The Love Letters: A Novella (9 page)

Do you know what I would do to you right now? Do you have any idea? I would be your dirty slut, Zach Parker. Whatever you wanted, as many times as you needed it – and then I would feed you gelato with my fingers.

Chloe says “hi!”

You know that little spot between your nuts and asshole? Lick, lick, lick.

Shit, Mom is standing over my shoulder. She wants to know if you got her package? Speaking of package . . . I miss yours.

I love you, Zach Parker. Merry Christmas!!

Her email is from last night. We have eight hours, 6,000 miles and two continents between us. If I close my eyes, I can see her radiant smile. I can smell her lavender shampoo. I can hear her explosive laughter. I can taste her peppermint tongue . . .

But, I can’t fucking touch her. I can’t feel her. I can’t hold her. Je n’ai pas rien.

1815 hours

“You up for chow, Fisher?” I ask while playing Tetris on my bunk.

Fisher jumps out of bed and puts on his shoes. “Homey, I’m always ready for chow.” He digs in our Rubbermaid dresser and tosses a present on my lap. “I wanted to get something special for the dumbfuck in my life. Open it!” He sarcastically squeals and claps his hands.

I remove a cardboard box from a plastic bag and shake my head. “A fake Rolex? It will look divine with my black boots.” I reach in the bottom drawer of the Rubbermaid dresser and throw Fisher a very similar plastic bag. “Merry Christmas, motherfucker.”

Fisher opens an identical box and laughs. “A Faux-lex? And all I wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun,” he whines as he slides the shiny gold watch around his wrist. “Now we’re like watch buddies! C’mon, let’s get some ham and sweet potatoes.”

“You know what? There’s something I need to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Shit, Parker, I thought we had a no whacking-off policy in our bunk?” He jokes.

I wave him off as he puts a sock on the outside door handle before joining some more guys in the hall. “Parker needs some private time.” Idiot.

I sit down at the small desk built for a teenager and begin to write the first of many letters. It’s kind of surreal actually. Love letters are from a bygone era – from desperate men relaying the brutal honesty of war to anyone that would read it. But I believe letters from war are insurance, documenting their love and life as if it were their last. And there’s always a last letter, either upon the safe return of a changed man, or to be packed away in a box of memories.

Whatever my destiny, Natalie deserves my love letters. And my last letter will need to be epic.

December 25, 2002

Ma femme,

My first night on base, I looked to the sky and claimed the brightest star. I made her mine and gave her a name. Natalie winked at me. Natalie laughed with me, and Natalie reminded me that stars are always present.

Sometimes the night is too dark. Other times, the heavens are filled with ominous clouds. The daylight likes to play tricks on a wanderer’s eye – the blinding sun demanding all the attention.

But stars are relentless. Constant. Endless. Truthful.

Natalie is my beacon calling me home.

Do not be sad, ma femme. I will come home to you.

Love,

Zacharie

2002-12-28
1130 hours

Label, scan, pack. Label, scan, pack.

“Yo, Parker.” Fisher knocks on the glass window outside my monotonous mountain of never-ending doom. “Hoops! Champ-ions,” he chants.

“Dude, you have like the easiest schedule on base. I’ll be there in an hour – go practice your sorry ass layup.”

Fisher spins the basketball on his middle finger until it comes crashing down on all my boxes. “Oh, fuck,” he sputters.

“Jesus, Fisher, you idiot. Get out!” As soon as Fisher leaves, I sneak back to my sanctuary.

Break time. Closet. Chair. Laptop. Emails.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Dropping the Ball

Zachy Wacky Poo,

You know what this country needs, besides a legitimate hockey team? Boxing Day. How is a girl supposed to buy a fabulous spring wardrobe when the only things left on the shelves are gloves and ugly sweaters?

I had to stop by work today because my clients fired their NYE caterers. Seriously, does it matter what the food tastes like? Just keep the champagne flowing and the slutty girls blowing . . . party success. Speaking of crazy parties, I think I’m going to host one in the apartment for New Year’s. I need to be surrounded by people and mindless distractions.

If I haven’t told you, I miss you. You should be here kissing me when the ball drops. You should be here cuddling with me on the couch when Season 2 of The Bachelor starts. You should be here with me to build an anatomically correct snowman.

I understand that you can’t, but it still sucks.

I love you, Zach Parker.

Come home to me soon.

XO Natalie

I quickly check the time stamp on her email and write her back.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: RE: Dropping the Ball

Natalie, my sexy, snarky siren,

I want nothing more than to cuddle with you on the couch and watch the most repulsive show in television history. It’s the thing I dream about most.

The Rangers are fucking fantastic, do not doubt US hockey.

Party? Yes, go for it – invite everyone you know. My survival depends on your happiness so plea|

“Lieutenant Parker? Sir?”

I hear Michelle’s voice outside the closet so I hastily shut down my computer and pretend to organize boxes. She opens the door and I smile.

“Hi Michelle, what’s up?” I say as nonchalantly as possible.

She looks past my shoulder to the chair, so I move from the closet and shut the door.

“Oh, um, you have a phone call. Captain Thomas is waiting for you in his office,” she says.

Fuck.

