Return to Sender - 2. Chapter 2 - Kai

CHAPTER 2 - Kai

I stared at the letter. Or rather, its wax seal. And above it, the return address. Impossible…it was the address of my parental home but it couldn’t be from Dad; he died months ago, shortly after I arrived in San Antonio at the Brooke Army Medical Center. Could it be a very late one from him?

No. Dad’s handwriting had always been scribbling at best. He wrote letters because he refused to learn computers. And I liked receiving letters - my family knew that. Kellan wrote maybe once a week, and even Megan humored me with it because she knew I like holding a letter in my hand, not scrolling through an email - it’s just not the same. I like to see effort. Megan’s letters were always long, and written with different pens because she compiled them over longer periods, writing something every day. I loved getting her letters - it was like a day-by-day account over the span of a month or more. And I think she secretly liked it too, though she complained that I should have my ass dragged into the 21st century. I was very much in the 21st century, thank you. But letters I could take with me, stuff ‘em in my pack and read ‘em at night - feel like they were sitting right beside me, hearing their voices in my head.

This letter had come in a batch, some five from my unit, one from my sister and two from Kellan. There was also a package from my brother. But that one letter; it was thick and heavy when I picked it up.

The paper was expensive. I’d say it was linen. And the envelope...handmade? There was a fragrance to it as well. Especially in my quarters it was easy to discern another smell. It smelled nice. The sender had gone through quite a bit of trouble for it.

The handwriting was gracious, flowing. Not calligraphy but not normal either, and clearly written the old fashioned way. No, really? A quill?

A lot of trouble indeed. There was no clear stamp in the wax, like from medieval times when they used rings to do this, but still, a nice touch.

Glancing at my finished meal, I eyed the knife. It was dirty but...ah, fuck it. Getting the napkin, I wiped it clean and slipped the tip under the seal. Opening this letter by slicing just would ruin the experience. And if the envelope was anything to go by, this would be an experience just to read.

The wax let go so I put back the knife on the tray, then took out the letter. More of the nice fragrance wafted my way. It was extremely subtle. Lifting it to my face, I could make out vanilla, but there were other scents I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Yet. And then the letter.

It was a thing of art. Looking at each page, they all contained a doodle of sorts, a funny cartoon of the same character, one reading in a big chair in front of a fire by candlelight, another writing at a desk, and a third, mailing the letter, chasing a stagecoach complete with a span of six horses. The character itself was a cute and comical male with wavy hair, glasses, dressed classic casual in pants, shirt and vest. A bit like a scatterbrained professor-y type. The doodles made me chuckle.

The letter was dated about a week ago and began with Commander. He thanked me for my service first and foremost, then expressed relief that I was doing well and he hoped my recovery would go speedily. He then explained why he’d been so audacious as to write back instead of returning my last letter to the sender.

To be honest, I had forgotten all about that letter. It’s timing couldn’t have been worse, mailing it on the same day my father unexpectedly died, some three months ago. I had assumed that it had been mismailed and thrown out by whomever had received it. I could understand that. Rude, yes, but some people just can’t be bothered to be nice. It was a small effort to just write ‘return to sender’ and mail it back. Like, literally a few minutes. But doing something for someone else without pay or a return favor was rare these days, I guess.

He explained that the letter arrived on Wednesday, last week. He was indeed the new owner of my parental home.

I hadn’t wanted to sell the house but we had to, and far more quickly than all of us had imagined. Money was tight, what with Kellan having purchased his own home last year and Megan doing well enough but not overly so. My benefits hadn’t kicked in yet - paperwork was still going back and forth - so we had to get it into probate and fast. I had held out a small hope that my paperwork would come through quickly enough to make a bid, buy out my siblings and move there myself but that was nothing more than a dream.

It’d been a small miracle when probate went through in record time, a little over six weeks. The one time I didn’t really need officials to work fast, they did. So the house went up for sale. I was still holding out hope that it wouldn’t go quickly due to work needing to be done on it, but that was almost immediately squashed when Megan rang me up, excitedly telling me that even though the house hadn’t even been properly listed yet, someone had snatched it up quickly, paying far over the asking price. Apparently the writer of this letter.

His name was Adam Evans. He introduced himself with a short description of who he was, what he did. Apparently he was a writer of popular fiction. I might know a few of his books, he said, though he didn’t offer titles. He admitted to using a pseudonym but didn’t mention that either. He then continued, apologizing for his rudeness in opening that letter but, to his shame, couldn’t resist. My style of writing apparently had appealed to him, complimenting me on my penmanship, for putting in the time and effort. It’s what had made him decide to respond in kind.

I liked that he apologized only once and not profusely, like someone else might do. It was heartfelt and honest, things that profusely apologizing would chip away at each time, until the apology literally meant nothing but more words. He said he’d contemplated trying to find my sister (he’d be surprised to find out she lived not ten minutes away from him), and return the letter to her. But he’d opted against it, preferring to respond and admit his invasion of privacy to me personally. Well, in writing.

He gave his condolences for my fathers’ passing, wishing me strength in an already difficult time.

Adam came across as elegant and cultured. A bit old fashioned in his wording, definitely in style. He said the house agreed with him, having been built in the 30’s. He felt quite at home there. He spoke of the trees outside near the entrance, the woods nearby and the lake. Now that spring was around the corner, he was looking forward to seeing the leaves grow and couldn’t wait, telling me he was sitting outside on the back porch while writing this on a notepad, to be transferred to the actual letter later on. He already had gotten ink and paper, and would make the quill later that night.

He would make the quill.

