Dear Olive, Sincerely Future Peggy

Olive,

I know you’re having the time of your life in Corfu right now, and you’re not thinking about anything except where the best bars are and which streets in Santorini have the coolest cafes, and that’s good--I’m glad you got to get away before college, freshman year is always hectic. You probably haven’t been expecting to get a letter from your busy sister who’s off at her dream internship in D.C because as I’ve said time and again, who even writes letters anymore? But this is really important and you never answer your phone because you’re determined to keep guys on their toes. 

I can’t disclose how, so at the risk of sounding kind of crazy, you’re going to have to trust me here, but I’ve seen what the world is like in ten years. The most I can tell you about how this came to be is that I was working late at the museum and things change when no one’s around. You’ve always been more the kind to buy into these things than I have. I guess I sort of took pride in being more sensible than most my age. Maybe I thought it made me especially smart or sophisticated, but really it just made me a little less willing to see what the world has to offer as far as miracles go. 

I’ll admit that I wasn’t taking it too seriously when I first saw the date on the calendar. I thought I had fallen asleep and was dreaming or something. It was the bit where I stubbed my toe that kind of woke me up to the fact that I was living a day that had yet to be lived. I went through the morning kind of in a trance, walking around the apartment I suppose I never left, looking at pictures of me with people I couldn’t remember meeting. Then I got a call from a number labeled “Work” in my phone, and when I answered it, it took some quick thinking and a fake cough to stop me from being fired. I’d guess that I still work at the museum. Can you believe that?  Thirty year old me, a museum curator of some sort, doing what I’d always kind of thought I’d do. It’s nice to see that some things will go as planned. 

I didn’t want to sit inside all day and never see what the rest of the world was up to---or at least, what D.C was up to--so I took my umbrella and coat from the same spot in the hall that they’re always in and stepped out into the hall. It was pretty quiet in my building, probably because everyone else was at work, but it did freak me out for a second as I theorized that I was the only one left on Earth. That went out the window as soon as I set foot outside. 

I didn’t know where to go, what addresses could tell some sort of story for me, so I reached into my coat pockets to see what I could find. All I could come up with was a silver locket with “M <3 B” inscribed on it, a handful of cracker crumbs, and a crumpled up wedding invitation--get this--with YOUR NAME written at the top. It said to RSVP by sending the invitation back to an address in Kensington Place with the food options filled out, so I called a cab and asked to be taken there. By the way, the invitation was about nine years old, so it was lucky that you still lived there. (Another thing I feel worth noting is your age at the time of the marriage. Not even twenty!) 

I had assumed that you would welcome me with open arms once I arrived, and chat with me as if we’d just talked the day before, and I’d give you advice on your divorce. I rang the doorbell to a perfectly charming brick house and not ten seconds later, you opened the door. (You’ve stayed slim, since I know you’ll ask.)  Instead of reacting happily, you looked taken aback and snuck a glance behind you into a messy house--I guess some things never change, huh?--and then glared at me. 

You were angry and confused that I had come to see you! You stepped outside onto the porch and closed the door behind you, blocking out the noise of some annoying kids’ show playing inside. “So now you want to talk?” you asked. “Now that Dinah’s going to nationals for violin? I don’t know how you found out anyway, since you don’t follow me anymore, but I’m not going to let you walk in there after what you said about our family. Guess what, Margaret, we’re doing just fine. Tom and I are still married and Dinah is happy. So you don’t get to come ruin that, not after all these years, when you could’ve been there for us. I don’t know what made you think it was okay to show up today. And before you ask why either me or my daughter are home right now, we’ve made it a tradition to take birthdays off school. I don’t care what you think about that. I don’t care that you probably want to tell me that she’ll never succeed that way, or lecture me on how she needs a practice schedule for violin. I’m not going to let your sad life intrude on mine anymore, okay? That ended nine years ago, in case you don’t remember.” And you walked back inside and slammed the door. 

I must’ve stood there for about five minutes after that, trying to figure out what happened and what to do. Eventually, I just called another cab and went back to my apartment to try and piece together what made you so mad at me. I looked through all the pictures I had displayed, there must have been about thirty throughout the apartment, and you weren’t in any of them, not a single one. I couldn’t find a picture of a little girl, either. There was basically no evidence that I had a sister or a brother-in-law or a niece. And then I realized that maybe the reason I still had the wedding invitation wasn’t because I’d just texted you my response but because I never RSVP’d and never went. 

It made me remember something I’d totally forgotten about since it had happened--my homecoming dance freshman year of high school. I was getting ready in our bathroom and you came in to watch. You were somewhere around 12 or 13 I think. I was going with a group of my friends, and you asked why I didn’t have a date, so I told you it would be fun to go with a date, but I just didn’t want to this time. Then you said you’d gotten a boyfriend and that maybe you’d still be together by the eighth grade dance and you could go together. I turned to you and said, “You’ve had a different boyfriend every week this year. There’s something seriously wrong with you.” I felt bad as soon as I said it. You were just a kid who had a lot of crushes, what was so bad about that? But to me it was like you had no respect for yourself. 

Now that I’m writing this, I can think of a million other times I’ve judged you like that. Like the time you were really upset after breaking up with your boyfriend of two months and I said something about how I was sure you’d be onto the next guy in two seconds and break up with him five minutes later. And you were crying over this guy. Obviously it wasn’t some dumb guy to you, it was a real boyfriend. And when you brought your sophomore homecoming date home to us and I said, “You know he almost failed history last year, right? What is up with the guys you date?” Even the day before you left for Corfu I was lecturing you about not getting a Greek boyfriend like it would be bad for you or something.

I think I’ve had some kind of issue with every guy you’ve dated. I’ve definitely also exaggerated the amount of people you’ve dated, right? I mean, seriously, it was about eight guys throughout all of middle school and high school. What was my issue? Maybe the next thing I discovered that day ten years from now will explain it. 

I was making myself dinner when I heard the door open. I swear to God I nearly jumped out of my skin. I had to act natural, though, because whoever it was clearly had a key and lived there with me. I’m not going to share every detail of how I found this out, because meeting her was a blur, but the woman who came home for dinner was my girlfriend. Of FOUR YEARS. She was the woman featured in so many of the photos I had framed around the apartment. 

First of all, I’ve never imagined myself having a girlfriend. I guess I’ve never seen it as an option. But there I was, ten years from now, in a happy relationship with another woman. Crazy, right? I would never have seen that coming.

After dinner I felt tired, so I took a nap, and when I woke up I was back in the museum and hardly ten minutes had passed. It was a surreal experience. I still can’t really wrap my head around the whole thing. It seems so ridiculous, like some kind of fever dream, but it was too real for it to be anything but the future. 

The point is, I think what happens to you in Greece is that you fall in love, and somehow you end up marrying the guy and getting pregnant and being happy, and I’m not there to see it because I’m too busy wishing I could’ve had that. I probably discouraged you from marrying him, complained about him and judged him to the point of no return, and lectured you for getting pregnant so young. And we didn’t talk because the only thing I could do was be bitter.

I should’ve been a better big sister all these years. But I can fix it now before that future where I don’t know you, and I don’t know Dinah, and I’ve been terrible to Tom can become reality. Just know that I love and support you, and that I never really cared who you dated as long as they didn’t hurt you. 

I hope that didn’t sound insane. It probably did. I don’t know if I’ll ever even send this letter because I don’t think I’m ready. But I hope you’re having fun in Corfu. Say hi to Tom for me!

-Your sister, Peggy