He tried to banish these thoughts for now because he had many more envelopes to open.
His task carried on for hours, into the mid-afternoon. Mitchell drank numerous cups of tea and placed more letters on top of Damon’s letter. They were ones he wanted to reply to.
As he studied them, a strange feeling crept up on him, an awareness that he was willing to read and respond to letters from strangers. However, Anita’s lilac envelope remained still unopened in his nightstand drawer.
He stood up and left the pool of correspondence behind. He walked to his bedroom and took her letter from its resting place. As he held it to his nose, his breath quickened. The hint of her violet scent was almost gone and he inhaled more deeply, desperate to smell it again.
He sat down heavily on his bed and tried to imagine her writing it.
Had she sat at their kitchen table, furious with him? Or had she written it from the Italian restaurant? Had tears streamed down her face, or was her back stiff and proud?
He’d always assumed her words would seal the end of their relationship, cementing his guilt and shame.
But do I know that for sure?
There was only one way to find out.
He traced his fingers around the perimeter of the envelope, the corners now worn from his constant handling.
For a moment, he sensed Anita’s fingertips running down his back, assuring him it was okay to open it. The sensation was so real, he shivered and looked around him. His window blind rippled from a breeze that swept in and he heard bird wings flapping on the roof.
A sign?
Whatever it was, he knew it was finally time to open and read her letter.
29
An Unlocked Heart
Mitchell’s fingers felt huge as he tried to peel back the gummed flap of the envelope and he failed several times. He stood up and paced across his bedroom, trying to muster up his courage.
Finally, he stood with his back against the wall, wedged between his bed and nightstand. He pressed his outer thighs against them, needing the support.
After slipping his finger into a small gap at the top of the flap, he eased the paper apart. With shaking hands, he slid the letter slowly out of its envelope, its prison for three years.
Then he held his breath and read the last words Anita ever wrote to him.
Dearest Mitchell,
I want to hate you, but I can’t. I’m going to go for lunch, our lunch, with my friend Jane instead. We are going to drink champagne and eat strawberries and laugh with the waiters, because I suppose I want you to be jealous even if you’re not here to witness it. I’m going to try to be positive in this letter. However, I’m not sure how much longer I can manage it.
The last few months have been hard for us both, you especially, because you’re the one who’s spending so much time away from Poppy. I know you’re working hard to help us have a better life, and I am, too. I just wish you didn’t have to do so much. I was really looking forward to dining together, but there will be other times, I hope.
We’re supposed to be a family, Mitchell, but a lot of the time it feels like we aren’t. When I look at you, I want to see the man I fell in love with. I want us to drink cider in a beer garden together. I want to see Poppy’s seashell eyelids when we both hold her for the first time. I want to share tiramisu with you. Above anything else, I want Poppy to be happy. I want you to be happy.
Love always,
Anita xxx
Mitchell slid down against the wall in a heap. He grinned and cried at the same time.
After Anita died, he’d convinced himself that she despised him, that he’d failed her. But her words told him differently. Among them, there was hope. She’d still been willing to fight for their relationship. It could have been good again.
When he held her letter to his chest, he felt her words against his skin and tendons loosened inside him. He bowed his head and thought about her curls and her laughter.
If she was here, they would still be together. And now, although she was gone, he knew she’d want him to be happy and hopeful.
And he could strive for that.
It could provide part of the framework he needed to move on. Perhaps he could try harder and feel better.
When he was ready, he stood up and placed the letter and envelope under his pillow.
He knew what she’d want him to do.
Poppy’s mouth dropped as she surveyed the strange scene in the sitting room – Mitchell sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of letters everywhere.
‘Um, like, wow,’ she said.
‘A fresh delivery from Susan.’ Mitchell shrugged.
She wandered over and stared at them. ‘There’s hundreds here.’
‘Yep, and I’m going to read them all.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
He smiled and held out his arm, inviting her to sit down beside him. ‘I think your mum wants me to do this.’
She sank down cross-legged on the floor. ‘Why?’
‘I think she’d want me to read people’s stories and help, if I can.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘Have you been off work today?’
Mitchell explained how Russ had told him to take seven days away from his job. With embarrassment, he wiped away a rogue tear that escaped from his eye.
‘Are you crying, Dad?’
He blinked up at the ceiling. ‘No.’
She eyed him then ran a hand across the letters, shifting them under her touch. ‘I’ve got something to make you feel better.’
‘A miniature chocolate?’ He found a smile.
‘No. Stay here.’
When Poppy returned with her hollowed-out dictionary, Mitchell looked at it warily. He didn’t want to revisit his sparse writing-home efforts.
But she took out a letter and handed it to him.
Mitchell reluctantly unfolded the piece of paper.
Dearest Anita and Poppy,
The sun is out in the city this weekend and everyone is having fun, all except me. I miss you both so much when I’m away. At first the apartment felt like an adventure, but the longer I’m here, the further away the both of you feel. Poppy, I miss your hugs in the morning and even seeing your unicorn T-shirt looking through the washing machine door at me. Anita – I miss your smile, and eating breakfast with you and, well, everything.
