Happily Letter After

by Keeland, Vi

  Did I tell you my dad owns a fancy restaurant? People wear high heels to go eat there. I prefer to eat in my feetsy pajamas. But Dad makes me wear a dress on date night. That’s on the first Tuesday of every month. Mom used to go with him. But now I do. It’s my favorite day of the month. Not because I like to look all fancy and eat at Dad’s restaurant but because after dinner, Dad comes home with me. He usually works really late.

  Oh! And I also didn’t tell him I wrote to you. He would’ve told me it was too early to write to Santa and that I shouldn’t be greedy.

  Last night, I told my dad that I really want someone else to braid my hair besides him. He doesn’t know how to do it right. Then I caught him watching a YouTube video on how to braid. I told him I want the kind of braid that goes across the top of my head. The fancy one. He was watching someone make that kind of braid. If he tries to braid my hair like that, then I’m going to feel bad and let him do it. And I’ll look silly.

  Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for showing me that you’re real.

  Birdie Maxwell

  P.S. I am sending you one of my school photos. They gave me a lot, and I have no one to give them to besides Dad and my grandmas.

  P.P.S. I added something to my Christmas list. Did you ever hear of 23andMe? In school we made these big trees that showed all our parents and grandparents on all different branches. Mrs. Parker told us all about how you can spit in a tube and find people related to you going back hundreds of years. I want to add branches to my tree, enough to cover an entire wall in my bedroom! My tree was one of the skinniest in school because I don’t have any sisters or brothers.

  P.P.P.S. That wasn’t me dropping a hint. I don’t want you to buy it for me. My aunt always buys me dresses that I don’t like, so I’m saving that for her to get me this year!

  I let out a long breath and kept staring at the photo. Birdie really could have been me at her age. We had so much in common, from our blonde hair to . . . well, our dead moms.

  And her note about the braids totally brought back memories of my own dad trying in vain to do my hair way back when. He’d get so frustrated and give up. Then I’d end up going to school looking like Pippi Longstocking.

  Yup. Her dad reminded me of mine. We were both lucky to have men like that in our lives. I felt for Mr. Maxwell, whoever he was—someone doing the best he could to make his daughter’s life as normal as possible.

  When I returned to my desk with the mail, I attempted to work on my article for a bit before my mind began to wander. I started to think about Birdie again and suddenly switched my screen over to Google and typed in: Birdie Maxwell.

  No.

  Delete.

  A few seconds later, temptation once again won out. I typed: Birdie Maxwell New York, New York.

  I deleted it again.

  What am I doing?

  Just leave well enough alone.

  Why do you need to know more about this poor girl and her father?

  My heart raced as I typed again: Birdie Maxwell New York, New York.

  Not sure what I was expecting, but the very first result was something I wasn’t prepared for.

  It was an obituary. I clicked into it.

  At the top was a photo of a beautiful brown-haired woman with her arm around a little blonde girl—a younger Birdie.

  Amanda Maxwell, age 32, of New York City passed away on December 23.

  Amanda was raised in Guilford, Connecticut, and enjoyed summers growing up alongside her many cousins, all of whom grew up along the Connecticut shoreline. She enjoyed hosting large family parties at the home she shared with her husband and daughter.

  Amanda attended Guilford High School before graduating from New York University, where she majored in business. It was there that she met the love of her life, Sebastian Maxwell. Amanda worked as a business analyst in Manhattan for several years before attending culinary school. She and her husband, Sebastian, eventually opened a five-star Italian restaurant in Manhattan.

  Despite her successes, there was nothing Amanda loved more than being a mom to her darling daughter, Birdie, who was her entire world.

  Amanda is survived by her husband, Sebastian, and young daughter, Birdie Maxwell of New York City; her mother, Susan Mello of Guilford, Connecticut; brother Adam Mello of Brooklyn, New York; sister Macie Mello of New Jersey; and many loving aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  Amanda requested an intimate burial and funeral in Guilford. The family wishes to thank all of those who surrounded her with love during her last days. For those who wish to celebrate Amanda’s life, visitation will be held at Stuart’s Funeral Home on Main Street in Guilford on January 2 from 4 pm to 9 pm. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you make a memorial donation to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Amanda’s name.

