Swimmers

    Dear Vance,

I’m not entirely sure why I keep writing to you like this. I told Clara about these letters: she smirked and told me to say hello. Isn’t that a special kind of fucked-up, your daughter asking me to tell you hello.

I wanted to tell about the calico cat I saw today. It reminded me of the one you had when we met; the little fluff-ball with the white socks that never left your lap. Until you gave it up. All innocent creatures are drawn to you, but eventually you leave them, don’t you?

I should have seen it coming.

 — T.

     Dear Vance,

     I woke up this morning and for a moment I smelled your breath. Your god damn disgusting breath. You could have left me a ring, a love note, an exotic bouquet. I would have slapped you for breathing all over me, but you weren’t there. It was the first time in a year that I wished I’d gone with you, and I hated you for it.

— T.

    Dear Vance,

I went to the beach today. I watched the waves pick up shells and drag them into the sea. Remember when you took me to that windswept little village where you grew up? I can never recall the name. There were no trains there, no highways, no traffic lights interrupting the night. I still recall for that entire trip I never felt entirely comfortable. It was too quiet. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever truly escape the city. I still rush everywhere like I’m on a deadline, even though you made sure I’ll never have to work again, and whenever I open the cottage door I look up and expect to see skyscrapers. But you were at home there, more than I ever saw you anywhere else. When you slipped into that old sweater of yours, and your hair blew in the breeze on your mother’s salt-crusted veranda, I understood, finally, how our concrete life was a cage for you.

It’s your calm I miss the most, the way you carried your storybook childhood in your pocket and would take it out and unfold it like a blanket for us to sit on. Downtown Sydney was never so tranquil as when I walked those streets with you.

Why did you go, Vance? Why did you have to ruin everything you selfish coward?

— T.

     Dear Vance,   

     Clara is in hospital; did you know that? She was stockpiling her medication. Dumb luck that her housemate caught her: she only got a handful of pills down her throat, and the doctors pumped her dry. I was there when she woke up. She just sighed and rolled over and stared at the wall. You didn’t have to try for me if you didn’t want to, but you should have tried for her. You should have talked to her or left her a note. She deserves to know that none of this was her fault. You think you stopped being her father just because you’re not around? You think I stopped being your wife?

— T.

     Dear Vance,

     There are days I wake up and, by the time I get out of bed, I hate everyone. Especially you.

— T.

Dear Vance,

I finally found the courage to go through your old albums. Was the music you listened to always so sad? Why did I only hear you sing through a wall, and never when we were in the same room?

— T.

     Dear Vance,

  Clara is doing ok, by the way. She’s back at university. She volunteers with Lifeline two nights a week. I should have told you in my last letter, but I was so angry with you; I guess I wanted you to hurt, for once.

You remember I told you how I used to sail in the Whitsundays? I’ve been thinking about the people I met there… they remind me of you. Old sailors with faded tattoos and no wedding rings who drifted like spectres between the bars and told each other they had come north for the quiet life. But they were escape-artists, all of them, fleeing women or commitment or debt. Fleeing pain of one form or another. You were just like them. You weren’t selfish, just afraid. Oh, Vance, you should have talked to me. I would have helped you. I would have carried you through anything.

— T.

    Dearest Vance,

For years now I’ve been furious that you never gave me a sign, but I’m finally beginning to understand what you were trying to tell me all that time. You said once that love (our love, I assumed) was an ocean. I thought you were being sweet and poetic. But over the years I noticed how you described everything this way. Your job. Global warming. Your endless battles with Clara. Politics. Your mind like a sea, heaving and foaming in the night, keeping you awake.

I think you were trying to tell me that we’re all just swimmers in our own infinite oceans, fighting the relentless tides that threaten to carry us away. You tried so hard to keep your head above water; I don’t blame you for finally letting go. Maybe after all that time you truly deserved to sink into the dark and quiet. You can rest now, my dear.

If life is an ocean, losing you was a tidal wave. There were days I wished you had cut my wrists too. But not anymore. I’m going to keep swimming, Vance. I’m going to crawl onto the shore you thought was unreachable. When I get there, I’ll write your name in the sand.

— T.

     Dear Vance,

It’s been a while now, but I wanted to tell you first: I’m seeing someone. He is kind to me. He asks me about you as if you are my closest friend. Isn’t it funny how true that’s become?

Clara is studying for honours this year. She smiles so much now. She reminds me of you.

We’re all still here swimming, my love.

 — T.