The bridge project is going well, but it’s hard work and I’ve been naive about how much of my time and commitment it would take. I want to talk about the future and where we go from here.
I wish I was at home with the two of you.
Love always,
Mitchell/Dad xxx
As he read it, Mitchell remembered sitting at the kitchen table in the apartment on his own with his pen poised. He had heard the sounds of the city below him, while he was cut off from his family. He imagined Anita and Poppy carrying on their lives without him, going to play netball, making sandwiches together and eating popcorn at the cinema.
When his letters to them filtered out, it wasn’t because he was a bad person, but a stressed one instead.
‘I liked getting them.’ Poppy rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Everyone likes receiving letters.’
‘Yes, they do.’
She went quiet for a long time. ‘It could have been you in the car, too.’ Her voice trembled. ‘With Mum.’
He looked at her with a frown. ‘What?’
‘If you’d met Mum for lunch that day… I might have lost you both.’
‘Oh, Poppy,’ he gasped, devastated. He’d not thought of things that way before. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. A tear cascaded down his cheek and this time he didn’t try to hide it.
Poppy took his hand in hers and squeezed tightly. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said quietly. ‘It was an accident.’
His throat felt so tight he could only whisper. ‘Thank you.’
They wrapped their arms around each other and held on tightly. The pigeons cooed on the roof and lilac shadows shif
ted across the walls.
After a while, Poppy let go and unfolded her legs. ‘I think Liza really likes you, Dad,’ she said.
He felt a flutter inside when he thought about her. He let out a sigh. ‘I like her, too, but I don’t think we’re suited. If I were a letter, I’d be one that had been dropped in a puddle and the ink had all run. Liza would be a cheerful postcard with a sunflower on the front.’ He looked up at the naked light bulb hanging above his kitchen table and thought how much nicer it would look if it had a shade.
‘Dramatic much?’ Poppy nudged him in the ribs, making him grin. ‘I’ve been thinking about my school project.’
‘Again? You’re getting obsessed,’ he teased.
‘I know. I’m going to work on my PowerPoint presentation, but I like Liza’s idea for a website, too.’
‘It could be really good.’ He looked at all the stories spread around him. He thought about the initials and messages on the padlocks. People would have a place to share their feelings and thoughts with others that wouldn’t affect the environment or clog up the city bridges.
‘I think Liza would like to do it, too,’ Poppy said.
An image dropped in Mitchell’s head of him, Poppy and Liza reading through letters together, and his fluttering feeling intensified, as if there was a colony of bats trapped inside him.
He realized he wanted Liza in his life.
After reading Anita’s words, he felt it was what she would want for him, too.
This awareness made him feel like laughing out loud.
‘What are you grinning at?’ Poppy eyed him.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. You look crazy.’
He didn’t want to keep these feelings to himself. ‘It’s Liza,’ he said. ‘I think I really like her, too.’
She fixed him with a stare. ‘Well, that took forever.’
‘You don’t mind?’
She considered this for a while. ‘She makes a great banana milkshake, and Sasha loves you. Liza’s good at shopping, and she uses music to make people happy. She likes Taylor Swift. That’s lots of good things. And I think she likes me for me.’
Mitchell smiled, warmth radiating through him, but then it faded. ‘I may have messed things up between us…’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
Mitchell knew she was right.
‘The question is,’ Poppy said, ‘what are you going to do about it, Dad?’
Mitchell didn’t know. He suddenly felt exhausted from his day. All he wanted to do at this moment in time was to flop on the sofa with his daughter.
When he felt stronger, he decided he would take the time to respond to all the correspondence. When he did, he would ask an important question.
Would you be happy to share your letter online?
But as for how to tell Liza what he felt for her, and how sorry he was, he really didn’t know where to start.
30
Project Padlock
Mitchell agreed that Poppy could skip her school club for a few days, so he could help her further on her presentation.
She read through all the letters that suited her project while Mitchell wrote back to people who had requested a response, left a return address or asked him a question. Also, to ones that tugged at his heartstrings.
He and Poppy sat at the dining table together, or lay on their bellies on the sitting room floor, chatting and sharing the letters, their emotions soaring and swooping at the stories of strangers.
Mitchell found there were lines and passages he wanted to share with Liza, topics he wanted to discuss, letters he and Poppy found to be hilarious, knowing that she’d laugh, too.
On his third evening of letter writing, Mitchell took a walk with Poppy to the park. When they returned to Angel House, they bumped into Carl in the lobby. To thank him for his care and concern after he slipped on the pavement, Mitchell invited him up to the apartment for supper.
The concierge grinned and asked if he might bring Susan along, too. ‘We’ve been seeing a lot of each other,’ he admitted shyly. ‘Would that be all right, Mr Fisher?’
Mitchell readily agreed.
Later on, Mitchell and Poppy made homemade pizza and garlic bread together, and they sat with Carl and Susan around his dining table to eat.
Susan announced she was working on an article for Upchester News about the growing revival of letter writing in the city. ‘I’m convinced it’s the big story I’ve been looking for,’ she said. ‘And it will show my boss I’m back on track.’
