Page 40 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

And during my free Saturday—after all, this piece will either save me or get me kicked out, so there’s no sense stressing about classes until I hear—I went in search of Cara. Does that surprise you? It did me.

I discovered the need to find her while writing with Kyle.

It was right of me to leave her at eighteen, but I did things wrong too.

They were relying on me and my rent money; I shouldn’t have walked out.

Maybe it was reading that Lewis book, maybe it’s talking to the Muirs; for some reason I felt the need to make things right with Cara—as best I could.

I started my search at our old apartment, which is as wretched as I remembered.

No one there remembered her, so I canvassed her old workplaces and followed the trail until I found her five hours later.

Her new apartment is worse than the one we shared.

It’s on the west edge of Hyde Park abutting the highway, near the site of the old Robert Taylor Homes.

Many of those have been torn down or abandoned now, but some remain and are shockingly scary places.

I clutched my pepper spray and jumped at every noise.

In spite of it being about ten below today, I was sweating under my coat.

The lobby was vacant, and the stagnant air brought back painful memories.

Gunfire or a car backfiring—I didn’t dwell on which it was—sent my pulse soaring.

And the clanging of the metal doors on each floor didn’t help.

I’m lucky nothing happened, Mr. Knightley.

It was probably pretty stupid of me to go there alone.

But I’m safe now, so I can tell the story . . .

I knocked on the door to 3B and got no reply.

I’d come all this way, so I decided to wait.

I slid down the wall outside the door and pulled The Life of Pi from my bag—a Mrs. Conley recommendation.

It’s about a young boy and a tiger in a lifeboat, in the middle of the Pacific.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I feel a connection to young Pi, trying to survive alongside the very thing that can kill him.

Is a tiger easier than your own past? I was thinking about all this so hard that I didn’t hear anyone coming until the metal door slammed on the stairway.

I jumped to my feet and shoved the book in my bag. A huge Hispanic guy with long hair rounded the corner and rattled off some harsh-sounding Spanish. He looked me up and down—slowly. He made my skin crawl.

He switched to English. “Who are you?” He stopped inches from my face.

I wanted to cower, but forced myself to stand tall and straight. “Is this your door? I’m sorry. I thought Cara Sanchez lived here.”

“What you want with her?” He glanced around.

“I’m a friend.”

“She’s comin’ up.” He turned the metal knob and shoulder-butted his way into the apartment. I remained in the hall and again heard the screech of the door. Cara rounded the corner and saw me.

“Hi.” My voice sounded high and oddly perky.

“What do you want?”

No hello? “I just wanted to see you.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I asked around. All those detective novels served me well. First your old place, some job sites, friends . . .” I rushed to help her with her bags. “How are you?”

“Like you care.” She shuffled on, but I stopped.

Do I care?

Kyle and I worked hard to pull out our pasts and loosen their grips on us. Fixing things with Cara was another step in that process, but faced with her, I wondered if there was more to it. Our pasts were linked. Are our futures?

“Cara, I need to apologize for how I left our apartment.”

“Don’t just stand there. Ric’s ice cream’ll melt. Come on.” She opened the door, using three shoulder-butts, and there sat Ric, sprawled on the couch with the TV blaring. Cara didn’t even look at him as she passed into a dirty gray kitchen.

“Bring a spoon,” he called.

Cara didn’t miss a beat. As I put the bag on the counter, she grabbed a spoon next to the sink, snatched the ice cream, and carried it to the living room. I stood awkwardly and calculated the difference between this and my warm apartment and the difference between Ric and Josh.

I sat down in a metal chair to give the impression I was staying as she came back to the kitchen. She narrowed her eyes and leaned against the counter.

“When did you move?” I pretended this was an afternoon chat with a friend.

“I stayed a couple years, but Ric and I are together, so I moved here a couple years ago. Rent’s cheaper and we’re good.”

“I can see that.” Oops, bad sarcasm!

“What?”

“Nothing. Where’d you two meet?”

“He’s a friend of Ron’s. Ron got sent up on charges. Loser. Ric keeps tabs on him, but I don’t care. Don’t need that.”

