by Ari Rhoge
The entire thing was written in pen — all three sheets of paper. It had fragments crossed out and words blotted — the end result kind of reminded me of the blue-book essays we were forced to do throughout high school in the course of 55 minutes. But it was legible, which I considered unfortunate. It'd be so much easier to chuck it into the wastebasket and call it a day. I read on:
Lizzy,
Your first impulse is probably to rip this letter in pieces. You can take a deep breath; I'm not going to humiliate myself anymore by repeating how I feel. I think I'm mortified enough, and you've made me acutely aware of how you feel on the subject.
More self-pity. Shocker.
The purpose of this letter is to defend myself. I think it's only fair that I address all that you accused me of; I'd appreciate it if you read through. First off, I know we argued about your sister. And I'll repeat myself. I split Charlie and Jane up, but with no malicious intent on my part whatsoever. He's had rocky relationships in the past, and I've seen him devote so much to women and walk away absolutely devastated in return. Maybe my judgment was flawed in thinking that Jane was apathetic, but please understand that I only wanted what was best for my friend. He might as well be my brother.
Also, I think that the issue of George Wickham has raged on long enough, and you deserve to know the truth. I take responsibility in not sharing it with you earlier. I had plenty of opportunities. So, here it is: Wickham and I were roommates freshman year of college - maybe you already knew this, depending on what he told you. We were well-acquainted, but not that close. Though, this didn't exactly stop me from lending a helping hand. He had a gambling problem, so, I (probably stupidly) helped him pay a part of his tuition. He was very thankful and gracious, of course, until I discovered two months later what source the charity had gone to.
I should have said something then and there, and I'm probably always going to kick myself for not doing so. By the time a mutual friend's holiday party came around, Wickham returned to our dorm nearly wasted, making it perfectly clear (verbalizing it, actually) as to where my money had gone to. There was a stash of pot under his bedsheet, and also in a safebox beneath his bed. Needless to say, I was furious. I threatened to expose him unless he got rid of it all. He lit up, just to be spiteful, and I couldn't control myself anymore. We got into a fight [here there was a smudge of ink, and I made out broke and nose among crossed out words] and the joint was tossed somewhere, and then the smoke detector went off.
I couldn't defend him, nor did I want to. He had betrayed my generosity and our friendship, and I owed him nothing in return. And so, I didn't stick up for him. He was discovered, and thrown out within the week. I hadn't heard from him again until I saw you with him that afternoon months ago. Then, on the 30th of November, Georgy called me in tears from a hotel room in Center City. All this time, she had been seeing George Wickham in secret without even being aware of his connections or intentions. Wickham had taken her to a Hilton in town for the weekend, and she had stepped out to make a phone call in the lobby. When she returned, Wickham was gone, leaving her stranded in the middle of the city with no means of getting back. She was devastated and terrified. I can't even begin to describe it. She wanted to leave Philadelphia of her own accord - I had never fully supported her living so far off from home, but it was ultimately her decision. She felt stupid and tricked, and her pride was wounded. Home was the answer at the time, and this was why she left you. You can understand that she was too embarrassed to be honest with you and your sister. It takes a while to recover from something like this. We have since not found Wickham.
At this point, I put the letter down, paced, took a couple breaths of air, and got another glass of water from the tap. I picked up the letter again, feeling sick.
Lastly, in passing, you mentioned a manuscript of yours. You have to realize that I didn't even realize what you were talking about at first. As soon as I came back to the hotel (before hunting down Charlotte), I immediately phoned my office. It was faxed over a little less than an hour ago, and I recognize it now. And, Lizzy, part of me is really afraid that you've been judging me based on the single rejection letter I sent back this past summer; the fact that it was your manuscript is just unbelievable irony. I can't tell if you've been holding on to a pre-determined hate just because of this. And, if that is the case, you can't even begin to understand how sorry I am that you feel this way.
I hate my job. I've told you this. But I meant my criticisms, and I still do. I apologize if you took them personally. But, Lizzy, it was your choice to send the manuscript where you sent it. It was only one opinion, and it was your choice to react the way that you did.