“Thank you,” I think I say. Everything is a complete blur as I follow Michelle through the medical unit. Captain Thomas is standing in front of his office, and as I approach him, his stern expression changes to compassion. He places a hand on my shoulder and smiles.

“Lieutenant, I’m very sorry. Please feel free to use my office for privacy.” He ushers me in and then shuts the door behind me. I look around at the sparsely decorated room and pick up the waiting receiver.

“Lt. Parker,” I say nervously.

“Zach, she’s gone. Claire is gone,” my father sobs into the phone. I cannot, I will not listen to him cry. Our pain is different.

“Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.”

“Zach! I—” he howls as I place the receiver down on the desk. I walk slowly out of the office and nod at Michelle – she’s the only person on base that knew about Mom. Captain Thomas looks confused as he places a hand on my shoulder.

“Lieutenant, would you like to see a counselor? Major Jackson of the Army is an expert with grief therapy.”

“No thank you. May I go to my barracks?” I ask.

“Yes. And Lt., consider making an appointment with Dr. Jackson,” he offers.

“Okay, thank you. I’ll be in tomorrow to finish up the shipment.” I walk back to my office dazed and bewildered. I knew this moment would come – I’ve actually prepared myself for her death for the past year.

It’s early morning on the East Coast, so I grab my jacket and laptop and head back to my bunk to start the necessary round of emails.

To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Claire Dumas Parker

Mom found her salvation.

-Zach

2003-1-3
1600 hours

“Lieutenant Parker, congratulations! You hold the record for the most mail in one day! Is it your birthday or something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders, not fully sure of how to react to the questioning. The officer on duty hands me a stack of cards and letters and a single package with Natalie’s handwriting. I smile awkwardly and back out the door.

Once I’m settled in my favorite spot near the canteen, I gaze up at the dozens of stars flickering in the night’s sky. Stars have always amazed me, not in the physical sense – they simply remind me that there’s always more.

I open a few condolence cards but they’re all the same, the same underlying message – that I should have been home for her funeral. People don’t get it. They don’t understand that the easiest things are not always the right ones – it’s accepting the difficult tasks that make things right.

I open Natalie’s letter last. Her letters will always be my last – my insurance.

December 30, 2002

My dearest friend,

Dr. Claire Dumas Parker died peacefully in her home at the age of sixty-three- years old plus or minus one. She was the epitome of feminine strength and courage, and her accomplishments will forever be remembered. She is survived by her tennis-playing husband, Raymond Parker of Greenwich, Connecticut, and her handsome, evil-genius son, Zacharie Dumas Parker of Kabul, Afghanistan. *Obviously, this is my interpretation.

Zach, you are so amazing. So selfless, so loving, so . . . bad at lying.

It took me a few minutes to actually put my finger on it, but when I saw the large photo of you and Claire with identical crooked smiles, it all became very clear.

From the room full of pink flowers and “Ma Vie en Rose” playing in the background, there was absolutely no way in hell Raymond Parker arranged that funeral service.

That’s when I decided to ask Jack.

Your trusted attorney sold you out! Granted, I can be extremely charming, so it was rather easy to get all the details.

This is what I know:

Sometime in the month of September – for fun, let’s pretend it was the day we met on the train – your loyal attorney paid a visit to your house. During this visit, funeral arrangements were made, as well as the inception of the most creative coup in the history of “what the fucks?” Did I mention you’re brilliant?

So on that day, prior to our fantastical meeting, Claire signed a document giving you sixty-percent ownership of Parker & Parker . . . and then you sold it. BAM!

You’ll be glad to know that as of 10:00 p.m. last night, Parker & Parker officially changed to Parker and some drug research company in Jersey City.

Raymond is going to be PISSED!

Representatives from the 9/11 Memorial Fund and the Pediatric Cancer Unit of Mt. Sinai Hospital sent lovely bouquets. The hospital also sent a suit to honor their most generous donor, Dr. Claire Parker.

Well played, my friend, well played.

After the funeral, Aunt Patty hosted a gathering of close family and friends at your house. Oh man, some of the stories I heard nearly made me pee my pants. Did you know Claire was a model during Med School? Like a nude model? Like she hung out at Studio 54, NUDE? Wow!

It was a celebratory evening – Claire would have loved it. We spent the night passing around photo albums, drinking wine, and sharing charming stories of the great Claire Dumas. And maybe I was plastered, but I just knew she was somewhere laughing with us.

All and all, you would have been very pleased. Never apologize for not being there, Zach Parker – you were everywhere.

I love you.

No regrets,

Nat

PS- Chloe has this thing with vinyl records. And if there’s some sort of investigation as to Edith’s whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.

Jack and his big mouth. Although, Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. But if Jack told anyone about what I plan to do with Mom’s engagement ring, I’ll kill him.

I take the square package and flip it over in my hand. As my finger traces the return address, my former address, I think about the events of the past few months. Fate sure has a funny way of showing up and making things exciting.

Ripping open the package and pulling out the record I know so well, I smile. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s distinctive handwriting, and a pencil drawing of a stick figure with a glass.

From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:

“After it’s all over, we’ll go out and have a drink together.”

XO
Nat

Staring up at the dark sky and finding my favorite star, the idea comes to me.

I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write those later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net.

I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end.

The end.

Either home in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the last.

Ma femme,

Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.

I love you.

Zach

THE LOVE LETTERS