Return to Sender - 4. Chapter 4 - Kai

CHAPTER 4 - Kai

I felt myself again when I looked in the mirror these days. Running my hand over the sides and back, the velvety feel of the millimeter-cut felt familiar and clean. On top it was longer; a suggestion of the hairdresser. Why the heck not. If I was retiring from service, I might as well get back into civilian looks. He hadn’t been wrong; I thought it made me look younger.

“Mail call.”

I heard the flop of letters on the bed and headed into the room, nodding at the orderly in thanks, catching him on the way out. There’d been a steady stream of mail coming, which helped with the long days. Get Well cards, letters from my old unit, my brother and sister, drawings from my nephews. I missed them, but soon I’d be leaving this place and transferring closer to home to continue therapy. The surgeon that had operated on me apparently had requested it, wanting to see me and check the progress. If nothing else, I wanted to thank him: I’d been really lucky he’d been at Landstuhl at the time.

Between the physical therapy and the waiting, there wasn’t much else to do but watch TV and think. And read.

I glanced at the letter on my nightstand. I had a whole stack, in the cabinet underneath, but that one was always there. Adam’s letter. I read it every day. Sometimes twice, and it always made me smile. There was just something about it, about him; a feeling that I got while reading his letter. Who was this man?

He hadn’t written back. Each mail call I’d perked up and each time deflated when all the envelopes were the same. It’d been two weeks since I sent my reply; surely he’d gotten it. I shook my head. I was anxious for no reason. He had no incentive to write me back. What; just because I asked him? He probably thought it’d been creepy, sending a picture along. Christ, what had I been thinking…

Glancing at the pile of mail on my bed, I then stilled. On the bottom, held together by a rubber band, a larger envelope curled up a bit around the others. It was bigger. Picking up the stack and turning it over, my heart rate went up a few notches. A wax seal.

Slipping the rubber band off, I took it and set the rest next to me on the bed, smoothing the folded edges on my knee. Oh, this one was far more heavy. My eyes slid over my name in the flowing script.
Opening the drawer, I took out a small pocket knife and sliced around the seal, then peeked inside.

Pictures. Five or six, together with an accompanying letter and my heart surged when I looked at the first picture as it was still in the envelope; sunrise on the lake. I laughed then, taking it out; in my letter, I had told him where he could find the perfect place to take a picture of the sunrise, where the sun would begin peeking through the tops of the trees and start blasting light onto the water surface. He’d captured it perfectly and would’ve had to rise early to hike to the spot where he’d taken the photo; it was a few miles through rough terrain to get there.

The second picture was one of the house, from that same location, and I knew exactly where he’d stood, taking it. He’d found the spot and I felt ridiculously pleased that he had.

The third picture was one of the apple tree outside my sisters’ bedroom window; we’d used to have a swing on it, when we were far younger but when she reached the age when boys came knocking, my dad had removed the branch with the swing; it’d been too easy to climb right up to her window. Well, in his mind. I’d climbed up there many a time, returning home after curfew without him ever being the wiser and I definitely hadn’t needed that swing. Various boyfriends had been able to climb it just as easily, ha! Dad never knew. Or, perhaps, had chosen not to tell us.

Oh gosh, he had a dog. It was a puppy, and from what I could tell, a Husky. Maybe a Malamute. Nope, Husky. Blue eyes. I smiled at it. The pup was cute.

The last picture showed a man, at a guess in his late thirties, possibly older and I recognized where he was; sitting on the back porch, on the steps leading down into the yard. The puppy sat beside him, looking up at him adoringly. He smiled at the camera, leaning his elbows on his spread knees, not seeing what the pup was doing, which made the picture that much more real.

Adam had black hair, medium length waves kept away from his forehead. It curled over his ears and over the collar of his shirt. He wore glasses, the rimless kind, giving him a somewhat stern look but it was negated by the slight smile that played around his full lips. He was slender, bordering on thin; especially in the face.

My first thought was that he needed to eat more. I’d have to make sure he ate well, breakfast, lunch and dinner, when I was back. Fruit, too. He was too pale, but the dog would make sure he would go outside and get plenty of air and sun; put some color on those gaunt cheeks.

