Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

I walked into the campus bookstore today and there was Mercy's diary, sitting on a table up front, a placard with my name and picture resting on a little easel next to it. About knocked me off my feet.

I can hardly believe the diary is now in any bookstore in any part of the country where anybody can read it. I knew this time was coming when the diary would no longer be this quiet little thing between Abigail and me. But it is strange just the same. The media interviews have finally slowed a bit, which is a Godsend. They were fun, but they were intense. I only have one more month of classes left - oh, and did I tell you Mercy's diary has been accepted as my senior project? Good thing since I have thought of little else the last two years.

Quite a number of the interviewers wanted to speak to Abigail, but she absolutely wouldn't do it, not even on her good days. It was a convenient excuse to tell these people that Abigail has terminal cancer and unable to participate in the interview. Most of them knew that but asked anyway; Abagail's diagnosis been noted in every news article I have seen about the diary. I think people find that little part of the story poetic or something, that the diary has been published and Abigail has lived long enough to see it. I guess it is poetic. But it is also sad.

Clarissa accepted the job as business director of Mercy's Gallery. The grand opening is set for July 1. Sometimes Clarissa and I stop over there before we come home from classes with fresh pictures on our phones for Abigail to look at. She is too ill to make the trip anymore. The exterior is all finished, and the curator Abigail has hired has been busy acquiring all kinds of amazing items - books, paintings, sketches, instruments. I am pretty sure Abigail is spending every dime of her remaining investments on the Gallery. Graham complains about it to no end, even though he is not the jerk he was when he first arrived here. She bought him a beautiful townhouse and gave him the deed to it. As long as he keeps his job and stays out of the casinos, he's got nothing to worry about.

I think the end is coming soon for Abigail. She is so weak, so thin. But the amazing thing is, Raul, she is happy. I know she is in pain, pretty much all the time now. But she is happy. I don't like to think about the imminent future. None of us does. We just concentrate on Today. It's not such a bad way to live.

Even if you aren't dying.

Off to class. Good luck on your clinicals. . .
Love, Lauren

Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

A light rain is falling as I type this message to you. The clouds outside my window look fat and happy with rain, like they could do this all week long if they wanted to. I am in the library at Abigail's house and we are both sipping tea and eating one of Esperanza's scones. She calls them empanadas but they are really just scones with crimped edges. I saw the recipe she used. I pointed that out to her - all in fun- and she told me with a frown that she put a dash of cayenne pepper and coriander in the mixing bowl which unBritished the dough and made them more an empanada than anything else. She doesn't laugh at her own little jokes these days. She is already grieving the loss of everything that defines her day.

Abigail grows weaker. I think she is in more pain now than she admits. I don't think she refuses to complain because she's brave, though she is that, I think she believes the pain is like a cleansing penance for all the things she wishes she had done differently. It does no good to tell her she has already paid for the mistakes she has made.

The diary will be released on April 1 and I am as nervous as I am excited. My agent wants me to throw a launch party for it at the local bookstore but that's not what I am going to do. I am going to wait until the gallery opens, probably in May or June, and the celebration will not be the book published but the diary displayed. Mercy's diary. Not my book.

I pray everyday Abigail will live long enough to see it. . .
Miss you,
Love, Lauren

Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

Do you ever feel like time in December marches to some other beat, a faster one; a cadence that you simply aren't ready for even though you knew it was coming?

My finals are done, and I am home at last at my parents' house but it still seems like there are parties or events or a myriad of somethings that still must be attended to. My mother says try as she might to get more done earlier in the year, it simply doesn't seem to make a difference. The pace of December's days and nights is simply accelerated no matter what she does. It's all part of the preparations for Christmas. And she's just gotten used to it.

This just doesn't seem right to me somehow. The first Christmas wasn't fast or frantic or exhausting. It was quiet and unhurried and practically missed by everyone except for some shepherds. If we are trying to recapture the wonder of the first Christmas, it seems to me we are grasping for something that is completely OTHER. Not bad or disrespectful or unhealthy, just other. There is the real Christmas, the first one. And there is the other one, the one we drive ourselves to exhaustion every year to create. I think we are missing something.

Tonight I shall do nothing but drink cocoa and look at the stars . . .

Merry Christmas, Raul. Or should I say Feliz Navidad! Give my love to your parents and sisters. . .

Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

The diary is as good as printed. The last changes I could make to it, I have made, not that there was truly anything to change. A word here and there that I had to guess at because Mercy's ink had faded were the only words I seriously thought about changing. And it's done. The galleys for Mercy's diary have been sent back to the publisher.

