Page 60 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Fifty-One

Veronica asked if she could sit by the window, and Henry traded with her. After tucking his backpack behind him, he pulled his coat over his shoulder and was asleep in minutes. Nice trick.

Mariah, too, was deeply, slobberingly asleep, stretched out in the seat, her head on a sweater.

The whole car seemed to be snoring lightly, various notes coming from different corners, robust, deep snores and slight ladylike whistles, a punctuation here and there from someone who probably thought they didn’t snore at all.

The vulnerable humanity of the chorus touched her.

Next to her, Henry joined in, a very quiet rumble.

A three-quarter moon moved with them, lighting small villages and fields and the odd river or lake.

It was lonely to be awake, to be on this train, to be worrying about her family back home, but it was also weirdly touching to be on this train with so many others, in the middle of the night in a country far, far away.

As soon as they’d left the beach, her phone started buzzing with texts from Jenna, who dramatically detailed the horrors of the family ski trip.

Fiona and Spence’s mother, a patrician pillar of the Boulder inner circle, had engaged in a serious fight.

Veronica found herself thinking more kindly of Fiona, pregnant and far from her Irish family, stuck with a WASPy crew in the mountains.

She’d probably wondered what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

Veronica read all of it, fiercely glad she was far away, and responded mildly. It will blow over. You know your grandmother likes things to be civil. It’s hard to imagine her in a fight .

It was mainly Fiona. Dad was miserable.

He made his bed. But she typed, Sorry it wasn’t much fun. How’s Ben?

he hitched a ride with a friend back to Boulder, the traitor.

good for him. Hey, are you going to get my stuff?

will she hold on to it until the second? We aren’t coming back before then

A wave of fury moved in her chest, but then she realized she was asking everything of Jenna and nothing of the boys. I’ll ask Ben.

he has a broken leg!

well, you won’t do it, so ...

And she did. I need help, son. Urgent.

No response, which wasn’t that strange.

When are you coming home? Jenna asked.

not sure. I’ll let you know.

it’s weird to have you so far away. I hate it.

I miss you, too, but I love this trip

you’ve changed

Veronica gripped the phone, feeling the truth of that in her gut. She didn’t need to please her children, or her ex, or really anyone. That gave her space to breathe in a way she didn’t think she ever had.

I have. It’s healthy. I’ve gotta get some sleep. Let me know if you change your mind on my stuff. I’m trying not to think about it being thrown on the lawn

Nancy is too prissy to do that

I think she’ll do what she has to do to get me out

she can probably raise the rent

maybe. anyway, goodnight

gn

The fact that she’d changed and felt better about her life didn’t solve the problems of where she would live when she got back or what she would do about her things and the very real money pressures that could wreck her life.

She could cover the payment to the state for damages with her money from this trip, but it wouldn’t be enough to find another apartment, especially not in Boulder.

Where would she be a year from now? It was almost impossible to see even a month in the future, much less a year.

Henry sat up, shaking out a shoulder. “Want me to read to you?”

She looked at him. Where would this even go? Would she remember him fondly, a faraway lover? Or would—

He patted his lap, and Veronica gave in, lying down on his legs and closing her eyes as he began to very quietly read the next installment of One Thousand and One Nights.

His voice enveloped her like a blanket, and she relaxed into him, feeling him stroke her hair as if she were a cat.

And like a cat, she purred, comfortable and warm.

Delhi was a slam to the senses. They emerged from the train station into a world of horns and shouting and the smell of gasoline and dung and urine and spices and sunbaked fabric and perfume.

A whirl of humans moving in a dozen directions, and stray dogs, and vendors selling chai and bottled water and sweets and maps.

Henry used his size to push through the crowds and found them a rickshaw, giving the driver an address.

The rickshaw was a thrill itself. Veronica hung on as they whizzed through breaks and the driver leaned on his horn.

She saw a white cow by a gate, shaded by a tree with thousands of small leaves; and a tall bus with passengers peering back at her out the window; and motorcycles with one person or three; and trucks piled with six, plus two hanging on the back; and skinny youths in sandals with dusty feet; and another cow.

So much, she thought. So much muchness, as Rachel had said.

The hotel was modest on the outside and on the inside, but the rooms were pleasant enough, lit with soft purple track lighting. Mariah said, “You guys don’t have to act like you’re not sleeping together. I mean, really. I’m not stupid.”

So they both took their things to the same room. Mariah was grouchy again. They all wanted showers and a nap. Henry suggested they have a light meal first, which they ate in their rooms, parathas and chai and a dish with rice and peas and spice that was quite hot.

Weary from all their travel, still jet-lagged beyond expression, Veronica lay down on the bed, covered with a light quilt, and slept hard. They all did, no one stirring until morning.

Veronica dressed quietly, trying to avoid disturbing Henry, and went to the rooftop café to see if she could get coffee.

A youth with a thatch of black hair falling on his forehead offered her a chai.

She accepted gratefully, carrying it to the wall.

The street was just waking up. Birds sang cheerfully, songs she didn’t recognize, and a big raptor of some kind crouched on a wall, scanning the ground below for breakfast. A woman swept the street with a broom, and a man pulling a wagon piled with vegetables moved into view.

Several people came out to buy his produce, and when they’d finished, he moved along.

Across the narrow street, a man on his rooftop brushed his teeth, looking at the world, and she was caught by a wild, deep happiness to be here, witnessing the ordinary scene of people greeting their day.

Whatever happened when she had to go back, no one could take this moment away from her.

She thought of Elsie, the artist whose work had been heavily influenced by her girlhood in India. Veronica sipped her milky spiced tea and narrowed her eyes, seeing in the hazy golden light something of the mood in her paintings, something in the shape of the shadows.

Again, she nudged the place where she’d so long nursed the idea of writing that thesis, and found nothing.

In a way, she thought she was feeling Elsie’s journey, understanding some of what had influenced her, but writing some dull thesis was no longer appealing. She didn’t want to go back to school.

Maybe she just wanted to write.

The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. What did she know about writing anything? Not much. But she’d somehow stumbled into an opportunity to learn, a chance to make a leap if she had the courage to try.

Into the soft air, she thought of her mother, who had worked far too hard and died younger than Veronica was now, and asked quietly, “What do you think, Mom?” She let herself imagine her mother standing beside her. Beautiful, baby, she would say. Would you look at that!

In her pocket, her phone dinged. For a moment, Veronica wondered if she should ignore it and not allow the world in at all. What day was it, anyway? December 27? 28? She was losing the thread with all the time-zone changes.

She gave in to her curiosity, but it was only one, and it was from Jill. Tell Mariah I can’t find the last letter .

Ok. Is that true?

No. But it’s honestly a letter of despair, and I don’t think it will do her any good.

Veronica paused, thumb hovering. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to read it myself. To understand what happened.

Three dots.

Three dots.

Ok.

Thank you.

How is Mariah doing?

Not great, honestly. Most of the time, she seems about six seconds from a panic attack. We have some business here in Delhi, connected to the people Rachel knew here, and then I think we’re cutting our losses and coming back. So, the next couple of days.

Good. Let me know. You’ve been really good to her, thank you.

Glad to help.

She lowered the phone and drank the last dregs of her tea. What could be so bad in that letter? What would they find out today?