Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [70]
And if he’s too tired to talk about what happened, she promises herself she’ll wait until he’s ready to tell her the story, the true story that she can hold on to instead of the horror story she plays in her head every night.
Will she tell him about Henry? There’s nothing to tell. Or John Kimball? Really nothing to tell. Or Stephie or what it was like to feel so alone the whole time he was gone, the way nobody knew how to talk to her, or how to talk about the war or her father, and it seemed like people just wanted to avoid her. The part about not getting along that great with Mom she can keep secret. Running, she can tell him about running, and B.D. and the way he’s fair with everybody, just the way Matt is, and Ginger and her long legs, and how it’s looking like Alice might really be a long-distance runner, might have some actual talent in that department. Can she tell him about the miles and miles she runs in practice and learning to believe you’ve got something left for the end of the race, that believing it is just as important as running it? Will it still be okay to run like that if Matt’s legs have been shattered? If only she knew where he’d been wounded, but she’s promised herself not to think about that. Just think about him getting out and getting home and being here and being Dad, that’s all, just being Dad.
Alice heads inside to see what she can do to start dinner only to discover that her quarterly report card has arrived. Along with a letter from Matt, addressed to Ellie. A letter sent ten days ago. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s a good sign.
She hesitates for a nanosecond and then rips open her report card, even though it’s not addressed to her, but to her parents. It’s bad. No, it’s really bad. Every single subject is in the low seventies, having fallen from the nineties. It’s not failing. Not yet. But it will be. Each and every teacher makes a note of missing tests and missing assignments and how this just isn’t like Alice. There’s a special blue slip requesting a conference.
What is she going to do with this? Hide it? Put it in the trash? Hope that Angie is too distracted to notice that it never arrived?
Once again, Alice forgot the Ellie factor, because here’s Ellie, having padded into the hall on her little stealth feet to read along right beside her.
“You’re in trouble,” Ellie says, with a certain gleeful satisfaction. “You’re in big trouble.”
“Want to pretend like this never arrived?”
“Fat chance, Alice.”
“Ellie—”
“What are you doing in school? Aren’t you even trying?”
“Hey, I don’t need you to—”
“What would Daddy say?”
“Listen—”
“You can’t just move out of the house and let every single thing go, Alice. That’s not what Daddy would do.”
“Okay, okay! You can just back off, Ellie!”
Mom walks in the door and takes the report card and strangely, oddly, says nothing. Not now at least. She picks up Ellie’s letter and looks at the postmark.
“Oh, this is so strange.”
“Maybe it’s a good omen,” Alice says.
“This was mailed ten days ago.”
“There could be more on the way,” Ellie says. “Lots more.”
Angie holds the letter against her chest for a moment and closes her eyes. A silent wish, or a prayer, Alice thinks, as Angie hands the letter to Ellie.
Ellie rips open the envelope right there in the hallway.
“Wait,” Alice says, an edge of panic in her voice. “Let’s do it the same way we always do.”
So they gather on the couch, where Ellie climbs into Angie’s lap and reads her letter to herself, Angie and Alice both pretending they are not trying to read over her shoulder.
“Read it,” Alice begs.
Ellie pushes her glasses into place and begins:
Dear Ellie,
You asked me what I miss:
You. Being near you. And Mom and Alice and Uncle Eddie and Gram.
I miss just hanging out with you. To do anything. Or nothing. Sit on the couch. Play chess. Drop you off at school.
I miss your drawings. I miss braiding your hair. I miss your crazy outfits. I miss tickling you. I miss that spot