In any case, I think you have potential to be a great writer. But I'd take Rich's advice into consideration. You've got the brains and sharpness for journalism. Who knows what could happen.
I realize that I'm most likely the last person you'd consider listening to about your future, especially given the circumstances. You've made it clear how you feel about me, and I won't be bothering you again.
Take care of yourself,
Will
This letter (yes, all three sheets) was dog-eared by midnight. Many curses had followed, a lot of angry pacing was done, and several passages were revisited - I had burst into angry tears right around the part explaining Georgy's situation, and especially at the end, like clockwork, every time I read the thing.
I felt like the epitome of a fucktard, as Jane had put it nearly a month ago. God, it felt like so much longer. I felt betrayed and cheated and as dense as I had accused Will Darcy of being. I was actually angry at him for writing it to begin with. I was angry at him for making my anger unjust. If I had a choice to be ignorant of it, I would've trashed the envelope without even opening it.
No, you wouldn't have.
Around two in the morning, I settled into bed, fully clothed. I read the letter one more time, swallowed two Advil tabs, and fell into the kind of deep sleep that only follows when you've used up probably every emotion you're capable of expending in a single day.
19
—
Audrey, Christmas, and Denial
You know that a trip away from home inadvertently has gone wrong when you feel a part of your actual being change for the worse.
I've never really been that girl to run away from her problems. In fact, I grew up despising girls like that. My father raised me with some balls, and a solid wedge of advice — face your problems head-on, chin firmly lifted.
Pathetic.
I fled Rosings with my tail between my legs. Shuffling through airports and customs and baggage claim (I think there might have been a flight at some point too), the only palpable thing I felt was cowardice. And, okay, maybe some guilt — I had shelled out way too much cash for a brand spanking new, one-way ticket back home. Hey, more debt.
So, I would be spending the holiday with my family after all. We were three days away from Christmas Eve — and, honestly? I was kind of psyched. I wanted hair-yanking anxiety and my mother's shrill commands and horrible cooking. I was even up for Marin's overgrown bitch-fests, and the younger twins' stupid, shit-for-brains giggling. I wanted Nat King Cole on repeat, playing in the kitchen, and our tree with handmade decorations and any household fire Dad might cause in response. I didn't know why I had convinced myself otherwise. Home was home.
Jane had picked me up by the terminal, eyes practically sparkling, color back in her cheeks. In the car, I chalked up my reasons for leaving to “homesickness”, slumping further and further in my seat with each lie. So, I'm pretty much a shithead now.
“Mom and Dad will be so happy to see you,” Jane assured me, grinning. I had missed that spark to her, and I couldn't help but smile too. Florida had done some good. She continued — “oh, and the Phillipses actually couldn't make it,” Jane shared, wincing. “Danny had a sledding accident. Broke his knee in three places.”
“Nice,” I sighed. “That's the accident-prone cousin, right? The one we should bu
bble-wrap?” I hugged my knees to my chest, watching as she changed lanes on I-95. She snorted, and I rested my head against the window.
“Oh, Lizzy,” she sighed, taking a hand from the wheel to squeeze mine. “You can't imagine how much fun I had with the Gardiners. They have such a beautiful home. All I did was eat, sleep, and take walks on the beach — and I know that it's monotonous, but it was heaven. Believe me.”
“I believe you. I'm happy, Jane,” I said, quietly, scanning her face. Jane bit her lower lip. And I suddenly got the impression that she was trying too hard. But a second later she looked perfectly happy.
“So,” she said, grinning widely, turning my way. “What about Rosings? Any wild, exciting stories? Scandals I should be aware of? I mean, from what Charlotte's said, it's a tame area. But with you involved, who knows.”
“Oh, funny.” I looked out the window, at blurred, slush-covered roads from a snowfall two days ago. “Just the usual, you know,” I murmured. “Relaxed with Charlotte, avoided Collins. That's pretty much it.”