  Devin’s voice startled me. “Are you crying?”

  I wiped the tears falling from my eyes. “No.”

  “What happened?”

  I grabbed a tissue and said, “It’s that little girl . . . Birdie.”

  “What about her?”

  “She . . . sent a thank-you letter with a school photo of herself. And I should’ve just read the letter and stopped there, but I ended up googling her name, and the first thing that popped up was her mother’s obituary. The whole thing just hits really close to home.”

  “Ugh. I can imagine. I’m sorry.” Devin looked at my screen, then scrolled up to the photo in the obituary, taking a few seconds to examine it.

  I clicked on the icon at the top to exit out of it. “It’s okay. Anyway, I need to just stop thinking about her and get to work.”

  “What did her letter say? I take it she got your olives?”

  I reached for the envelope and handed it to her.

  After Devin read Birdie’s letter, she said, “Oh my God. She sounds so sweet. And the dad . . . looking up videos on how to braid hair? Swoon. I bet he’s hot, too. I mean, the mom was so pretty.”

  Feeling oddly defensive, I said, “Will you stop with that?”

  “Why?”

  My reaction to her talking about the dad—like he was some piece of man candy—sort of caught me off guard. I think I was putting myself in Birdie’s shoes. This whole thing was just such a sensitive subject. Was I sad for me? For Birdie? I didn’t even know anymore.

  You know how sometimes you merely think of something and suddenly you see ads all over social media for it, as if the advertisers somehow got inside your brain?

  A few days after Birdie’s letter came, I started seeing ads in my feed for these braided headbands made out of synthetic hair. Then once you click on the ad, forget it—they never stop showing them to you. Anyway, this headband looked just like a braid across the top of the head—the exact type of braid Birdie said she wanted.

  Before I knew it, a week later, a box with the braided headband inside had arrived at my office address. I’d examined Birdie’s photo to match the headband to the closest shade of blonde.

  Taking the candy-cane-striped wrapping-paper roll out from under my desk, I wrapped the braid before addressing the box and sending it on to Eighty-Third Street.

  CHAPTER 3

  SADIE

  Some days I worked in the office, and other days my assignments took me out. For my upcoming online dating feature, titled Best Out of Ten, I scheduled two dates a day for five consecutive days. To minimize the variables involved, I met all ten men at the same exact restaurant, even sitting at the same exact table. The idea of the piece was to determine whether quantity amounted to quality—whether you could find at least one good apple out of ten online prospects.

  The answer for me, unfortunately, was no. Not a single one of my ten dates was someone I could see myself meeting again. One of the guys let me foot the entire bill after I offered to pay my half. Never even took out his card. When I asked if he wanted to split it, he informed me that “funds are tight at the moment.” Another guy asked me if I minded letting him smell the inside of my shoe. Apparently, he had a foot
fetish. The other eight were no better, each one displaying some characteristic that was a hard no for me.

  So at the end of this particular week, I was more exhausted than usual when I stopped into the grocery store at the corner of my street. Days like this, I wished Cairo stocked alcohol in here, because I was too tired to make a separate stop at a liquor store tonight.

  Perusing the aisles, I grabbed a bag of cheese puffs, Devil Dogs, a large bottle of Coke Zero, some Sour Patch Kids, and a frozen pepperoni pizza. It was going to be that kind of night.

  When I got to the register, Cairo’s eyes widened at the sight of my junk-food extravaganza.

  As he rang up my stuff, he started to smirk like he always did while his mind was cooking up a new joke.

  “Whaddya got for me tonight, Cairo?”

  He came out with it. “What did the horny pizza say to the pepperoni?”

  “What?”

  “I like you on top.” He laughed.

