Page 69 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

I’m at the Muirs’ right now and our Christmas production is under way: tree trimming, cookie baking, gift organizing, movie watching, and song singing.

They’re off to a cocktail party, but I begged off to write you.

And I will sign this missive with my new silver pen, thank you very much.

It’s a lovely gift, Mr. Knightley. I appreciate it a great deal.

Exams ended, and Christmas break has started.

I will return to Medill for graduation in January, but all my classwork is done.

I don’t have a job yet—that remains the last sign that I really was the one clinging off the back ledge.

Everyone else I know has an offer. But I made it.

And for some reason, I’m not worried about my job prospects. I truly believe I will be okay.

I finished my annual reading of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol today.

The tradition started several years ago, because I felt so aligned with Scrooge.

I understood his fear, confusion, and longing as each ghost took him through his life and he was reminded of the pain he endured, then caused.

I let go of people and relationships to protect myself too, and then I detached so completely that I lost the ability to connect.

I still remember my first day at Medill when I met Debbie, and she looked at me like I was from another planet, before she and her friends left the table.

I’ve changed. I laid down those characters and I faced my ghosts, but unlike Scrooge, my transformation builds slowly.

That’s the one thing that still bothers me about that story.

How was Scrooge’s transformation so complete and joyful?

How did he lay down so much so quickly? Did he ever slip back?

We are led to believe he changed forever. He found freedom.

I haven’t found it—freedom remains elusive.

And there’s something more Scrooge possessed that I don’t.

Joy. The professor says it has to do with surrendering my heart, my plans, and my will.

I think that first requires a softening of the heart—a “cease-fire” on fighting inside.

I do feel that, so maybe I am beginning to understand.

Speaking of elusive, I got an e-mail from Alex yesterday. For a man so eloquent in person and even more so in print, he can be an uncommunicative jerk.

Coming to Chicago for final research. Have dinner with me Christmas Eve? Wait and hope, Alex.

A confusing note. I haven’t heard from him in months, other than that vague good-wishes-on-your-adoption note—and now a dinner invitation?

And “Wait and hope”? Those were my winning words in that literary game we played the first day we met, Edmond Dantes’s final written words to Maximillian.

They are instructions to young lovers, instructions for life.

The irony that those words articulate my feelings for the future has not escaped me—but that has nothing to do with Alex.

Nevertheless I accepted his invitation—the malicious fury it ignited proved too tempting.

I honestly feel as angry now as I did in Cara’s hospital room.

I wonder if I could “decimate” Alex with words too—might be worth a try.

When I told the Muirs about the invitation—not the fury—they insisted I invite him to join us for our church’s midnight service. Alex agreed.

Now I must go. There are cookies in the oven, and I promised not to burn them again. Thanks for the pen, Mr. Knightley, and Merry Christmas.

Love,

Sam