Angered a rich, self-convinced aristocrat. Delighted in the kindred spirit that is Rich “Richie Cunningham” Fitzwilliam. Collected quotes. Caused dinner ruckus. Went pre-commando. Drank coffee. Kissed Will Darcy. Slapped Will Darcy. Fought with Will Darcy. Was professed love to by Will Darcy.
Goddamn it.
His letter was actually still in my carry-on. I didn't know what to do with it. Apparently, I'm still a masochist, because I actually read it again, on the flight. You know, before I shoved it away — out of self-disgust — and settled for some book Marin had begged me to read — Twilight. Of course, that shit was tossed soon enough too.
“At least it was a chance to get away, right?” Jane continued, checking out her rear-view mirror. “We all need some time to branch away from our lives. Vacations are a must. And if you can come back home with a little less stress, than what can possibly be better than that?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Exactly. Nothing better.”
• • •
The next couple of days flew by in a maze of family squawking, knitted Christmas scarves (Kit's holiday contribution), scorched, oversize cookies, a humongous family dinner, and mass cleaning. It actually couldn't have come at a more opportune time. I was wide-open for a distraction. And with my inflated, drama-centered family? Mission accomplished.
I spent the last couple of hours of Christmas Eve curled up on the couch beside my father, cradling a mug of tea and watching Roman Holiday. It was one of the more peaceful moments that week, and I felt myself nodding off, buried in our oversize quilt. Dad carefully detached the mug from my hands, setting it on the coffee table.
“I was going to drink that,” I murmured, sleepily.
“No,” he corrected, smiling slowly. “You were going to droop sideways, fall asleep, and pour piping-hot green tea into my lap. I don't like second-degree burns, least of all on Christmas.” I snorted, and elbowed him, and he let me, rocking to the side.
“I'm sorry,” I said, yawning into my fist. “I'm kind of out of it. Mom made me and Marin clean out nearly all the closets on the first floor. I don't get it… Christmas isn't exactly a chance to leap on extended spring cleaning, you know?”
Dad shrugged, taking my cup. “She's your mother — you should know her antics. And the house is filthy, anyway. You kids aren't saints of cleanliness. Far from it.”
I gaped at him. “I don't even live here, anymore.”
“A likely excuse,” he said, smiling slyly. He turned back, and nodded his head at the TV. “I bet Audrey Hepburn never made a mess. Gregory Peck, maybe. But just look at her. She's so prim and gussied up.”
“Gussied up,” I snorted, softly. I rested my head on his shoulder. “Gregory Peck is lovely. Atticus Finch, hello?”
“I haven't seen that in years,” Dad reflected, quietly.
“I would name my dog that,” I said, sleepily. “You know, if I ever got one.”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “You would name your dog Gregory Peck.”
“No,” I said, laughing, looking up at him. “Atticus. It's so regal. Like, come away, Atticus, to the park! Wouldn't that be awesome? Either that, or Spartacus. Maybe it's a syllable thing.”
“Lizzy, you're so silly.”
“I'm starting to realize this, yeah.”
“I'm not objecting. When you were growing up I knew you would be a weird one.” I didn't take offense to this, just grinned. Dad laughed, and went on, “honestly, I'm just happy. I thought you were sick or something for the last couple of days. You seem more like yourself today.”
I glanced up at him, confused. “I wasn't sick. Why would you think that?”
He shrugged. “You were mopey. Way too quiet. You're never quiet in this house. But you seem okay now.”
“I am okay,” I murmured, picking at the quilt's hem. Dad was looking at me carefully, with that steady blue-gray gaze of his. He's the sort of man who won't stop doing that unless you've looked up yourself. So I did, whining, “what?”
“You're doing it again,” Dad said, laughing. He hunched his shoulders deliberately, and curled his lips. “Mope, mope, mope. I haven't been to California since before you and Jane were born — is this a trend you took home with you?”
This was Dad's way of gently implying that he knew something had gone down at Rosings. I didn't need a translated dictionary. He and I got each other pretty well. I looked up at him sheepishly, and he smiled. His eyes were serious. “Well?” Dad pressed, softly. “What's eating you, kiddo?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I'm fine. I had a good trip.”