  “Ah. Nice.” Not sure if it was my mood today, but I found that one more annoying than amusing.

  “You staying in tonight?” he asked. “No hot date?”

  “I’ve had ten hot dates this week, if you can believe it, except they were more like hot messes. I’ve never been happier to spend a Friday night alone in my life.” I ran my credit card through his machine and smiled. “Have a good weekend, Cairo.”

  As I carried my handle-less paper bag out of the grocery store, my text notification chimed. I reached into my purse and took out my phone as a breeze blew my skirt up, nearly exposing me to people passing by.

  Devin: You never came back to the office after your assignment today, so I picked up your mail. You got another letter from that little girl, Birdie. I took it home with me if you want me to drop it by.

  Shit. Did I want to get into that tonight? I knew it would make me emotional. I was better off just escaping into some Netflix and calling it a night. Yet, even though I knew what was best for me, I typed the opposite.

  Sadie: Yeah. That would be great. I bought some junk food if you’re down. Bring a bottle of wine.

  Later that evening, Devin and I had finished off the pizza, half of the other snacks, a bottle of wine, and three episodes of Stranger Things before I decided to open the letter.

  Dear Santa,

  Thank you for sending the braid. I wasn’t expecting to get anything else. I don’t want you to think I told you about wanting a braid on the top of my head so you would send me one. I didn’t even know they made braid headbands! It’s so cool! You can’t even tell it’s not my hair!

  The first time I wrote to you, I only wanted to know that you’re real. And you are. That’s why I asked for olives. (But I did want socks for Dad.) The braid made me really happy. My dad saw me wearing it and asked me where it came from. I told him I got it from a friend. It’s not really a lie. He seemed happy he didn’t have to learn how to braid my hair anymore.

  I saw Dad talking to a lady the other night. It was weird. I was hungry, so I got out of bed to steal cookies, and he was on the couch, and there was a woman talking to him through the computer. I ran back to my room, because it scared me a little. I don’t know why. He didn’t see me. I know I was supposed to be in bed, but I wanted Oreos. I had them for breakfast instead.

  Anyway, I’m not gonna ask you for anything anymore. Not until Christmas.

  But I want to know if you can tell me something. Since the North Pole is pretty high up there, can you see heaven from where you are? Can you tell me if my mom is okay? Can she see me? I talk to her all the time, but I don’t know if she can hear me or see me. I asked her to send me a sign, but maybe she can’t do what I asked for. Like, if I ask her to send me a butterfly or a bird, they are everywhere, and how do I really know it’s her? My mom used to ride horses before she got sick. She rode this really pretty girl horse named Windy—because she ran like the wind. She was all black and had long blonde hair on her head and tail. Maybe I could ask her to show me a black horse running like the wind? That would be a way for me to know for sure Mom was okay. Can you see if you can get that message to her?

  Thanks again, Santa.

  Love you lots!

  Birdie

  P.S. I didn’t give you my mom’s name! It’s Amanda Maxwell, and she has long brown hair (before she lost it, but she probably has it again), and she smells like the perfume Angel.

  The wine I’d consumed wasn’t beginning to help me process this one in the least. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry this time. So I was just—in shock.

  Devin noticed the look on my face and said, “What does it say?”

  I handed her the letter and let her read it for herself.

  She handed it back to me. “What the hell are you supposed to do with this?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “You know, you’ve really gotten yourself into something crazy here, Sadie. It’s cute and all, but maybe you should’ve stopped at the olives, you know? Maybe you write her back and nicely close things off so she doesn’t get hurt?”

  “The thing is . . . I don’t write to her. I’ve only sent her things. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to start corresponding back at this point. Honestly, it’s been kind of fun brightening her days. Not sure I would change anything. I wouldn’t have minded sending her more things, either, if it made her happy. But a black horse with long blonde hair running like the wind? I just can’t make that happen.”

  As much as I thought I’d meant the words I’d just spoken, the wheels in my head were already turning.