In a couple weeks, those pages will go to the printer. The publisher has decided to expedite the first printing and have them available by Easter. Today, they sent me a PDF of the cover. I honestly wasn't sure if I liked it, Raul. It was so simple, so unpretentious. Ryan thought it was perfect. So did Clarissa. But Abigail and I kept gaping at it, wondering, I suppose, for the umpteenth time if we're ready for Mercy's heart and soul to be laid bare. The cover image looks like softened leather, brown and warm like a saddle in the sun. And across it is the image a of quill, a bit of ink, and the cap of colonial woman, folded loosely. It evokes the strangest feelings in me.

The publisher has decided on a title and I am learning to like it. Diary of Innocence. There is nothing outwardly wrong with it of course, but it has always just been Mercy's diary to me. It is awkward to think of it having a name other than just that. Abigail asked me if I liked the title and the cover and I told her it's not as if I like them, it's as if they must be what they must be. That makes no sense, I know. And yet she knew exactly what I meant.

For now, I can let the diary go. There is nothing I need to do between now and April. Clarissa said she will get a website up and running for me and Ryan said she'd design the look for it. The foundation has been laid for the Mercy Hawyworth Arts Center and construction will begin as soon as the cement is dry. In southern California, you can build whenever you want. . .

I feel a little useless at the moment. Midterms kept me busy the last couple weeks, as I am sure they did for you, too. But they are done. I feel untethered.

Like I don't know how to prepare for what comes next. . .

Miss you,

Love, Lauren

Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

I hope you've had a more restful week than last week. I don't know why the universal They insist that medical students must be sleep-deprived to learn anything.

I am learning to think of us as just good friends, as you have asked, but I would be lying if I said it's a skill I like. I am not trying to start a conversation you don't want to have yet, but if we can't be honest with each other, how can we be good friends? I miss you, Raul. And I miss thinking of you as more than just a friend.

I wanted to call you as soon as I got back to Santa Barbara from the weekend at the Pismo Beach house. But I needed time to mentallywork through the weekend's effect on me.

It was different for Clarissa and Ryan. They had never been there before, and so they started making memories from nothing, mostly good ones. The house is beautiful, has an outrageously fantastic view, is steps away from the ocean and Abigail paid for everything. The only damper on their perspective was Abigail's prognosis, something we all attempted to avoid thinking about anyway.

But I had been to the beach house before. It's where I found Abigail and the diary that terrible weekend she wanted to disappear - in every sense of the word. I's stopped it then; that course she had set for checking out on me altogether. But I can't stop it this time. No one can.

We sat at the same patio table, the girls and Abigail and I, where I had given Abigail that book of poetry Tom Kimura wanted her to have. But this time there was a different book on the table, When We Were Very Young. Also a book of poetry. I don't think Ryan had ever read a child's poetry book before, certainly not as an adult. It was a bit of a stretch for Clarissa, too. But I loved the book, probably because Abigail loves it and the reading of it has reminded her of much happier times.

I loved most the poem called The Invaders, abouta line of cows walking through a flower-strewn meadow: The first two stanzas are these: In careless patches through the wood/The clumps of yellow primrose stood/And sheets of white anemones/Like driven snow against the trees/Had covered up the violet/But left the bluebell bluer yet/Along the narrow carpet ride/With primroses on either side/Between their shadows and the sun/The cows came slowly one by one/Breathing the early morning air/And leaving it still sweeter there/And one by one intent upon/Their purposes, they followed on/In ordered silence. . .and were gone . . .

I just can just see it all. The flowers. The morning sun. The quiet cows and their lumbering stroll through the dewy grass.

When I told the girls that this one was my favorite, Abigail said, with tears in her eyes, that that was always her favorite, too. And I suddenly realized why she must like it so.

Primroses.

Her favorite flower. They always find a way to come back after a hard winter.

Take care, Raul. Don't work too hard. Life is short. . .

Love, Lauren.

Love, Lauren

Dear Raul:

I just want you to know that I understand your need to stay a few weeks longer in Guadalajara to help your friend deal with the loss of her brother. I know I didn’t sound like I understood when you called me last night. It just caught me by surprise. I am sorry I sounded like I didn’t care about this friend of yours. I do care about her loss.

But if I am being honest with you, I have to tell you it scares me a little that she is someone you once had feelings for. And that she once – and maybe still does – have feelings for you.

I can’t help feeling a little pushed aside. I don’t want to feel that way, but I do. I’d be less than honest with you if I said I was fine with this. If I am being melodramatic or over-reacting, I apologize. I miss you.

