jack Daniel’s—but my lady was the love of my life and she was in pastry school because she had a gift for pastry. I wish you could have tried her beignets. They were fucking fantastic. Figure out what your gift is, Edward Adler, and then blow that shit up. You owe my lady that.

  Usually, Edward experiences these kinds of letters as a crushing weight on his chest. Today, though, eating his brother’s sandwich, with Shay at his side, he feels a shot of Jordan’s crinkly, excited energy. Jordan was always looking for the opportunity to say, Fuck no. To defy their dad’s expectations and curfews, to opt out when everyone else was opting in. Edward never had that inclination, but he feels like he’s ingesting it with the hummus. Fuck no? he thinks, and it’s the first time he’s considered it as an option. Fuck no, to the people telling him how to live.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and writes a text to Mrs. Cox. I’m really sorry, but I haven’t read the investing book. I tried to, but the subject isn’t interesting to me, so I couldn’t get through it. Shay and I have really enjoyed the biographies you’ve sent, though. I hope you’re not disappointed.

  When he sends the text, Edward immediately feels lighter. He’s felt guilty about his silence over the book since he received it. He pulls another letter out of the bag.

  Hey, Edward,

  My mother died a long time ago of depression and my brother, Mark, even though he crashed in your goddamn plane, would have died of depression eventually too. All I ever knew was that I wasn’t going to go that way, and that’s why I surf and smoke and don’t own anything that doesn’t fit inside my van. If I don’t love it, I don’t keep it.

  Mark left me all his money in his will, even though we hadn’t spoken in three years, which was a kind of fuck-you to the way I’ve chosen to live my life. He wanted to saddle me with millions—after I paid off his ridiculous debts—so I would have to buy a house and a Benz and some fancy vases to fill my empty shelves. He wanted me to be like him, which just means rich and miserable and always in credit-card debt, but I’m not doing that. I’m giving the whole fuckload away. The insurance money too. Well, after I fix the back left tire on my van and buy a new board.

  My girl is a Buddhist, and she’s always saying thank you to the beach and to the waves and the sunset. I used to think it was all woo-woo bullshit, but I like listening to her talk. I’ve caught myself thanking a tree once or twice. I’ve decided that even though it’s bullshit, it’s the good kind.

  Anyway, she tells me to say thank you to Mark, because his death set me free all over again. Made me realize how important my chosen life is. But I think instead I’m going to say thank you to you, kid. Thank you for receiving this letter. Thank you for your life, and for being the one that was saved.

  I’ve enclosed a check for the amount I got from the will and the insurance guys. I want you to have it. You can keep it, or give it away, whatever you want. I don’t care what you do. You deserve it, man, after what you’ve been through. And I got no use for it at all.

  So, thank you, and peace, brother.

  Jax Lassio

  The postmark on the envelope says that he mailed the letter almost two years earlier, and there’s a check enclosed, made out to Edward Adler, for $7,300,000.

  “Uh,” Edward says.

  “What?” Shay takes the letter from him. She reads quickly, and her mouth falls open.

  He studies the rectangular check and the numbers written on it.

  “Hold it up to the light,” Shay says. “They always do that in movies. I don’t know why.”

  Edward lifts his arm. Framed by the window, it’s still a check, with the same impossible number of zeros.

  “Holy shit,” Shay says. “Holy shit. Do you think it’s a joke?”

  “No.” Edward flips open the folder and finds Mark Lassio’s photograph. The man’s brash grin makes him look like someone who expects to be on magazine covers. Edward remem
bers Mark leaving the bathroom before the flight attendant. He hadn’t been grinning, but he’d looked satisfied, as if that had been another magazine spread, as if he was where he wanted to be. Gross, Eddie had said to Jordan. How was it possible that Edward was now in a net that contained that man and his brother?

  “You don’t even need the money,” Shay says, behind him. “This is insane.”