‘Poppy thinks if we encourage people to write letters, it could take their attention away from hanging padlocks,’ Mitchell said. ‘They could write them on paper or online.’
‘Great idea,’ Susan said. ‘I like it.’
Mitchell asked her a question that had been playing on his mind. ‘Where did this last huge number of letters suddenly come from?’
Susan nibbled awkwardly on a pizza crust. ‘My boss took a day off work and I found out he’d been throwing any letters that arrived into a big box underneath his desk. I stuffed the black bin bag full of them.’
‘Then you left them with Carl to drop off for me?’
Susan nodded and she and Carl shared a look so full of love, it was impossible for Mitchell to feel angry with them.
‘I still think you should pick the winner of the prize money,’ Susan said. ‘They’re your letters, after all. Did any stand out for you?’
Mitchell surveyed his apartment. There were letters on every surface, piled neatly on the coffee table, on the end of the sofa, laid out on the floor, and even some under Poppy’s bed.
He recalled Edmond, the eighty-year-old man who loved the city, and the enigma of Third Time Lucky whose love was like a puddle. There was the delightful Annie, who shared her first kiss with Douglas on the bridge at the end of the war, and foreign exchange student Henri who was worried about the effect that the locks and keys would have on the wildlife.
As he scrolled through all the letter writers in his mind, there was one that sprang forward. Mitchell was sure that Ben and Melissa McDonald would welcome the prize money towards their safety awareness campaign about the dangers of open water. ‘There’s a married couple I think should win the competition,’ he said.
Susan looked around her. ‘If you can find their letter, I’ll get in touch with them.’
Mitchell remembered the emotion and dignity in their words, as they wrote about their son, Simon. ‘Actually, do you mind if I write to them instead?’ he said. ‘I think they’d appreciate the personal touch, and I want to offer to help them, too.’
Throughout their conversation, Carl sat quietly, not asking any questions. He folded a weird shape out of paper and, when he’d finished it, Mitchell couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be.
Susan and Poppy sat back in their seats and Mitchell collected their plates. ‘Did you finish writing the letter to your friend, Carl?’ he asked.
Carl shook his head. He side-glanced at Susan. ‘I didn’t need to. But I got lots of practice.’
‘Now you’re an expert. Perhaps you can help me write back to all these people,’ Mitchell said.
Cheeks reddening, Carl’s shoulders crept up towards his ears. ‘You’ve been very kind to me, Mr Fisher, but I need to tell you something. It’s about all these letters. My letters…’
Susan rubbed his wrist with encouragement.
Carl’s eyes dipped, embarrassed. ‘I can’t actually read and write properly, Mr Fisher. Never have been able to. Susan has been helping me learn.’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ she assured him.
He nodded gratefully though he still looked down. ‘I grew up with my dad and he never read with me, or showed me how to write. When I started primary school, all the other kids could at least write their first name, but I couldn’t do it. I tried to hide it by asking lots of questions, and I was good at art, too. But writing was the one thing I couldn’t ever get right, I just got left beh
ind so easily. One of my teachers said I was hopeless, and it stuck with me.’
‘That’s sad,’ Poppy said. ‘I think you’re brilliant.’
Carl peeped up at her with a smile. ‘I’m doing my best to learn now. But I’m not up to helping with these letters. I’m not letting you down, am I, Mr Fisher?’
Mitchell shook his head furiously. ‘No, of course not. You’re good at so many other things – everything else.’
Carl’s grin returned. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s a crazy idea, but we could ask Brad Beatty if Word Up might be interested in getting on board,’ Susan said. ‘The band could ask people to stop hanging padlocks and to write letters instead.’
‘That would protect the bridges,’ Mitchell agreed. ‘You’d be able to see their beauty again. Did you know the 1970s concrete one is called a beam bridge? It’s like a log that—’
‘Dad.’ Poppy shook her head at him.
‘The trouble is,’ Susan continued, ‘I spilled coffee on a politician, and I got stuck in traffic on my way to interview Brad. We need someone who is cheerful, resourceful and great with people to ask him.’
‘That rules me out.’ Mitchell shrugged.
‘We need someone inquisitive, who asks good questions and who is caring,’ Susan added.
Mitchell, Susan and Poppy slid their eyes over to Carl.
‘Me?’ He sat up in surprise.
Susan nodded. ‘We need a kind of glue that binds everything together.’
Carl’s face flushed more, right up to the roots of his yellow hair. ‘Well, I can try,’ he said eventually. ‘Do you think I can do it?’
‘You’ll be great,’ Susan said.
He took hold of her hand. ‘Thank you.’
Mitchell looked around the room. He eyed all the notes Susan had jotted down so far. A project was underway, and he loved these planning stages.
Poppy looked at him inquisitively. ‘What are you thinking, Dad?’
‘Hmm, I’m wondering if we need a spreadsheet to map all this out. Perhaps we need a schedule, a firm plan of action. Set some targets.’
Under the table, Poppy kicked his shin.
‘Ouch.’ He bent down and rubbed his leg. ‘It was only a thought.’
The Secrets of Sunshine Page 24
