Hope on a Paige (Tales from the Dead Letter Office) Read online

  After visiting her parents, Paige bought a pint of white chocolate raspberry truffle ice cream and headed home. Usually bills and ads comprised the bulk of her mail, but tonight as she entered her apartment she was stopped in her tracks and a panic danced just behind her eyes. One letter in particular had a return address which read Prince Charming, Peachtree Street, Atlanta, Georgia. She sat at the same table she used to write letters to Paul and she stared at that unopened letter for a long time. At first, she wasn’t sure it was real, but after some time, her curiosity got the best of her and she decided to open it.

  --

  He had her name and he had the post office where the letters originated. What he lacked was the guts to seek her out. What if the fantasy is better than reality? What if he wrote her and the letters stopped?

  He knew at some point he’d have to go through with it. As each year passed, Mark put himself out there less and less and if he couldn’t bring himself to do something as small as send a letter to a complete stranger, then he might as well give up completely. She wasn’t a complete stranger though, that was the problem. For six months he received a letter from Paige every week and for four months he wrote her one in return. He knew more about Paige than he does his own mother.

  So he searched her out. Finding her address was easy; he found that in a local online directory. She was named local artist of the year as a senior in high school. She earned a scholarship to study art on the east coast. Her father died at the hands of a drunk driver who was more drunk than driver, and he found awards. Awards for being the director of a youth center as recent as three months ago which led him to their website and a link labeled staff.

  He knew there would be a picture of Paige and he hesitated going further. Not because she wouldn’t measure up to his dreams, but that she would. He was also invading her privacy. She sent those letters in anonymity and he had no right to intrude.

  He waited an entire two minutes before clicking through. She was more radiant than he imagined. What he found was not a candid photo but a posed head shot probably commissioned for the website. She had shoulder length sandy hair which accentuated a graceful neck. Her complexion was fair and her lips were full, spread in a nice smile no doubt asked for by the photographer. Her eyes told the story. They were gray with flecks of blue and although she was smiling in the photo, there was a sadness behind those eyes which was unmistakable. He recognized it in every boy and girl he encountered during his childhood but the place he saw it most was every time he looked in the mirror. Before he searched Paige out, he thought he might send her a letter; now he was sure of it.

  --

  Dear Paige,

  My glass half full, girl. Nobody has the ability to make lemonade the way you do. You make me forget how cold this world can be and help me realize that there are possibilities around every corner.

  I remember when I wrote those words to you. Never before did I have such hope for the future. My entire life I was always reaching for the brass ring, never truly believing it was within my grasp. That day, I knew it was and I knew my life was forever changed. In this world of darkness, you are my light and each day you shine brighter than the last.

  Driving back from a conference, I happened to glance out my window and saw the most miraculous sunset. It took my breath away to the point where I had to pull over and watch the sun finish its descent in the west. From the rest stop picnic table, I had the perfect view as the pinks and reds bled together to form colors there are no words for. I felt you by my side and I knew at that moment you were home watching that same sunset.

  Your eyes, your smile, the curve of your back, the softness of your voice. Before I noticed these things, I noticed the honesty and vulnerability shining through your art. Your art has the ability to offer solace where none existed. I knew your art would have that affect at the hotel. I’m very proud of you.

  I hate to go but I must get back to work. I’m glad you are doing so well and I can’t wait until we can finally see each other again.

  All my love,

  Paul

  Thinking she was having her own version of a hysterical pregnancy, she put the letter in a drawer while she sorted through her feelings. Out of sight but not out of mind, the letter in the drawer weighed on her day and night. As time passed, she thought about it constantly and when she finally opened that drawer once again, just as she thought, the letter was there waiting.

  The postmark read Atlanta, Georgia, and with a little sleuthing she realized it had to be someone working at the Dead Letter Office. She knew her letters ended up somewhere but never gave it much thought. There were only four Dead Letter Offices around the country and one was in Atlanta, Georgia, which was where the trail went cold for Paige. He signed his letter Paul so she had no name to go by and there were no other identifying marks, so it appeared that he wanted to remain just as anonymous as she did, and she found comfort in that.