Clarissa came home with me for the weekend. Cole is here and we are going over to his house tonight to swim and play volleyball. Yeah, I am going to attempt to play volleyball. They insist they are just friends. She actually met someone at the coffee shop who she says drives her nuts but she keeps talking about him. And she says he can’t stand her, but he keeps coming into the coffee shop. It’s the strangest thing. It’s like they both love to hate each other.

Abigail went to the doctor the other day and then she went again today. Esperanza took her both times. I don’t think she is sick. She doesn’t appear to be sick. But she dismissed both doctor visits as if they were trips to the grocery store. She won’t say why she went and I guess it’s really none of my business. She was quiet when Clarissa and I left the house this afternoon. I am worried about her.

I am praying every day for your safe return. Hope you’re not irritated with me. It’s almost impossible for me to picture – you being irritated with anyone. But still. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you somehow.

Miss you,
Love, Lauren

Love, Lauren

Hey Raul:

Glad to hear you didn’t totally choke on your exam. Didn’t think you would. You should celebrate with flan. Esperanza would totally approve. And I know it’s your favorite.

Well, the guy from the publishing house is coming out to see the diary. He arrives on Friday. I can’t believe how nervous I am about him coming. I already feel like I need to get a talking paper ready to defend Mercy’s every thought and action. Stupid. No one’s diary needs a defense. We’re having the meeting at Abigail’s. I told Abigail I thought her lawyer should be here for the meeting and she asked why. I didn’t have an answer. I just thought he should be there. I texted my dad and asked him what he thought and he called me and said of course a lawyer should be there. My lawyer. I reminded him I don’t have one. He said I’ve always had one. (Oh, BTW, this lawyer I’ve always had is drawing up papers so that Abigail’s gifting of the diary to me will be a legal transaction that will stand up in court in case there are problems later. I know what he means. But still. . .) Anyway, my lawyer is coming to the meeting too. His name is Brent. Not sure if that is his first name or last.

Abigail had to be coaxed into being at the meeting. She is so detached from the diary now. I don’t think I will ever be. Not even when I give it to a museum, which I will do. I don’t know how she can be that aloof but perhaps that is her coping mechanism for letting go of all those years of regret. Distance. Graham has no interest in being there, thank God. There’s no reason why he should. But he’s asked more than a couple questions about the diary. I think he can sense it’s a book that forces you to confront your choices. I am not sure what to make of Graham. He seems so sad. Esperanza said he’s said because he hasn’t played a game of cards in a month. I don’t think that’s it.

Gotta run. Class in five.

Miss you so much,
Love, Lauren

p.s. I took your advice and left the newspaper clipping of Tom Kimura’s obituary on the table by Abigail’s favorite armchair in the library. I bought a lavender-hued primrose to set beside it. She said nothing to me about the obit. But she thanked me for the primrose. Which is the same thing, don’t you think?

Love, Lauren

Hey, Raul:

Finished all the corrections to Mercy’s diary. It was weird to press save, knowing I was really finished. Abigail was with me when I wrapped it up, sipping tea as usual. When I turned around and told her I was done, she said, “Well, that’s that.” But she and I both know that just isn’t true. Something is about to begin, not end. Prof Turrell’s editor at his publishing house has already sent me an email. It’s not like it’s a done deal - not by a long shot, but this guy is asking all the right questions. He wants to see the transcript. He wants to see the diary, too. If I am hesitant to travel with it, he told me he would fly out to look at it.

I asked Abigail what I should do and she said the diary was mine to do with as I saw fit. I really don’t think she cares one way or the other. She has fulfilled two life dreams that have been robbing her of peace for decades. She has given the diary to someone she trusts and she has the forgiveness of the one person she loved most and hurt the most. She has moved on. Plus, she is busy working on getting Graham settled here in Santa Barbara. He promised to get help with his gambling addiction and she is at a place where she wants to believe him. Esperanza is not so confident. She rolls her eyes at me every time Abigail mentions Graham’s name.

Anyway, I’m not sure what I should do. I know where the diary belongs. Ultimately it belongs to everyone. I suppose the best place for it is a museum like the Smithsonian. My dad says until I decide I should have it insured and transferred to his safety deposit box. He texts me everyday – I could strangle Cole for teaching my Dad how to text – bugging me about it. He’s right, I guess.

I think for now, for at least a few more days, I just want nothing to change. I want the diary to be mine and Abigail’s and Mercy’s – and no one else’s. For just a little while. I am already sensing loss thinking about how things will change. Makes me feel melancholy. Tell me I’m not being selfish.

I should go. Got a paper due tomorrow. How did your clinicals go?

Miss you,
Love, Lauren

p.s. Tom Kimura’s obituary appeared in The Oregonian yesterday. My dad told me. Texted me actually. I didn’t tell Abigail. Should I?