Last Christmas

It snowed heavily that year in Stowe, but nothing could distract the girl curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, twinkling white lights reflected in the window behind her and a crumpled letter clutched tightly to her chest. Dear Sarah, it started. I’m sorry. She hated the words––sorry wasn’t good enough––but that didn’t matter. Those words were all she had left of him, and a small part of her still needed them.

It wasn’t the first letter she’d gotten; one had come every December for the last five years, though she’d never replied. It was always the same glossy white envelope, slipped under her front door so she couldn’t miss it, familiar loopy handwriting spelling out both their names and addresses. He still lived where they had lived together, in what felt like another lifetime, though it hadn’t really been that long. She wondered if anything had changed there. Or if maybe he had changed.

They’d picked out the house together in Montpelier right after graduation––him from SUNY Plattsburgh and her from Northwestern. It was just “city” enough to be a good compromise; she was used to Chicago, but he preferred the suburbs, and they both wanted to be close to family. Thinking back on it, she couldn’t believe they’d survived all of college long-distance. She was convinced for a while afterwards that he must have been cheating, although he never admitted to it. He’d been hiding a lot of things.

Her father had given him her new address after she left. Her parents were high school sweethearts too, and her father had always had a soft spot for him. “It wasn’t his fault,” he’d told her after, but of course it had been his fault. Everything was. That’s not fair, she reminded herself. It had been her fault too, and the guilt still tormented her.

She was older now, and she’d had a lot of time to think about what had happened to her. To them. She really was doing better, had even been to some therapy, but reading the letters always seemed to fluster her. She’d never told Rob about them explicitly, but he seemed to understand anyway. That was one of her favorite things about him; he had an uncanny talent for sensing her feelings even when she couldn’t express them. Glancing out the window, a blanket of snow draped across their small backyard, she prayed that he would make it home safely before the storm worsened.

Night fell quickly in the wintertime, especially in the small mountain town she now called home, and it made driving dangerous. That was sort of how they’d met, actually; she’d been on her way home when it got dark and snowy, and she was spooked by a deer. She’d sat in her car, crying, for almost half an hour before Rob had shown up in his police cruiser and asked if she was alright. He drove her home and gave her his number––just in case she needed anything––and promised to pick her up the next morning so she could drive her car home in the daylight. She had still been fragile then, but he hadn’t pushed her, and they’d fallen into something not long after.

Standing on a chair she’d dragged in from the dining room, Sarah pulled an old shoebox from the top shelf of her closet where she’d stuffed it between some spare bedding and a dusty sewing kit. She carried it back to her chair in the living room, careful not to slip on the hardwood in her fuzzy socks, which were a Christmas gift from her mother the year before. They had given each other socks every year since she’d graduated college, and while her mother had originally meant the “adult” present as a joke and Sarah had only picked hers out last-minute in the airport, it had quickly turned into one of their favorite traditions. There was a pair of fluffy pink socks neatly wrapped on her kitchen countertop, ready for the small family Christmas party the next morning. She’d made a pie too, although the crust was too crumbly, and it was already falling apart. She’d never been a good baker, but this one was especially bad.

The other four letters were in the shoebox, although she didn’t see them when she first lifted the lid. Other keepsakes from their relationship were on top; the house key she’d never returned, and an empty perfume bottle. A small black ring box. A stack of unsent wedding invitations, their names entwined in fancy calligraphy on ivory cardstock, and some polaroids. He still had the camera, unless he’d thrown it out. A positive pregnancy test.

She forced herself to look away from the test, quickly moving the rest of the photos and trinkets aside. At the bottom of the box were four envelopes, and with a deep breath, she pulled out the first letter and began to read.

Dear Sarah,

Why haven’t you returned any of my calls? I call every day, but you never pick up. Are you getting my messages? I miss you. You have no idea how much I regret everything that happened that night, but how could you when you just ignore me? You can’t ignore that we’re meant to be together. I swear to you, it was an accident. Can’t you forgive me?

I got your address from your father, on the condition that I wouldn’t come see you here until you invited me. He still believes in us. I still believe in us. Please call me.