Apparently it hadn’t been too cold that day, though at this time of year it could still be freezing, but he wore no coat, just a blue shirt, a cream sweater and black pants. He’ll be rethinking that choice of pants soon with that pup, I thought, smiling at the picture.

There was something about him. A few words came to mind but they were too...I dunno, easy? He’d turn a head or two, certainly, but no, it was something else. Intriguing? No. Well, he was, but not the word I was seeking. Guarded...ah!

Vulnerable.

That was the word. The world was a dangerous place for many and I’d seen too much evil, perhaps. But I recognized vulnerability when I saw it. It came in different forms, not always clear and visible. Sometimes it was a look, but I couldn’t really see his eyes or their expression. I couldn’t decide on their color from this far; gray? Blue? They were very light. Blue would be my best guess. It fit better somehow and I thought; I’d like to meet this man. I want to look into those eyes and hear his voice. I bet he was soft spoken. And it fit with my thought of vulnerability.

I looked at the other pictures again, before placing them on the nightstand, the one with the sunrise propped up against an empty glass, so I could see it if I turned my head while lying down. The one of Adam I kept in my hand while picking up his letter with the other. I carefully unfolded it. Five pages! Each had doodles again. I fought the urge to look at them closely; if he wrote like last time, they’d make more sense to me if I read that page first, then look at the doodle.

I began to read.

Kai,

I apologize for taking this long to reply. I’ll explain why in a bit, but the main real reason you can see in the picture of my new housemate! Might I introduce Arya (yes, yes, she’s named after my favorite character in GoT). She is twelve weeks old, as of the date I’m mailing this letter.

“Hello Arya,” I whispered, looking at the picture. “And hello, Adam.”

Reading the letter and glancing at his picture almost made it like he was sitting next to me. Gobbling up the words, I chuckled here and there and at one point got the urge to reach over and draw him close. That was very weird; of course he wasn’t here but God, the urge to do so was right there. It was an overwhelming sensation and one I would mention in my next letter. He’d already given me at least ten points to react to (not to mention that I really wanted to know his eating habits and regularity of those meals), and I was about halfway through.

He wrote animatedly, making it easy to envision what he described and talked about and I was right; the doodles made more sense that way. For instance: I knew exactly the look Mr. Henry had given him, over at the bookstore, for more of that paper. That man had always had the ability to make you feel stupid, whatever you asked him for, I remembered it clearly. The doodle on that page was clearly Mr. Henry, and an accurate one at that. The permanent frown was there, and the glasses, far down his nose, so he could look over them and make you feel inadequate.

And I could see the floorboard on the jetty that he talked about, saying it was now sticking out (it was missing a nail, had been for years; I knew the exact floorboard he was referring to. I’d have to hammer it back into place and put new screws in. When he spoke about doing exactly that, I didn’t want him to do it. He’d probably smash his fingers. I should be the one doing that. He could hurt himself.

Then he got to a description of himself. And he didn’t spare his own person. Not one bit.

So who am I? I’m a total nerd and a major geek. Growing up, those qualities sometimes ensured a certain amount of bullying, but I have a mouth and it always worked in my favor. I didn’t have brawn but I sure had brains (still don’t and still have) and I used them whenever necessary, which was more frequent than I’d have preferred. It didn’t really help that I was rail thin and way too tall for my age. Scrawny, my grandmother always said when I was growing up. “You need to eat more!”

I've filled out a bit since then, more proportional I guess, but I still look like a total pushover, a weakling. I am, and that’s okay; not everyone is Mister Universe, and we all have a place, right? Right.

I have autistic tendencies, according to some, though I’ve never been diagnosed so I think I'm alright. Things need to be right but bear with me and it’ll be fine; it’s not set in stone. I can change and am willing to do so, just give me time. It’s just that many either can’t or won’t. Who’s the autistic one now, eh? I like to see myself as a little quirky. Trust me, it’s not necessarily a bad thing, because I’m also loyal. Fiercely so. Example?

