Unanswered letters (Found beneath a Floorboard in Portland, Oregon, in 2010)
September 20, 1987
Dear Alex,
The journey was nothing less than harrowing. I have no idea why we thought it would be easy.
The timing, however, was impeccable. I've returned from my summer sojourn of "visiting" my father. All bizarre behaviors can be attributed to having been gone for the summer, and I've no compunction against blaming all strangeness on him. From my future hindsight, I know it won't make anything harder on anyone if I come to certain conclusions about my father sooner, not later.
The disorientation of coming to consciousness was shattering. I stumbled in the airport, nearly tripping down a flight of stairs. Immediately, there was confusion--body space issues. I attained full height by age 12; I was 5'4" by then. But I was quite a bit lighter. Ah, God, and I thought I was so fat! What do they do to teenage girls in this country?
My coordination leaves the most to be desired. Brain function seems slightly less than I'd hoped, but synapses are building quickly, as my consciousness threads a variety of needles. I'm amazed by how much harder and how much easier some things are. I learned more in 7th grade than I remember. At the same time, I learned so much more after the 7th grade...
The busy work is what kills me. The abuses my brain function endures! French homework, for example. In college, I learned how to learn French, but my brain had already lost the same facility, the easy malleability. Returned here, with facility and malleability in full force, and knowing how to apply it--! And to have all this potential wasted on ten small exercises on the past participle each night. Ridiculous. I'm working ahead in the book, and I've been boring my fellow students and delighting my teacher with my proficiency. She's going to bump me up with the ninth graders and put me in French III. I've fabricated a French-Canadian grandmother to appease everyone.
The rest of the classes are similar. Junior high is completely a bust for learning so far. I go through the motions, pull 100% grades out of my ass--well, it's not all that different than it was for me the first time, actually. Never mind.
Thank god for the public library. I'd die for lack of intellectual stimulation but for that--except I'm catching up on theories that were old when I learned them the first time. I'm getting a good grounding on your research, which should no doubt delight you. I apologize for all those times you offered explanations, and I refused them.
I never did have faith in you, that you could send me back. I'm sorry for that as well.
The only real challenge in school is to play myself younger. I was an arrogant priss at 12. Socialization was hard for me, so I made it seem beneath me. Sports were of no interest; I'd rather be reading. Only, right now there's nothing new to read except the works of Anthony Trollope, which I missed the first time through this life, and suchlike. (And Ancient Greek plays. I'm turning from well-read to scarily well-read.)
This time, I'm not playing it arrogant. I leave Trollope in my backpack, and only read him on the bus. I spend my lunch hour trying to socialize. I've learned more about appropriate cosmetics and clothing than I ever noticed the first time.
It helps to be a sociologist, you know? I don't think I could do this without being interested in societies. Acculturation is my only aim at school. I have to be there. I may as well learn something.
Though I admit, I'm searching for friends also out of loneliness.
I really didn't think through what it would be like to leave my friends and family behind, only to be rediscovered later. Why did I leave, anyway, Alex? Why did I leave Jim? I can't remember. In fact, I don't remember anything recent, except you, and the conversation we had at the bar. "What would it be like to be 12 again?" I asked, maudlin in my beer. You smiled then, and started drawing equations on your napkin. Typical physicist. I meant, "How would I feel?" You thought I was asking how it could be done.
Where was Jim that night?
Wasn't there more? More preparation? More discussion? I don't remember. Did you just... send me back?
Anyway, as lonely as it is, it's... okay. I cry at night, thinking of Jim. But my mom comes in and holds me.
It's been a long time since I let my mom hold me. When I left, she was frail and graying. But she's so amazing now, so cool and competent. Our big fights are still ahead of us, and I find I don't mind knowing that. I may be able to avoid them, after all.
I'm making big plans for the end of this school year. In light of future time spent in the Peace Corps, things will go much better if I learn Swahili earlier, not later. The public library has tapes.
-Stacy
December 24, 1987
Dear Alex,
I haven't heard back from you. My letter wasn't returned, so I think it got to you. But did it get to you, Alexander Hearns, PhD, or to young Alex Hearns... Boy Scout? I worry. Please write me and let me know at least that you made it back, too, that you remember me, that I'm not alone here.
Things are going okay here. I mentioned loneliness in my last letter. It gets better, some days, worse on others. I'm so very ready for the future. I miss DVDs, and Mom doesn't even have VHS! I miss email more. And this would be a lot easier if I could instant message you every night. I envy the kids that come after us.
I read the newspapers avidly, trying to familiarize myself with current events, to make sure I don't slip up too much. I've gotten a reputation as a science fiction fanatic, though I also got into an argument at school with a real science fiction fanatic (of a sort--he reads the Xanth novels, anyway) who thinks I'm being really negative in refusing to believe we'll all be driving flying cars in the year 2000.
In social studies, I choked on an explanation of Y2K that I almost made.
I find that my mom isn't really interested in my stock market theories, either. Too bad for her, eh? I'm saving my babysitting money for shares in Microsoft. I missed the IPO, which was 2 years ago. Wish I'd know that before. You could have sent me back to age 10!