Love,

Paul

He hadn’t called in years. Would he eventually stop writing, too? She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She hated herself for it, but she missed him too. If she hadn’t cut him out completely then, she would probably have gone back to him, and she couldn’t. But she still felt bad about it.

Dear Sarah,

It’s been a year since my last letter. Over a year since the accident. You know it was an accident, don’t you? I wish you would call. I miss the sound of your voice, the feeling of you in bed beside me in the morning. The taste of your lips. I still think about you, about what our life would have been like, if not for what happened.

I talked to your father last week. I promise I wasn’t looking for him, but we ran into each other at the store. He says you’re doing well, but I’m not. How could I be? How are you doing it? Everything about this place reminds me of you. I wish you would come home.

Yours forever,

Paul

Sarah shifted uncomfortably. The worst part of it was that he was right; he’d never meant to hurt her, but that didn’t mean she could just forgive him. She couldn’t even forgive herself.

Dear Sarah,

I’m with another woman now. It’s not the same, but I guess I had to move on sometime, and it’s not like you haven’t. I heard you’re dating a cop...word gets around. I hope he’s treating you right.

Is it weird for you to be with someone else? Is it weird that I am? This was supposed to be our life, our place, our future, and now someone has taken your place. Well, that’s not entirely true. No one could ever take your place. Do you still wear your engagement ring? You should keep it. I don’t want it back.

I’ve accepted that I will probably never hear from you, but I will keep hoping.

Yours,

Paul

She hadn’t known then that he had a new girlfriend, but she’d been happy for them. She’d hoped it meant he was getting better.

Dear Sarah,

I want you to know that I’ve been working on myself. I just got back from rehab, and Bianca has been so supportive. I never want to make the mistakes I made with you again. It was an accident, but it was an avoidable one, and I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life.

Have I ever told you that I don’t blame you for it? I did in the moment, even though it wasn’t your fault. Do you know that it wasn’t? Maybe if you did, you could forgive yourself. Maybe then you could forgive me.

Congrats on your engagement. I hope Rob is everything you deserve.

Sincerely,

Paul

He couldn’t really believe that, and yet there it was in her hand. Proof that he didn’t blame her, and that it wasn’t her fault. Except it had been. If she hadn’t gotten angry that he’d been drinking and canceled their plans to stay the night at the resort, if she hadn’t let him drive when he’d been drinking, or if she hadn’t gotten in the car with him, it never would’ve happened. If she’d just told him about the baby...except she hadn’t even known herself until the test that morning, and then she’d miscarried in the crash. She had to blink back tears to finish reading.

Dear Sarah,

I’m sorry. I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am for what happened. We lost a baby that night because I was reckless and stupid, and I haven’t been able to truly acknowledge that until now. I haven’t been able to apologize, but now I can, and I am so, so sorry.

I know that words are not enough, but I hope you’ve found some peace. Bianca is pregnant, and now that I have another chance to meet my child, it’s sunk in that I will never meet ours. While this baby will never replace the one we lost, I think it’s been helpful for me to put aside some of my grief. It’s been a long time now, and I will always be sad, but I am also hopeful. And I’m hopeful for you, Sarah.

Merry Christmas.

–Paul 

She would never have the chance to meet their child either, and that was what haunted her the most. Her hand moved to her still-flat stomach unintentionally, resting where their son or daughter would have lived and grown for forty weeks. To where, one day, she might feel the child she longed for with Rob start kicking.

She could hear the sound of the engine as he pulled into the driveway, his boots crunching through several inches of snow. Thank God, she thought. He made it home.

“Sar?” he called, stepping into the foyer and peeling off several snowy layers.

“In here.” 

He found her in the armchair, the contents of the shoebox still strewn around her, the fire beginning to die. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, pushing the box off of her lap and standing to embrace him. He was taller than her, just enough that she had to stand on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. She buried her face in the coarse wool of his sweater, and he rubbed his hand slowly up and down her back.

“I love you too, babe.” Rob was not a man of many words, but he felt like home. “Do you want some cocoa?” he asked.

“That sounds nice,” said Sarah. And it did.