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Your family sounds lovely. No wonder you grew up so kind, wanting to give back to the world—your students, and your research—with that encouragement. My parents…it’s more complicated. (They’ve been divorced for over twenty years; I’m their only child, though I’ve got two half-sisters who live in London.) We do all get along, I know they love me, I love them, but I think we all feel a bit of guilt for various reasons.
Guilt? About what? Burne made himself stop to breathe. His laptop made a sound. An email. Not important.
I should apologize again—I did put off answering you for a few days. Which made you wait, and I know it was unfair. I can offer you two reasons.
The first reason is, I did need a moment—I’m not angry, I swear. You apologized for asking personal questions and told me to ignore that paragraph, even. You asked because you wanted to know, because you’re so very kind, to return to that point. I only felt…well, it was a personal question, and I hadn’t told you because I liked the idea of getting to know you this way, when you didn’t know who I was, and I knew you’d think about me differently for one reason or another; everyone does. I just couldn’t answer right away.
The second reason is that I did end up needing to rest for a day—don’t worry, I told you I’m all right and I meant it!Devon had drawn a tiny flower here, switching to green ink for the leaves and teal for the petals, and added in smaller writing,flower for emphasis!
Burne bit his lip. Wasn’t sure whether that pain held back laughter or dread.
It was my own fault. And ridiculous. I tried to do more than I should’ve, as far as exercise—I swim, I’ve got a pool, did I tell you that?—and I was tired enough that I tripped over my own sweatpants while getting dressed after my shower, and yes I looked like some sort of slapstick cartoon, or I’m guessing so, if you’d been there to see it. The falling over isn’t as much a problem as my heart rate going the direction it did (more on that in a second) and that plus some…general stress (still not your fault) meant that I…well, things got a bit fuzzy for a minute or two. (Please see flower for reassurance: still here and drawing flora.)
How’d Devon known he’d need the reassurance? Right then, that second? Burne’s chest had too many emotions. He thought he might collapse under them all. Flattened into his desk chair. Under one of those Paleolithic rocks that a cluster of graduate students was analyzing.
After I got up I still felt as if I ought to lie down for a while and not attempt to do much. So I did some reading for fun, in between a nap or two and watching a cooking show about cakes that look like anything but cake. Which was in some ways professionally structurally interesting. I’m writing this the morning after, and the sun’s up, and I’ve got strawberry hibiscus tea and a giant blanket with night-sky constellation patterns, and it’s a very friendly morning so I’m writing outside on the balcony, if you want to picture that.
I told you I’d explain, and I will. You did look me up (I know you did, this time!) so I’m not sure how much you know. It’s come up in a few interviews, but not often and not lately. (I apologize for mentioning interviews. I’m not trying to be pretentious or precious about that. I’m not really famous; I design museums.) So, to summarize…
I was born with a form of acyanotic heart disease—not to be too technical, here’s the short version: a specific valve that’s too narrow to function. Essentially, pre-existing heart failure.
Burne froze. Lips parting. He might’ve objected, argued, shouted at the words and their nonexistent impossible meaning. No sound emerged.
His Devon, his artist, sketcher of tide pool scenes and kittens and flowers. Devon, who sent birthday presents even though they’d never met. Devon, who added beauty to the world and who knew the exact words to write when one person needed to hear them.
Devon wasalive. Devon couldn’t be—couldn’t be in danger of—about to—
He couldn’t even think the word. Not real. Couldn’t be.
Go back and look at the flower if you need a second! I drew it for you. I’ll give you something else, too, after this.
Burne looked. It helped. Tiny teal petals, greener leaves, a scrap of deliberate beauty that Devon had created for him. An anchor.
They did surgery back then—twice, actually, not that I remember much. Everything went well, entirely successful, or so they tell me. I’ve got a couple of artificial parts in there—very cyborg. And I grew up, obviously, and I’m more or less fine—I’m not even on any medication at the moment, and I can do (mostly) anything anyone else can. I went to college and graduate school and studied architecture and won a competition or two and designed a library or two, and I swim and go for walks and buy six more of my favorite drafting pens because I never remember where I’ve set them down.
Devon was incredible. Gently funny, even now. Coaxing a smile, even while explaining horror. The coaxing was working. Burne felt shaky from competing buffets of emotion.
I do want to be honest about the mostly, there—I won’t lie to you. I am supposed to be careful, because stress (a rapid heart rate, high blood pressure, any cuts or scrapes that lead to infection, and so on) can cause, well, stress. I’ve fainted a few times—it happens. It’s not as serious as it sounds, and I’ll wake up fast—I told you I’m all right and I am. But now you know why I ended up flat on my bedroom floor being dizzy. (This is why the tragic lack of pets, if you’ve not guessed. My parents were constantly afraid I’d overexert myself, or else get a small scratch that could become worse. In an act of belated rebellion I’ve thought about getting a cat, if it could be extremely calm and didn’t mind nail caps orcoverings.)
This time Devon had paused to draw an improbably fluffy kitten with outstretched painted claws in a rainbow of color, with a mildly dismayed expression. The caption said,Pet-icure? No, sorry, that was awful, I’ll take it back if you want.
“God,” Burne blurted out, “I love you,” and then he put a hand over his mouth, and stared at the kitten, shocked.
He hadn’t meant—
Had he?
He only knew Devon through letters, paper, ink. He’d said the words because—
Because Devon liked cats and bad puns and star-blankets. Because Devon wrote thoughtful, generous, articulate letters to someone he’d never met. Because Devon was the sort of person who’d take a moment, a day, to process emotions when asked a too-personal question, and would then give not only an answer but himself, openly and truthfully. Held out like a shining star. In blue-velvet night.
Because maybe it was too soon to call it outright love, but Burne was pretty sure itcouldbe, given time, given more, given how he felt from just this much here and now.
And Devon wasn’t even done with him.
I told you I had one more present for you—if you’ll think this counts; I don’t know whether you will. I love our letters—is that odd to say? I do, though: something tangible, physical, like the books. A connection, flying over water and distance.
But I did think, if you might want…well, I know I’ve just thrown a lot at you, and a very heavy lot at that, so I’ll understand if I don’t hear from you! I won’t blame you for it, I promise—you never asked for any of this from the random person who’d got your birthday card bymistake.