  Although he knew where she lived, that held little fear as he was on the other side of the country. Where her fear did come from was the intent behind his letter. Was he having fun at her expense or was there innocence behind his words. There was only one way to find out.

  Dear Paul,

  Your words never fail to inspire me to believe in myself. Anytime I stumble even a little, you are there to lift me up, thank you.

  When I put the college letters back in the closet, I came across the carnival bear I thought was lost forever. It was under the yearbooks and down in the corner, do you remember the bear? By my account it was our fourth date, by yours our fifth. I still contend that running into each other at the library and studying at the same table is not a date, but in the honor of compromise, I will say it was our fourthish date. It just wasn’t your night at the ring toss but you were determined to win that bear. To this day you still won’t tell me how much you spent, but I never felt like you were trying to show off or impress me. Instead, I felt that if there was something I wanted, you would do everything in your power to give it to me, and that was when my heart no longer completely belonged to me.

  The weather is starting to change and the fall colors are so beautiful. Yesterday, I spent an hour sitting in the park, just enjoying my surroundings and thinking about the past and the future. I realized that every experience I had in my past was preparing me for my future with you. I used to look back sadly on the painful memories, but now I realize they have made me who I am and who I will be in the future. I now see those times in a different light. It is your wisdom and beauty that has helped me do that.

  I’ve decided to go back to the park with my easel and paints and document the fall colors this year. I hope to have it done by the time you come home.

  I love you,

  Paige

  It wasn’t with an easel and paints, but Paige did go to the park with a sketch pad and pencils and she started to draw. She started to create art for the first time since she left school.

  Sitting on a bench, her hand began to shake as memories of a past life came flooding back, but she pressed on and soon, sense and muscle memory took over and the familiar feeling of flying invigorated her as she got reacquainted with an old friend. She chose as her subject a family having a late afternoon picnic and although, personally, the scene was difficult for her to study, capturing the shafts of light from the fading sun breaking through the trees was too much to pass up. She stayed well past when the family had packed up their belongings to head home and only called it quits when daylight told her to. She couldn’t wait to talk to her father.

  --

  Mark had lost hope so many times he wasn’t sure he could still find it or if he wanted to keep searching it out. As he sat there, processing letters, he had a well of hope in him that, today, another letter from Paige would arrive. It had been two weeks since he contacted her, a return letter would have arrived a couple days ago, but Mark still hoped she would write again. He still hoped that she would reach out and take his hand. That scared him more than not hearing
from her at all. If another letter didn’t come, he could go back to the comfort of his life even though it was not the life he wanted. If that letter does arrive, his hope of the present would turn to hope of the future and those thoughts scared him more than anything else. And then it came.

  His heart wanted to sing but his head wouldn’t let him. Over the years, he built so many walls he thought of putting mason on his resume, but he found comfort in those walls. They were cold and hard but they were also predictable. Each brick told a story and each story exacted a price. He didn’t know if he could afford anymore bricks. In a fight between hope and caution, hope would always come out on top. He knew he couldn’t change that any more than he could change his DNA and his biology would always seek out hope and acceptance.

  --

  Her flower budget increased as she found herself at the cemetery more and more looking for guidance and wisdom from her dad, but ultimately, she knew the courage would come from her. Hope had crept back into her drab little world and with wide brush strokes, began adding color to her life again. She continued writing Paul but with each passing week, she realized that she needed the illusion less and less and she was ready to take the next step.

  The pretext of Paige and Paul lasted for a little over a month and where Mark took the first leap, Paige took the second, and instead of writing to her prince charming, she actually wrote to the person at the other end of her letter.

  Hello,

  I’m not even sure of your name. I’m fairly certain it’s not Paul; that would be too weird. I really am an artist, or at least I used to be. My art used to make people happy, but when my father died and I left school, the last thing I wanted to do was make other people happy, so I stopped. At the time I didn’t realize I was stopping for good, but sometimes when you compromise for so long, that compromise becomes your reality, and it became mine.

  I’ve started creating though. I have a hope and passion for my art which I haven’t had in these past twelve years. I’m not sure yet if I’m ready to put my art out there and see if I have a future, but I have included a sketch with this letter to show you what I’ve been doing. I hope you like it.