I didn’t know what to say to her. Her defenses were up, and why wouldn’t they be? I was intruding. I could see it in her body language: neck pulled back, jaw pushed forward, arms crossed.

“You don’t look good, Cara. Are you okay?” That was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“What?”

“You just look tired. I’m sorry. I’m not doing this right.”

Tired was an understatement. Cara was always rounded and boy crazy—think Lydia Bennet or Harriet Smith. Now she looked wizened, haggard, thin, and defeated—think any Hollywood celebrity you want, during dieting and before her next rehab. And I was screwing it up.

“You talk different. You dress rich.” She assessed me, and I didn’t make the grade.

“I’m wearing jeans just like you.” I cringed as I glanced at my sweater and boots. They looked too polished, too refined.

“You think I’m trash, but you’re no—” She interrupted herself with a coughing fit.

“You’re ill, Cara. Do you have the flu?”

“It’s nothing. I got some bug at the Shell. There’s cold medicine somewhere ’round here.”

We talked a little while longer. Short sentences with no real meaning. I told her about life on campus, but left out a lot of details. “I wanted to come and apologize for the way I left.”

“You’re sorry?” Cara sounded shocked.

“Yes.”

“You sound like Father John,” Cara sneered.

Why does everyone disrespect Father John? I caught myself. I did the same thing over the grant. That’s another apology I’ll need to make someday.

“I’ve hung around him enough, and he does make some sense. After I left you, I lived in Independence Cottage until a couple months ago. I’m up in Evanston now, but I went back to Grace House over Christmas.”

“Why?”

“I got sick, and it was the only place I could go.”

She opened her mouth as Ric’s yell cut across the room. “I’m goin’ out. Get me dinner, and none o’ those ramen noodles.”

Cara pushed off the counter and fidgeted with her hands. I knew that gesture. She needed me to leave.

“Thanks for seeing me, Cara. I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say.” I tried to hug her, but she didn’t lift her arms. I walked through the living room. “’Bye, Ric. Nice meeting you.” He didn’t look up.

It had turned dark outside. There were no cabs around, so I ran to the ‘L’ fast enough that I don’t think an attacker could have caught me if he’d tried.

Luckily it was so cold no one was outside or interested in coming out.

I hopped the train and gulped in air. Each breath took me north . . . and forward.

When I got home I took a hot bath and invited Isabella up for a movie. We chatted, ate popcorn, and drank hot chocolate. It was just what I needed to settle my thoughts and memories. She’s a cute kid. I gave her a copy of Emma for her twelfth birthday last week. I thought you’d appreciate that.

And now I should tell you about my classes this quarter—assuming I stay.

You know about my Johnson class, the features one.

I’m also taking Distribution Statistics and Audience Variance, as well as Quarterly Reviews.

I know, statistics is a math class, and you might question the relevance.

But Johnson always talks about the importance of connecting with the reader, and I figure I can do it better if I understand my readers, where they live and what they think.

Hmm . . . I sound like a kiss-up. Still, it’s a solid topic and it makes good sense.

Quarterly Reviews covers academic writing and, although I doubt I’ll do much of that, many such articles are written by free-lancers because there’s good money in it.

So there you go. Either it’s going to be a good quarter, Mr. Knightley, or I pack my bags. No halfway.

Sitting and waiting . . .

Sam

P.S. Just got a text—while brushing my teeth. I sincerely hope we never have instantaneous and unknowing video access to people.

Alex: Mom M said you had a rough go at Christmas. Here’s to happy healthy spring. Still working hard?

Me: Much better, school and health. Thanks for the scarf and hat. How’s movie?

Alex: Stop thanking me. Movie great. Better than last but keeping me from my book. Thinking____for a title. Thoughts? But don’t tell.

Me: Very intriguing. Lips are sealed.

I sat speechless, toothpaste dribbling off my chin. Alex told me the book title. I feel like an insider, a trusted friend. What do you think ET would pay for that title? Just kidding. I wouldn’t even tell you. After all, I’m a woman of integrity—an insider with integrity.