It was a blustery winter day and Tricia most certainly did not want to venture out to the mailbox. No sir, not after she saw how the mail truck rocked to and fro on its journey down the road. Not after she saw how Richie the mailman’s hat flew off and he nearly took a nosedive on the black ice as he frantically tried to retrieve it before it was lost to the woods that lined her house forever.
Actually, that was kind of funny. He sort of looked like a cartoon flailing around out there. She imagined those wavy lines that indicate movement when Charlie Brown gets tricked by Lucy and the football in the Peanuts comics all around his arms and a big WOAH, WOAH, WOAHHHHH hanging in a thought bubble over his head.
That is, until the wind blew it away.
It made her laugh. And then it made her feel bad, laughing at Richie’s expense. He’s just trying to do his job. It’s damn cold out there, as her mom always says. Goddamn, we should move to Florida, as her dad always says.
The thermostat is set to a toasty 72 inside and the thermometer hanging on the window tells her it’s a frigid 10 outside. Yet another reason to let the mail be. There’s never anything for her anyway. If anyone wants to communicate with her, they know to text or email. She doesn’t even really think her friends know how to write. Okay, that is exaggerating and you know it.
Her mom left a note on a counter. She has left one every day for the past three months. It’s kid of nice when she thinks about how some other kids at her school don’t have nice moms like her to leave notes. But then she thinks about how the notes always make her DO STUFF and she really doesn’t want to DO STUFF, she just wants to eat macaroni and cheese and watch TOM AND JERRY and maybe some MAURY before logging onto her computer and aimlessly surfing the net, as mom always says.
Today’s note, so annoying, but not really:
“Hi Honey! Hope you didn’t sleep too late! Lunch is in the fridge and dad and I will be home around 8. Can you please do the following before then:
Laundry (wash AND fold)
Get the mail
Clean the bathroom
Have fun!
Love ya!”
So here she is. Bathroom is clean, check. Laundry is in the washer, sort of check. Mail. Tricia has to get the mail. But it is so cold! And windy!
The wind whistles through the creaks and cracks of the old house, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and sprouting goosebumps on her arms. She wonders why they’re even called goosebumps and goes to Google. If only Google could get the mail.
No time for Google. She has to get the mail. The sooner she gets the mail, the sooner she can burrow into the couch and find out who is and is NOT THE FATHER on MAURY.
The thought of finishing her chores and having a free afternoon motivates her. She goes over to the closet and pulls on her boots, throws on her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves.s he thinks it may be overkill for running to the mailbox, but then she thinks about that lid kid randy in A CHRISTMAS STORY who can’t put his arms down and yells, “NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL OVERKILL” to the empty house. She takes the ticking of her mom’s kitchen cat clock as laughter and salutes her audience.
Mail. Gotta get the mail. She turns the doorknob and the wind throws the door open, assaulting her with its ferocity and the little pebbles of salt her dad sprinkled on the black ice earlier. Mail, gotta get the mail.
She takes that first step out into the cold, looks around, and then books it the 200 feet from her front door to the mailbox, collects the mail with nary a cursory look at who it’s addressed to, and runs back toward the house, letting herself be propelled by the wind.
Once inside, she throws the mail on the floor while she locks the door and sheds her layers. She scoops up the mail and pads into the kitchen on sock feet to make some hot chocolate to recuperate after her long and could journey outdoors.
As the after heats in the kettle, she rifles through the mail. Bill for mom, ad for dad, ooo Victoria’s Secret coupons for mom (Tricia), some store flyers, and an iridescent sage envelope addressed to…her?
TRICIA L. BATEMAN
8411 ELLISON
CINCINNATI OH 42526
Yup, to her. No return address. Can’t be a birthday card because her birthday isn’t until August. Can’t be a Christmas card because Christmas was two and a half months ago. Can’t be from her friends because they text their feelings about a hundred times a day.
Just before she opens it, a brief list of what it could be zips across her mind:
Her Hogwarts letter (finally)
A bowling alley
A letter from her secret admirer (God I hope it’s Malcolm)
Early college acceptance letter (I’m 14)
Nana forgot my birthday (double $5 checks!)
A speeding ticket (must’ve been driving in my sleep)
A certificate for one (1) free puppy
An invitation from her royal majesty Beyoncé to her highness Blue Ivy’s 3rd birthday party
A chicken
Her grades
She holds it in her hands for another moment, glancing at the kitchen cat clock for reassurance. Its rapidly moving eyes seem to say oPEN IT ALREADY WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY.
Dear Tricia,
If you’re reading this letter, things must’ve gotten pretty bad for a while. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you to intimidate your first boyfriend or see you off to prom or clap wildly at you high school, college, and even post grad graduations. I’m sorry I can’t be there when and if you get married and I’m sorry I can’t be there to teach your children just the right way to tickle you to get that all-star smile out of you.
But mostly I’m sorry you’ve had to find your way in these past three months without me. What I would give to never have gotten sick…
Anyway, there are some things I need you to do for me:
Listen to mom and just get the damn mail when she asks
Always love. Even when you are seething with anger, find it in your heart to love instead
Be you. YOU. Not what some dolt you’re hanging out with wants yout o be. YOU. If something doesn’t feel right, it isn’t. You are.
Have fun!
Remember, I love you, always. Big brother is watching you.
Love, love, love,
Mac
The kettle started singing on the stove and she’s at on the floor, clutching the words her brother wrote. Cherishing them. She realized she’s been so lonely since he passed, but she shouldn’t have been. She’s not alone. Never alone. She’s got him. Big brother.
Slowly, the singing of the kettle turned to screeching.
She got up, poured the water into her mug, and went into Mac’s room to curl up on his bed with one of his beloved books.
Marie Hendry 