Putting the letter down, I just stared at it. He made the quill with which he wrote this letter. That told me something: he was meticulous and precise. I would bet this Adam was a thinker, looking at things from all angles, taking his time - probably born in the wrong era - a romantic. He probably preferred the slower pace of living in the country instead of a bustling city, but he would go to a city when needed. He wouldn’t like it. Neither did I.

Then he offered a glimpse of himself between the lines. He was saddened to learn that my partner had chosen not to wait for me.

Ryan.

Sighing deeply, I thought about him and called up his face. Or tried to anyway, finding it harder and harder these days to get a correct image. We’d been together for over eight years. Five tours. I felt disappointment in him, for not waiting for me. He knew the deal when we got together. It hadn’t been a problem back then. He had his own life - time would fly by. But with each tour, according to him, time had slowed. He missed me. Well, I missed him, but knowing someone was waiting for me, made it all worth it, and made the time go by faster. Video calls sometimes happened but on the third tour, we’d stuck to emailing only, daily at first, then several times a week. Once a week. Once every week and a half. Etcetera…

He never wrote an actual letter, like my siblings or my dad. Always email. I began to hate email.

I knew he didn’t have another lover. Mutual friends back home would have told me if that had been the case. He was just lonely, and slowly but surely, as he’d later admitted, fell out of love. Tough to hear. Very. I’d had a good cry about it too. Several. I’m not one to drown myself in alcohol, but I had the first night. But then life at the base happened - new recruits arrived and time went by. I couldn’t share my grief. Don’t ask, don’t tell. But, as time went by, I understood his reasons. I’d said that in my letter, as well. There were no hard feelings but there was regret.

Adam offered an insight I hadn’t considered before, and that was that though Ryan was no longer there for me to return to, the memory would always be. Happy times, a few sad ones but overall, the happy ones would stick. The same as with the house - it was now his but it used to be my parental home. If I thought about it, what memories came flooding into my brain! When I tried his suggestion, all that did were happy ones. I smiled at that. He was right. There weren’t images so much as they were feelings. And if I thought about Ryan, feelings of a happier time came easy; sad or harder times not at all. That was a good way of looking at it. It agreed with me, but I still couldn’t call up his face.

That I had my sister and brother was also something to look forward to, Adam wrote, and he hoped that seeing them again regularly, once I transferred closer to home, would help me with my recovery. He didn’t ask for details, but the way he wrote, described and responded to things from my own letter, told me he was a warm person. He cared. Even his sign off spoke of such warmth. He wished me a speedy recovery, good health and I’d be in his thoughts.

There was a postscript as well.

P.S. If the need ever hits you, feel free to come and visit your old haunts. I’ve not changed much on the house. Well, not on the outside. A new roof, a fresh paint job, replaced a few old windows, some new curtains and the floorboards of the deck and porch have been renewed. You are welcome to come check it out, someday.
P.P.S. I can’t help wondering if you smoke. While reading, I got this image in my head of you hunched over your letter, a cigarette forgotten in an ashtray nearby.

**********

I reread his letter several times, each instance detecting an underlying feeling. Not so much reading between the lines, there wasn’t much of that, but he somehow provoked a need in me to respond, the postscript one the most blatant. But there were others, like the reference to the back porch where he had been writing this letter on a notepad first, before transferring it to this paper with the handmade quill. I wanted to tell him how I had always felt, sitting there, looking out at the lake.

**********

My request for writing materials, especially the specific pen and paper I asked for, was met with some amusement, but one of the nurses promised to bring the items to me. He couldn’t say exactly when, but until then, I adapted Adam’s example; I began to write my response on a notepad.

Several hours later, my bed was surrounded by balls of paper. I couldn’t get the tone right, somehow. Each time I began, I wrote and wrote and intimacy crept into my words: questions I had no business asking to a total stranger - like did he drink wine? Did he like coming in from the cold, his cheeks red and healthy looking, and sitting in front of the fire? Or lying down, perhaps with a good book? Or lying on the couch together, looking at the flames? Or maybe just knowing you’re both home, each in a separate room, but the knowing is enough?

And then I hit upon why my response was so much more personal than his was. All throughout his letter, he kept calling me ‘Commander’. Never once did he mention my name. He mentioned Ryan by name. My sister and brother too, but never me. He signed with ‘Adam’. Not his surname. Just his name.

Was that on purpose? It irked me somehow. Did he not use my name because he wanted to keep distance? It drove me up the wall in a way, until I gave myself a good talking to.

“What’s gotten into you?” I asked myself, leaning heavily on the sink and I gazed at my mirror image.

I hadn’t trimmed in a few days, so my stubble was on its way to full beard; I made a face at myself as I slid my fingers through. Ugh! The military haircut was completely gone, having grown out; I normally keep it shortly cropped for ease. It had grown longer, covering my ears and it would touch my collar now if I wore a shirt. I’d forgotten that when my hair was longer, it tended to go wild. I looked like a crazed maniac, really.

First thing tomorrow was going to be a good trim and a haircut.

I took a piss and then headed back into the room, crouching to pick up the paper balls and throwing them in the bin. The progress was slow, I couldn’t really bend my back yet, but it was a good leg exercise and by the end of it, I was beat.

Placing the notepad on the nightstand, I sighed deeply and closed my eyes. Maybe rest for a bit.

Almost immediately, an imaginary scene came to me: a man sat on the porch of a familiar-looking house near the edge of a lake. The leaves were turning rusty orange. He looked up and smiled. The wind toyed a little with his hair.

He raised his hand in greeting.

Hello.