Alright, imagine a room. It’s beautifully done, all colors are matching. I’ve worked hours, days, weeks on it. Then you come in, and the whole picture is off. It doesn’t work anymore, because you’re wearing jeans (the world’s most horrible invention). The room is not prepared for jeans! It needs classic casual, at the very least (my preferred way of dress). But instead of asking you to leave the room so it’s all good again, or asking you to change your way of dress? No. I wouldn’t want to change you, who you are. Allow a generalization? Women often make that mistake. They meet a man, fall in love, then start to change him and then are amazed that, after a while, they kind of fell out of love, not liking him as much as they once did. They want a divorce now, because he’s not who he used to be. And who’s fault is that then, my dear? Haha. No, I would not do this; I’ll just rearrange, have painters come in, reupholstery guys get to earn yet more because I’ll just match the room to you. That’s how fucking loyal I am.

I’m good at the artsy-fartsy, as one ex liked to call it. Planning a dinner for eight? No problem. I’ll arrange caterers and lay out a table to correct standards for a 7-course meal, complete with plates, glasses and a range of cutlery that’ll even have a queen scratch her head. I’ll dress the room as well while I’m at it. I enjoy doing that, immersing myself in the process. I’m your guy for a trip to a day spa. Museum trips? When! Now? Let’s go! Wine Tasting trip? Count me in; I’ll get completely wasted with you. Just don’t count on me to carry you to bed; I’ll leave you at the door to fend for yourself.
I visit Italy at least once a year, Florence please, and a week of relaxation in Tuscany after; you should see Val d’Orcia in the fall or the road from Pienza to San Quirico d’Orcia. Heavenly.

Yes, I like the finer things in life and I like taking my time. Good food, wine, quality clothes and art; old masters, not that modern crap. Old leather bound books, first prints of course. I’ll visit an opera but I’ll never attend a sports game and the closest I’ll ever come to any regular exercise is the fact that I enjoy long walks, especially around the lake (the main reason I bought this place) or in the woods. I like being out in the field, I’m an outdoorsy person, watching birds, trees, plants. I love that. And because of that, I’m really considering getting a dog.

The doodle on this page was him at the edge of the lake, looking out over it, leaning on a walking stick.

I know I can be fussy, liking things just so; setting the mood can make or break an afternoon or evening and I can spend hours preparing for a visit from someone. Wine needs to be chilled properly, tea needs to be hot but not too hot. Lighting should never be too bright and if at all possible, candlelight is best.

I’m an incurable romantic, which is weird, considering the books I write are about conspiracy, murder, sex and mayhem, the current one in development about a high society thief. I like to research and travel, and my rolodex is filled with contacts I cultivated over the years for advice. Many of those have become friends over the years.
I prefer to be as close to reality as I can be, with my books. There’s poetic license of course but overall, if it doesn’t ring true, you lose a reader quickly and my editor is the bane of my existence. She’s relentless and sharp but she also knows a book comes when it comes; I don’t work with deadlines. I either write or I don’t; my last book took almost two years to write and the research before I started writing it took most of yet another year. It has all to do with immersing yourself, which is another reason why I bought this house.

I love this house! It has a good vibe and character. I like approaching it from afar and seeing the warm yellow light come from the windows, inviting me home. I am alone but I don’t feel alone.

God, I wanted to hug him, he was adorable. I’d tell him he wasn’t alone.

I read the letter several times and liked how open and inviting he was. I didn’t like how he saw himself, though. Reading between the lines, I tasted a bitter undertone; someone, or more than one, had tried to change him, or thought him not good enough. Hated his quirks and fussiness and told him so, knocking him down and each time that happened, more of the original man disappeared. It made my urge to protect and defend flare up because that was such a shame; I’d have liked to meet that original Adam.

If this version was already sweet and kind, how amazing would he have been when no one had soiled that version of him and watered it down to this one? I wanted to knock some sense into the ones that let him go, because I sure as all hell wouldn’t have.

I was getting worked up a bit, thinking about that. What if the next one would do that? Take away more of him, diminish him even further? You don’t get to meet someone like that every day. Some never do in a lifetime. So when you do? Grab them and hold on for the ride; it’s worth it.