Arguments with Xanth-readers aside, I've done okay in school. I sort of ended up with the same friends, though they think I'm strange. I sort of ended up with the same level of popularity, even though it's different. Just goes to show that some things don't change. But that wasn't my reason in coming back, anyway.
As it happens, I don't know what my precise reason in coming back was. Some random crap, like "putting right what once went wrong." Was I really convinced my life would end up better if I just passed math in the 7th grade?
Oh, I know. There was a whole chain of events I liked to point to. "If I could fix this, this and this, I'd..." That was a symptom of depression, I think. And I'm going to do my best to avoid those mistakes, and that depression. But I've been here for four months, and passing math hardly seems like an issue at this point. Furthermore, the rest of the mistakes... seem so far away. I've retained a 12-year-old's sense of time. The days do not pass quickly.
Merry Christmas, Alex. Please write back.
-Stacy
April 10, 1988
Dear Alex,
Happy Birthday.
Please write me.
-Stacy
May 13, 1988
Dear Alex,
I can't quite discern the meaning of your recent letter. Are things that bad at your home that we have to talk in code?
In which case, "pen pal," I guess I have to respect that. It would be easier if we both learned Swahili. Then we could just write in that. But languages weren't your forte, were they?
Anyway. Let me tell you about myself. I am a 13-year-old girl. I attend Chewning Junior High in Durham, North Carolina. I live with my mother. My parents are divorced. I got your name from a list of Boy Scouts seeking pen pals. I intend to be a sociologist when I grow up.
I found your letter, with your stated career intentions of being a fighter pilot, very interesting. You know, however, that fighter pilots have to have really good vision, right?
Have you ever thought of giving physics a try?
-Stacy
January 1, 1989
Dear Alex,
Happy New Year! I know it's been a while since I wrote, but I wasn't quite sure what to do since you haven't written me back, and I have no way of knowing if you're getting these letters and understanding them.
You don't have to write a lot. A simple "I understand" on a postcard would do. It's not like that's expensive postage these days. I can send you the 15 cents. I can even send you a self-addressed postcard.
-Stacy
[undated, stamped postcard, no other correspondence attached]
□ I understand
□ I do not understand (check one)
September 20, 1989
Dear Alex,
As pen pals go, you're kind of a bust. I wish you would write me back. There are so many things I want to tell you, and so many things I want to ask you. IMPORTANT things. Things I think only YOU can know. But I can't ask you if you won't answer me. Or, I can ask, but there wouldn't be a point.
Did I tell you I'm in junior high? At any other school in the world, I'd be in high school, but this county has weird rules. My school is okay. At my old school, I was very comfortable. I knew everything, and I had my life path mapped out. But sometimes I find that I can't remember my old school as well as I probably should. There are big gaps missing. I had a friend, named Jim, and I can't quite remember on what terms we parted. If you know anything about my friend Jim, and I have reason to believe you do, I wish you would write me about him.
-Stacy
January 1, 1991
Alex,
I've started to write you three or four times in the last few years, but I never quite know what to say.
Alex, I'm very much afraid I'm insane. My mom sent me to a psychiatrist last year because I remember things that never happened. Sometimes I pretend, even to myself, it's all an elaborate childhood game I developed because I was lonely.
Except, I do remember these things. I remember falling down while dancing to MTV and chipping a tooth on the coffee table. Only, I didn't dance to MTV and chip a tooth. My teeth are perfect, in fact. I've never had a filling. I floss every day.
If you are the Alex I remember, you probably have these moments too.
Do they think you're crazy, too? Is that why you've never written me back? Or is it that I remember writing you in that time that never happened?
[unsigned]
June 14, 1993
A-
I've no idea if this will get to you.
I graduated from high school today. I am coming to Princeton in a couple of months. I believe you will arrive this summer to start your PhD in physics there.
Things have been much different than I expected. Harder. Easier. Stranger.
I have gotten so good at lying. Faking it. I even managed to affect total shock at dad's funeral.
In less obvious ways, I am changing things, though. I'm not taking the same path. I can't. I have to find you sooner, before Berkeley, before the Peace Corps, before Jim. I have to ask you about what you did, find out if you came through, too. I want to find Jim, too. Maybe. I have nightmares about flashing red and blue lights. It came to me like that, in a bad, bad dream, what happened to Jim. That's why I wanted to come back, isn't it? Well, it's probably not what I told you. It's probably not even what I told myself. I probably believed that 7th-grade-math bullshit on some level.
I've spent six years crying at night for a life I left voluntarily. I should not have asked for this. There's so much I can't touch, can't change, so many people I can't save because everyone thinks I'm crazy. I've come so close to getting locked up.
And so, it turns out at the end of this grand experiment, the only destiny I can control is mine. But... it's like that for everyone, isn't it? Even the ones who don't get a do-over.
I'd call that irony, but I think it's really just unfortunate.
One way or another, we'll meet. Soon. That's one thing I can control, even if I never could make you answer me. Even if you don't recognize me, even if you haven't had this experience too, maybe you'll be able to tell me if it's possible. That's all I think I really need. To know if I might be the person I think I am.
I can dwell in the possible, since I have no other choice.
Much love,
-S