Dear John(82)

“I don’t know,” she said. “I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t happen like you probably think. It wasn’t as if either of us planned it.” She set her spoon on the table. “But to give some kind of answer, I guess it started in early 2002.”

A few months after I’d reupped, I realized. Six months before my father had his first heart attack and right around the time I noticed that her letters to me had begun to change.

“You know we’ve been friends. Even though he was a graduate student, we ended up having a couple of classes in the same building during my last year in college, and afterwards, we’d have coffee or end up studying together. It’s not like we dated, or even held hands. Tim knew I was in love with you . . . but he was there, you know? He listened when I talked about how much I missed you and how hard it was to be apart. And it was hard. I thought you’d be home by then.”

When she looked up, her eyes were filled with . . . What? Regret? I couldn’t tell.

“Anyway, we spent a lot of time together, and he was good at consoling me whenever I got down. He’d always remind me that you’d be back on leave before I knew it, and I can’t tell you how much I wanted to see you again. And then your dad got sick. I know you had to be with him—I would never have forgiven you if you hadn’t stayed by his side—but it wasn’t what we needed. I know how selfish that sounds, and I hate myself for even thinking it. It just felt like fate was conspiring against us.”

She put her spoon in the tea and stirred again, collecting her thoughts.

“That fall, right after I finished up with all my classes and moved back home to work at the developmental evaluation center here in town, Tim’s parents were in a horrible accident. They were driving back from Asheville when they lost control of their car and swerved into oncoming traffic on the highway. A semi ended up hitting them. The driver of the truck wasn’t hurt, but both of Tim’s parents died on impact. Tim had to quit school—he was trying to get his PhD—so he could come back here to take care of Alan.” She paused. “It was awful for Tim. Not only was he trying to come to terms with the loss—he adored his parents—but Alan was inconsolable. He screamed all the time, and he began pulling out his hair. The only one who could stop him from hurting himself was Tim, but it took all the energy Tim had. I guess that’s when I first started coming over here. You know, to help out.”

When I frowned, she added, “This was Tim’s parents’ house. Where Tim and Alan grew up.”

As soon as she said it, the memory came back. Of course it was Tim’s—she’d once told me that Tim lived on the ranch next to hers.

“We just ended up consoling each other. I tried to help him, and he tried to help me, and we both tried to help Alan. And little by little, I guess, we began to fall in love.”

For the first time, she met my eyes.

“I know you want to be angry with Tim or me. Probably both of us. And I guess we deserve it. But you don’t know what it was like back then. So much was going on—it was just so emotional all the time. I felt guilty about what was happening, Tim felt guilty. But after a while, it just began to feel like we were a couple already. Tim started working at the same developmental evaluation center where I did and then decided that he wanted to start a weekend ranch program for autistic kids. His parents always wanted him to do that, so I signed on to work on the ranch, too. After that, we were together almost all the time. Setting up the ranch gave us both something to focus on, and it helped Alan, too. He loves horses, and there was so much to do that he gradually got used to the fact that his parents weren’t around. It’s like we were all leaning on each other. . . . He proposed later that year.”

When she stopped, I turned away, trying to digest her words. We sat in silence for a while, each of us wrestling with our thoughts.

“Anyway, that’s the story,” she concluded. “I don’t know how much more you want to hear.”

I wasn’t sure, either.

“Does Alan still live here?” I asked.

“He’s got a room upstairs. Actually, it’s the same room he’s always had. It’s not as hard as it sounds, though. After he’s finished feeding and brushing the horses, he usually spends most of his time alone. He loves video games. He can play for hours. Lately I haven’t been able to get him to stop. He’d play all night long if I’d let him.”

“Is he here now?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Right now he’s with Tim.”