  * * *

  —

  When the school loudspeaker summons Edward to the principal’s office the next afternoon, Edward assumes Principal Arundhi figured out that he’d skipped school. On the way through the halls, Edward looks for Shay, wanting to tell her that this was her fault; they are a package deal, so the double absence was glaringly obvious, and they have been caught.

  Principal Arundhi meets him at the door. A watering can dangles from his hand at an odd angle, as if it were a cigarette, and his suit looks like it’s been slept in.

  “What’s wrong?” Edward says. This has to be more than him missing school; the principal looks like a seam that’s been picked apart.

  “It must be a virus. Six ferns have died in the last three days. Six. I’ve removed the affected plants.” The principal gestures to a blank stretch on the windowsill. One of the hanging pots is gone as well. “I’m hoping that will end the transmission. I see no signs of illness on the others.” He looks at Edward blankly. “All I can do is take care of the ones that remain.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yes.”

  Principal Arundhi looks like he’s not going to say more, as if specifics aren’t necessary, only the promise of help. Edward says, “How?”

  “I’d like you to take the kangaroo paw home. I don’t know where the virus started. My home, as well as this office, might be infected. Please take him home with you just until I get everyone back in good health.”

  Edward looks at the old fern in the corner, ensconced in its bright-yellow pot. It is Principal Arundhi’s oldest and favorite plant. “But what if I kill it?”

  “I trust you, Edward,” the principal says. “I trust you completely.”

  * * *

  —

  When Edward gets home, he sets up a station in the basement. He places the yellow pot on a card table directly beneath the window that gets the best light. Beside the fern is a bag of plant food and a spray bottle filled with room-temperature water. Edward checks the soil and mists the leaves.

  Shay is hopping up and down on the other side of the basement. “I’m still trying to calm down,” she says, when he gives her a look. “Seven million dollars.”

  “I know,” he says.

  “I googled and it looks like you can deposit a check that’s two years old, as long as the money is still in the originating bank account. Will you please stop obsessing over that bush?”

  “Fern,” he says. “And, no, I won’t.”

  “You could buy about twelve houses in this town with that money,” she says. “Or maybe an entire island somewhere! What are you going to do?”

  Edward has the check in his back pocket. He didn’t know where to put it, so keeping it on his person seemed safest. He touches the pocket now reflexively. He imagines himself surfing next to Jax, whom he pictures looking like a longhaired movie star. They pass the check back and forth in the middle of the waves.

  “I can’t deal with it now.”

  “I know. You can’t deal with anything until you finish the letters.” Shay sounds exasperated, and out of breath from the jumping.

  “That’s right.” Edward presses the soil with his finger. He wonders if the plant knows it’s in a new location and is confused. He wonders if it misses Principal Arundhi.

  Shay stays for dinner that night, and when they slide into their seats in front of plates of pork chops, broccoli, and mashed potatoes, Edward says, “I guess I should tell you guys that I’m eating vegan now.”

  Lacey wrinkles her nose, as if he’s said a word she’s never heard before. “Vegan?”

  Shay says, “I’ll eat his pork chop and his mashed potatoes, if you made them with milk. Don’t worry, nothing will go to waste.”

  “Why the change?” John says.

  Edward tells the truth. “I’m doing it for my brother.” He pauses, and it occurs to him that his aunt and uncle probably hadn’t been up to date on his brother’s eating habits. He says, “Jordan became vegan a few weeks before he died.”

  Both his aunt and uncle flinch, and he knows it’s because he used the word died. He has always said the crash when referencing the loss of his family. They all have. History is divided into before the crash and after the crash.

  “You don’t need to cook any differently,” he says. “I’ll eat whatever vegetable you’re eating and make myself a sandwich.”

  John says, “I’m sure we could stand to eat more vegetables around here.”

  “I don’t want you to change anything.” Edward hears the stridency in his voice, but can’t help it. He’s annoyed that he had to tell them at all, and he’s annoyed that they’re having a response. This choice, this idea, belongs to him and Jordan, and no one else.

