Violet Evergreen's Arc

Chapter 7 of 11

Violet stood at the counter and looked at the letter between them. Danny had not moved. The frame she brought lay beside the envelope, forgotten now. She could not read his face. His eyes were wet but his mouth had gone flat, and she did not know if the flat mouth meant hurt or anger or something older than both. "Read it to me," she said. Danny's head came up. "What?" "I don't remember what I wrote. If we're going to stand here with it, I need to hear it." Her voice was steadier than her hands. She pressed her palms against the counter. "You read it. Then tell me why you kept it out." He looked at the envelope for a long moment. Then he opened it. The paper was soft at the folds, the ink still dark. He cleared his throat and started to read. She had written it at nineteen. She heard her younger self in every uneven line. She had said she was sorry. She had said she never meant to hurt him. She had said she hoped he could forgive her. The words were plain and clumsy and true. Danny's voice broke twice. He did not stop. When he finished he folded the paper along the old creases and set it down. "I kept it out," he said, "because I didn't know what to do with it. I've been carrying it around the house for a month." "Carrying it where." He walked past her into the next room. She followed. On the couch sat a folded baby blanket, pink-bound, the colors soft from years of washing. He lifted a corner. The letter had been tucked underneath. "Mom kept this too," he said. "In the same drawer. I put them together because I couldn't think where else." Violet looked at the blanket and understood. He had not saved her letter to punish her. He had saved it the way his mother had saved it. He had put it with the softest thing in the house. "Danny." She waited until he looked at her. "I didn't come here for you to forgive me. I came about your mom. But I'll take the forgiveness if you're offering it." "I'm not offering anything yet," he said. "I don't know you." "I don't know you either." He almost smiled. It was small. It was enough. "Sit down," he said. "The coffee's cold. I'll make more." She sat on the edge of the couch, near the blanket, not touching it. He went back to the kitchen. She heard the tap run. She heard him open a cabinet. Nineteen years had not been undone. But the letter was on the table between them now, faceup, and neither of them had walked away from it. She had two weeks of vacation. She decided, sitting there, to stay past the afternoon.