  I’d never been what I considered normal. I liked my hot dogs wrapped in white bread with crushed Doritos on top, rather than on a bun with ketchup. When I’m on a date and bored, I plot imaginary escape routes in my head—often envisioning myself hurdling a nearby table or springboarding over a car in the parking lot like an action hero. And don’t even get me started on the insane lies I make up to strangers when I’m on a plane—once when I got bumped to first class, I told a woman I was a duchess of Belgium. But today, today might have taken the cake. At least I was going to have a future article in the bank—Five Ten-Minute Dates.

  I’d told each date to meet me at a different location, starting at eleven o’clock.

  Sam met me at Prospect Park in Brooklyn first. I’d presold each of them on the concept. We’d meet, set our phone alarms for ten minutes, and say goodbye at the beep. If either of us was interested, we’d wait twenty-four hours and send a text. If the recipient of the text didn’t respond, they weren’t interested. No fuss, no phony excuses . . . clean and simple. The only thing I hadn’t mentioned to my five Sunday dates was the reason I’d picked each place.

  Anyway, Sam was cute! The smile on my face as we walked around the park was genuine. Sure, I had an ulterior motive, to write an article and do some Birdie research—two birds, one stone. But finding true love was never out of the realm of possibility. So imagine my disappointment when I started walking with cute Sam and he spit. Spit! Not like Oh my God, a bee flew into my mouth, get this thing out of here. But he hocked a loogie and power shot it onto the ground in front of us.

  Ugh.

  What was next? Holding one nostril and blowing his nose onto the grass?

  Our date was only ten minutes. He couldn’t wait to do that? Maybe until like . . . we were married and I’d already found thirty-four special reasons to love him that overshadowed this major flaw?

  Sayonara, Sam!

  Date two took place at the Bronx Zoo, followed by date three at Bryant Park, then date four at Hudson River Park. Let me summarize those for you.

  Dud. Dud. And dud.

  I’d also not had any luck on what I’d dubbed Birdie Quest.

  My fifth and final date for the day was to occur in Central Park. I was meeting Parker. I stood in front of Bethesda Fountain at exactly 5:00 pm. It was a crowded afternoon, but I didn’t see a six-foot-tall man looking around for the woman of his dreams. As I waited, I took out my phone and called up a p
icture of Parker to make sure I remembered what he looked like. They were all starting to blur. After a few more minutes, I sat down and began to scroll through Instagram. At 5:20, I called it an afternoon. I’d officially been stood up. Four out of five wasn’t bad, I suppose. Plus, I was anxious to check out my last stop on Birdie Quest for the day.

  I walked the distance of around a dozen city blocks through the park and arrived at the ticket booth.

  “Can I buy one ticket, please?”

  The young kid behind the glass shook his head. “Closed. Last ride was at five. I’m just sorting things out for the day.”

  I looked over at the carousel. “Could I . . . just go inside and look at the horses for a minute?”

  The kid didn’t seem fazed by my request. He shrugged. “Whatever. But you’ll have to hop the fence. Security locked it up already.”

  I glanced back at the carousel once again. There was a three-foot fence around it. It had been a long time since I did something like that. But hey, why not? “Okay.”

  Somehow I managed to scale the fence without ripping my jeans. I started to walk around the colorful carousel, looking for what was beginning to feel more like a unicorn than a black horse with long blonde hair. I made it almost halfway around when I stopped in my tracks.

  Oh my God.

  There it was.

  It was perfect! I clapped my hands together. Not only was it a black horse with a blonde mane, but all four of its hooves were raised in the air like it was midgallop—running like the wind.

  I hopped the fence a second time and ran back to the ticket booth. The kid was just locking up the door.

  “Can I please buy a ticket?”

  He frowned. “Told you. It’s closed.”

  “I don’t want to ride it now. I just want to buy a ticket. Two, actually.”

  “I already closed out the register.”

  I was so excited to have found my unicorn that I got a little carried away with myself. “I’ll give you fifty dollars for two tickets.”