  “That’s nice that you’re doing that for your brother,” Lacey says, but she sounds unsure.

  Stop worrying, and stop taking sleeping pills, and pay attention to your marriage, Edward wants to say but does not.

  * * *

  —

  At midnight in the garage, Shay divides a small handful of unread letters between them. Edward opens the one on the top of his pile.

  Dear Eddie,

  My name is Mahira. My uncle owns the deli you went to all the time with your family. I don’t know if you know about me? Jordan said he didn’t tell anyone, but maybe you didn’t count as anyone. So, maybe I need to tell you that we were together, that he was my first boyfriend. I can’t speak for your brother’s feelings, of course, only my own. I loved Jordan.

  The minute he told me that your family was moving to the West Coast, I decided I would go to college in Los Angeles. I didn’t tell him that, in case it didn’t happen, but I knew we weren’t really saying goodbye. I want to study physics, and there are some excellent programs out there. I’d pictured that entire future. I’d pictured meeting you, his brother. I’d imagined you and me becoming friends while standing on a beach.

  I’m eighteen now, and I told my uncle that I needed to take a year off before college. So I’m working in the deli while my uncle visits family in Pakistan. Why am I telling you any of this? I think because I want to tell Jordan. I wish I had told him my—our—future before he got on the plane. I thought I had time. It’s strange to be young and run out of time, isn’t it? I also wanted to write in order to tell you that your name always made Jordan smile. If I were you, I would want to be told that.

  I wish you well, Eddie,

  Mahira

  Edward reads the letter over and over, on a loop. He might have kept reading the page until it was time to leave the garage, but Shay notices and says, “Is that one okay?”

  He hands it to her.

  When she looks up, she says, “Did you know he had a girlfriend?”

  “No.” The word echoes inside him, as if he’s become an empty well.

  “Did you know this girl at all?”

  He shakes his head. “I probably saw her in the deli, but I don’t remember.”

  “Seven million dollars and a girlfriend,” Shay says, in a hushed voice.

  Edward pictures his brother running around tree trunks, jumping off the roof of a car, holding his arms outstretched for airport security. He feels an ache spread through his center, like the fault line before an earthquake. He thinks: What can I do for you, Jordan? What does this mean? How can I help?

  The answer is immediate: Go see the girl.

  3.

  “We contain the other, hopelessly and fo
rever.”

  —JAMES BALDWIN

  2:07 P.M.

  The frozen rain hitting the aircraft causes a glitch. The pitots (named after the early-eighteenth-century French engineer and inventor Henri Pitot), which look like small steel Popsicle sticks on the outside of the plane, freeze. Pitots aren’t supposed to freeze—even at arctic temperatures—a critical fact that will be brought up in the NTSB hearing seven months later. While frozen, pitots are unable to do their job, which is to assess the aircraft’s speed. This is unfortunate, but planes are embedded with backup plans. If one engine fails, there is another of equal power. In this case, the failure of the pitots triggers the autopilot system to disengage. The plane is no longer on cruise control. The pilots need to check the sensors on the dashboard, and assess the speed and balance of the plane themselves.

  The rain has stopped, but the weather—an incredibly sensitive ocean of air and moisture—is still very much at play. Pockets of air pressure swirl around the plane like flocks of migrating birds. When the senior pilot reenters the cockpit after using the bathroom, he sinks into the left seat and studies the radar. He allows the co-pilot to continue to be in charge of the instrumentation.

  The pilot says, “Rotor turbulence. Bigger than it looked on the radar.” He stares at the screen. “Pull a little to the left, to avoid draft.”

  The co-pilot, a man twelve years the pilot’s junior, looks worried. “What?”

  “Pull a little left. We’re on manual now, yes?”

  The co-pilot nods and banks the plane to the left. A strange aroma, a burnt smell, floods the cockpit. The temperature also increases.