  Two years ago, I lost my mother. I started writing these letters as a respite from the life I had. I just wanted one time a week where I dreamt of the life I always felt I was destined for. I no longer want to do that, I want to live the life I was destined for. I’m not sure what the future will hold, but I think I’m ready to just let it happen instead of sitting here counting the “what could have beens.”

  I look forward to hearing from you; not Paul, but you.

  Write soon,

  Paige

  --

  Connected not only by their words but by something more, Mark was going through similar changes as he also prepared to take the next step. He stopped burying his heart in the past and started pointing it towards the future. He still had fear but it no longer had a face. Instead, it was simply a feeling that added excitement to the changes happening around him. He never felt this close to someone before, and he knew it was just the beginning. He read her letter so many times that he had committed her words to memory.

  Paige,

  I am so sorry to hear about your mother. I have lost my mother twice. First when I was put up for adoption as an infant and second when I was eight years old and my adoptive parents were killed during a robbery. After that, I went back into the system where I remained until I was eighteen.

  I started working at the Dead Letter Office almost six years ago. I won’t lie. I carry the baggage of my past everywhere I go and I thought working at the DLO would give me the space and isolation to work through those issues. After a while, I found a certain poetry and symmetry in being the keeper of letters and correspondence that got lost along the way. Now I realize that my decision to work here was so I could cross paths with you. I believe in the randomness of life and the concept of free will, but I also believe certain things are rooted in fate and that there is a greater plan for all of us.

  I am not sure where our friendship will go or if it will evolve into something more, but I know I am a better person for this connection we share. To a degree, we all carry baggage from our past. We think our issues are unique and we all feel alone in our struggles because we keep them hidden away. All that does is add an unnecessary level of loneliness which could be erased by someone to share it with. I’m glad I’ve found that someone in you.

  Thank you for the sketch, I really love it. Although I know very little about art, you seem to have a real talent and I hope you keep at it.

  I look forward to hearing from you again,

  Mark

  --

  They tried phone, e-mail and even video chat, but in the end they stuck with the written word. Not only did they find a certain elegance in it, but it allowed them to start in the shallow end and work their way out. It also added a level of anticipation which Paige found intoxicating and she actually looked forward to going home to her tiny one-bedroom apartment and her calico Benny to see what presents the mailman may have brought.

  The back corner of her living room used to have two book shelves full of books. They had since been boxed up and stored and the shelves donated to Goodwill. In its place was an easel with her latest work, a half-finished mountain range from a photo she had taken. Against the walls were completed canvases, some stacks were six or seven deep. Above those were taped sketches in different mediums. Pencil, charcoal, watercolors. She felt alive again, and when she wasn’t creating, she would sometimes look back at that corner and feel a rush of excitement. She carried that excitement over into her letters to Mark and her previous feelings of hope had given way to expectations. She now expected to be happy and she expected to move forward in life.

  --

  He kept her letters in a shoebox under his bed. He kept them there almost like a hiding place. Not so others wouldn’t find them, he rarely had visitors, but so he could keep some distance between his reality and his hopes. He had since taken the box out, replaced it with a nice letter box and it sat prominently on his desk next to the sketch Paige sent him. She still didn’t know he had them.

  Six months passed from when Mark received her first letter and he started writing her back. Six more months had passed since as a cab took him to the airport. He felt eight years old again. He felt like he did on the day his adoptive parents took him home. He wasn’t prepared to ever feel like that again and as he silently rode in the back of the cab, he was overtaken by the emotion of it all. He had a feeling this time it would turn out differently.

  With anticipation and a genuine hope for the future, Mark boarded a flight to meet Paige for the first time. She was not meeting him at the airport though; he was going straight to her apartment. He gave the cab driver her address and they were off. In the back of the cab he felt nothing but calm, content with the fact that no matter how this turned out, it was the journey that mattered. He took a chance and hoped for the best; that’s all you can do in life.

  Reaching her apartment, he paid the cabbie and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. He found her apartment and stood on her landing for what seemed an eternity, a letter box under his arm. Finally, he was ready for his future to begin.

  He knocked on the door.