“You came back early.” When I looked up at him suddenly, he laughed. “Didn't think I knew, did you? No, I'm actually pretty observant for someone who's approaching senility. And I love you. I know when something's wrong.”
I smiled, rolling my eyes. “Give that up… you're 58.”
“Don't change the subject. Who upset you?”
I didn't know how he did it. He could be the most detached person in the universe, completely contented in his own little bubble. And, yet, he could snap back, and read you like a book… in a matter of seconds. It wouldn't matter how well you tried to conceal what you felt. He just could.
“I just,” I sighed, bracing myself. “I ran into somebody down there that I didn't expect to — that's all.” At his clear go on gesture, I rolled my eyes. “He's hard to explain. He's the best friend of the guy who broke Jane's heart, the brother of my former housemate, the editor who rejected my manuscript eons ago. It's not that big of a deal. It was just… unpleasant. Unpleasant history.”
Dad was pensive awhile. “That's weird. That he has so many different ties into your life.”
“Not weird… more like inconvenient and annoying,” I muttered, slumping. I turned back to the flat screen, watched Audrey wheel around on a Vespa, arms linked around Gregory's waist. I smiled a little.
Dad clicked his tongue. “I think I remember you talking about this guy.”
“I probably complained about him last time I was here.”
“So, you don't like him.”
I smiled ironically. “I guess that's the conclusion you can draw from me complaining —— definitely.”
“No,” Dad amended. “Not necessarily. You don't seem to know if you do or don't.”
“No, I do. I mean, I do know. I just —” I fumbled, hugging my knees to my chest. “— I don't like him.”
“You don't sound too sure,” Dad teased, smiling his crooked smile.
“What? No, I do, I —— God, you're frustrating,” I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.
“So, you're mopey because of this guy.”
“No.”
“But you just said —”
“Can we finish Roman Holiday now?”
“Lord,” he said, laughing, eyes crinkling. “You're as difficult as your mother. Leave it up to you to pluck out those genes.”
“We can't all be as laid-back as you are, Dad,” I
said, looking at him.
Then something flitted across his face. He frowned, and looked at me carefully, eyes growing wide. “He likes you, doesn't he?”
I opened my mouth.
Dad laughed. “He does. You should see your face. I don't see why I didn't get it before. You're confused. Like a little kid.”
“I'm not confused —”
“Oh, shush,” he snorted. “Of course you are. You've hated the guy since who knows when, and now that he likes you you're probably not sure if your opinion is justified. Confused. You have worry lines —— it's kind of funny.” He started to trace them with his finger, and I swatted him away, scowling.
“Dad, that's just —”
“Right,” he gloated. “That's just right. I win.”
“Whatever.” I grimaced, folding my arms across my chest.
Dad rolled his eyes. “Brat.”
Just as I whipped around to comment back, I saw that he was wincing, his hand pressed against his chest. I rose on my knees. “What? What's wrong?”
He shook his head. “Don't worry about it — it comes and goes. I had some weird anxiety attack while you were gone — still feeling side effects from it.”
“Anxiety attack?” I echoed, worried. “What did it feel like?”
“It felt like an anxiety attack,” Dad said, laughing. “Relax, goodness. Look at you. We had a backed-up shipment, and I was trying to keep things up to date. Just a stressful week.”
“Why didn't Mom call me?”
“You were on the other side of the country, Lizzy, and it wasn't a big deal.”
“Well, tell me next time, okay? It's a big deal to me,” I said, crossly. “God. Are you sure it was an anxiety attack?”
“I'm not going to keel over, Lizzy,” he said. “I'm a pretty healthy guy.”
“You've been eating sugar-cookies all evening.”
“What, these?” Dad snorted, reaching over to pluck an oversize, rock-hard cookie my sister had failed to perfect in the oven. “I wouldn't touch this death-biscuit with a 10-foot pole. —— Don't tell Marin. I like having all my teeth.”