**********

Adam occupied my thoughts for much of that day; even my coach asked me where my head was, that afternoon, during a session on the bars. I’d walked back and forth several times, not really following his instructions and it’d taken a lot of willpower just to clear my mind and focus on therapy.

That’d never happened before. One of my better attributes is total focus on the job at hand; I rarely get distracted, if at all. It’s kept me alive more times than I could count. Another is willpower, to push through whatever problem comes my way.

**********

Once back in my room, I read Adam’s letter again and then hit upon what was distracting me so much. I was worried. As I read over the passage where he talked about that board on the jetty, the image I got in my head earlier, of his slender hands, smashed to bits by a hammer popped up again. The thought was silly, but I worried nonetheless; the description of himself, combined with his picture, left the impression he wasn’t used to physical work. I am. I’m very good with my hands. I like woodwork, working in the yard. And as I worried about that, the nagging feeling that he might try it himself started taking hold in my head. And that didn’t sit well with me, at all. I’d do that.

I chuckled to myself. That was nuts, to think that. As if he was waiting for me to come home. That wasn’t my home anymore. Why was I thinking like that? Why was my protective streak rearing its head?

Always a point of contention with Ryan, who didn’t want to be seen as weak or unable but actually was and hated it. He always became mean when I offered to help or take over a task, sarcastically referring to me as wanting to be ‘the man’ and loving to get a chance at showing I was ‘better’ than him. Thinking of him as a sort of ‘damsel in distress’. He didn’t realize at all that I liked that in him; to feel needed and complete the set of us, where he was good at other things that I’m horrible at. I never saw him as weak, at all.

If one prefers to think in boxes, then yes, I guess I would be the man because some of the stuff I’m good at are perceived as being decidedly male. And I tend to choose partners that are perhaps more feminine, if gentle, kind and collected are deemed that way; it’s just the type of man I like. They call out to my protective nature. I’d never choose a man like myself because we’d cancel eachother out, I wouldn’t feel needed in that relationship.
No, I’m not dominant, in terms of wanting to tell him what to do, how to do it, etcetera, not at all; I just like feeling that he needs me whereas I need him in other areas. I’m bad at organizing for instance and keeping things in their rightful place. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it, then remind me a few days down the road, when I start slacking off again. Help me remember an appointment because I’ll forget.

I don’t need you to cook for me, I can prepare a meal perfectly well and perhaps we could do it together? Leave the BBQ to me, though. Please? Walk the dog together? Go to the store together? I’ll carry it all, and drive us. I want to. I have no need to have your friends be my friends but I’d like to get to know them. And if we hit it off, is that bad? Making friends? I didn’t think so. Ryan always wanted to keep such things separate.

Funny. The more I thought about him, the lesser I could imagine ever seeing something in Ryan. How did I ever think that would work out? He did need me, even if he didn’t want to admit it, but he’d never been warm, inviting and gentle. Needy, yes. Hot for a guy in uniform, yes. Kind and social, certainly but he never had called to me the way Adam was calling out to me.

I stilled. Oh wow… I just realized that I was developing feelings for this stranger. Someone who I never met, yet somehow knew. Who gave me more knowledge about the inner workings of his brain, in two long letters, than I’d ever known about Ryan over the course of eight years. That was insane. But also a wonderful feeling.

I glanced at the picture with the sunrise on the lake, then reached for the envelope and took out the one with him and the pup, staring at it, drinking in more details that I might’ve missed before. I probably looked stupid, sitting there with a dumb smile on my face, rubbing my thumb over the picture as if I could touch them. I didn’t care.

Then I got my pad and began to write a response, keeping that picture in my line of sight.

**********

The next morning, my coach complimented me on my focus, saying what a good night sleep and plenty of rest could do for you; so much different from yesterday, when my head wasn’t in the game.

When he asked what had caused it, I just grinned and responded with, “I got places to be, people to see.”

“That’s the spirit,” he smiled back. “Now squat, please? Slower….Kai, c’mon, not so fast. Slower, that’s it. Up. And again…”

Torturer.