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Alek shrugged. “It could be argued that someone who was never there to begin with couldn't actually leave.”
“But that’s not how psychology works. Children are born loving their parents, no matter their faults. It takes time for that innocent, unconditional love to wither. You’ve said your mother’s death meant nothing, but I’m not so sure. A child who grows up without his mother’s love might think that he doesn’t deserve love, and what does that sound like?”
“One of those detestable core beliefs you keep going on about,” he answered, crossing his arms. “Yes. Yes. I know. I deserve love. Everyone deserves love, except Hitler, and so on and so forth. I know that.”
“Your value as a person has nothing to do with how your mother felt about you. And your uncle? Maybe he wanted to bring her along so that you wouldn’t be parted from her. Or maybe he did love her. People are imperfect, Alek. They have flaws and love people with flaws and they can love more than one person at a time, even if it doesn’t make sense because sometimes love doesn’t make sense, it just happens.Let us use another one of our tools.”
Alek sighed loud enough for her to hear because, though he was no longer suicidal, he was still an asshole.
Ignoring him, she continued, “When you have a thought, look at the evidence. You say your uncle didn’t love you? Where’s the evidence of that?”
“My mother neglected me. He left me with someone who neglected me,” Alek reported in a monotone.
“It sounded as if your uncle didn’t have much choice when he left. Remember, more often than not, people act without intending to hurt.”
“Not in my family.”
“Let’s look at the facts in favor of your uncle loving you…” She lifted a single finger. “He made plans for your escape at great financial and personal expense.” Another finger. “He took care of you every day before he disappeared.” Another finger. “He taught you to do the things that he loved to do.” And she went on and on until there weren’t any more fingers left and Alek had started to believe her.
“You have been loved. You are loved. You are worthy of love. Whatever it says in that letter, that is the truth.”
43
ALEK
ONE WEEK LATER
Ayellow-padded envelope arrived for Alek in the mail most days, already opened and searched for knives and drugs and other such contraband. Inside the envelope was always a letter from Ian, one that Alek didn’t read, and a handful of individually wrapped chocolates, but not the waxy, overly sweet American kind; they were from Alek’s favorite chocolatier, dark chocolate mostly and some espresso-flavored.
Every Saturday Ian hand-delivered a small care package, irrespective of the fact that he was never granted admittance. Inside would be tea, a new release book from one of Alek’s favorite authors, or a pair of lounge pants his mother had made. There was the occasional cutting of wisteria carefully packed from one local nursery or another.
Each time the package arrived, Alek went straight for the previously-worn shirt of Ian’s that he never failed to include. To the outside observer, it was creepy in a serial killer sort of way, but to Alek it was everything. He’d close his eyes and inhale and forests would grow inside his head, and an image of Ian too, and he could almost hear Ian’s voice, and even feel Ian’s skin beneathhis fingertips, and in addition to the abject yearning that inspired, Alek felt a flicker of hope.
His synesthesia was coming back, but he didn’t let his thoughts linger on it, and even though his hand surgeon had given him permission to start practicing the piano in short bouts again, he wouldn’t try the mistuned travesty of a piano at Alder House—he’d finally committed the name of the hospital to memory.
“It’s not fair,” Briar whined. She plucked another chocolate from Alek’s desk and dropped down onto his bed, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead like she was a debutante aswoon. “I wish I had a man who loved me enough to send me a steady supply of chocolates and love letters.”
“It’s not love. It’s guilt,” Alek said from where he was sifting through a backlog of Ian’s envelopes at his desk.
He tipped the next envelope and tapped more chocolates out onto the tabletop. Then he pulled out the letter to add to the growing collection of letters he wouldn’t read but couldn’t throw away.
A thick card stock advertisement came out with the letter. In glossy colored print was a picture of the Victorian, the sight of which sucker-punched Alek with a near-terminal case of homesickness. In obnoxious red letters, it said:
Just Listed!!! Now’s your chance to own a piece of history.
He gasped and flipped it over to the other side. A grid of pictures featured the completed greenhouse, the remodeled bedrooms and bathrooms,hispiano in the parlor, a fully-restored library. At the bottom, beside an air-brushed decade-old picture of their realtor, a faux handwritten scrawl font read:
Calling all investors and aspiring fixer-uppers. This well-loved mansion has been partially restored by a celebrated contractor. Perfect for a bed and breakfast. Seller is extremely motivated. Give us your best offer!
“What?” Briar asked for the second time.
Wordlessly, Alek handed the ad to her.
“He wouldn’t!” she said.
He would. Alek should have anticipated such fuckery. That was the trouble with surviving suicide. He’d made plans without considering the consequences because he wasn’t supposed to be around for said consequences.
Briar held the paper up to her face and squinted. “Your place is exactly as I imagined. Is it haunted? Please tell me it's haunted.” When he said nothing, she returned the ad to him. “You think he’d really go through with it?”
