Finding Eva

Dear Eva,

I apologize in advance if this mail comes as an intrusion, but the only person I can think of is you.

I hate writing letters. I never know where to start. But Mr. Pee Officer asks us to jot down our feelings as part of our writing assignment.

He also promises to help mail it for me. They do not usually do this, but this man is an exception – God bless his soul. He has taken a particular interest in my well-being.

Where do I start? How have you been? I suppose that is the standard way to begin.

It has been a while since I have heard about you from ... that lady who used to be our neighbor. She writes me sometimes. Are you and that boy from Dillon married now? I hope he is treating you well.

This is getting awkward. I don’t know what else to say. I will sign off now and wish you all the best.

Love,

Andy

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Dear Eva,

I never got a reply from you. But Mr. Pee Officer showed me personally a copy of the stamped envelope, so I know he did mail my letter. Perhaps you have moved and no longer staying at … sorry, I cannot remember the address. To fetch it from my cell is impossible because they will not let us out until the class is over. Your address is on a scrap of paper that I keep between pages of an old book. The title has slipped my mind.

Do you remember the times I used to take you to the beach? You were always squealing and running around, your long hair flying in the wind, loose golden strands held in place by pretty butterfly clips. In the background, the viridescent sea would shimmer. The air smelled briny. By noon, the sun toasted my skin and sweat rolled down my back, the sand burned my feet too, but I never complained. I sat and watched for hours, taking it all in, the mesmeric beauty of that moment. Our moments. The cries of sea gulls and gentle waves hitting the shore and your warm laughter were all music to my soul.

Hah, I must have surprised you there, have I not? Writing used to be a passion of mine back in the day. I read Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart at eleven and fell in love with literature. I dropped out of school at seventeen, but that is a story for another time.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Our beach outing.

When you got tired, you would totter over to me. I played the guitar, and you hummed along.

You don’t think there is a chance for us to take a trip to the beach again, do you? Ha-ha. It’s a joke. I know how to crack a joke now.

Ryan, who stays in the cell next to mine, says I am way too serious, that I need to take it easy sometimes. I tell him life is like a box of chocolates – I stole that line from a movie, of course. He says no, life is an illusion, and we are all puppets. Eventually, we die, and the only thing left will be our memories. God, that man is losing it. I get it, though. He is lonely. He has a wife, four children, and three grandkids, but I have never seen them visit.

Sometimes, when the lights go out, we will lie in our beds and talk to each other. The walls are thin. We will share stories. That man can spin a yarn better than anyone I have met. He makes me laugh so often I feel obligated to return the favor.

Love,

Andy

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Dear Eva,

It has been two months since my last letter. You must be upset with me. But will you not at least reply to let me know you are there? Soon, it will be December. I know this from the first sprinkle of snowflakes, pretty wonderful things they are, swirling in the yard.

Love,

Andy

P/S: Remember to put on a sweater. The weather is getting chilly.

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Dear Eva,

I will try to ask Mr. Pee Officer for a favor. I would like to send you a greeting card. I will sign up for the community program to help clear roofs and dig out hydrants, though I am not sure if I will be able to qualify. It is only open to low-level offenders.

Love,

Andy

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To Andy,

I don’t need your silly card. Stop writing to me. For God’s sake, you remembered where my fiancé is from – Dillon – but you forgot his name? It’s Josh.

You can’t even spell your own daughter’s name right – it’s E V I E. Not Eva.

One final thing.

Please stop reminiscing about the past. Judging from all those letters, it seems you have an extremely selective memory.

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Dear Evie,

I am so sorry about the name. To me, you will forever be Evie. Or Evie forever. Like Evie for—eva. I guess that is why I made the shameful mistake of calling you Eva. It is a weak excuse, really. You should never forget your children’s name.

I remembered Dillon because your mother used to beg me to take her to one of those fancy ski-resorts to celebrate Christmas. She was joking, of course. I barely earned enough for us to survive, let alone go on a vacation.

If you were given two consecutive life sentences, you would hardly have any chance left for a parole at my age. I came in here with nothing. All I have are my memories. That is the only thing I can do – reminisce. You will let your father an old man have this, won’t you?

And thank you for writing back! I was so delighted when they handed me your letter. I still keep it in the crisp, postmarked envelope and stuff it under my pillow.

Love,

Andy

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To Andy,

Have you forgotten why they’d locked you up in the first place? You broke into a house and robbed a family. You committed murder too. Knocking down some random woman! She was pregnant! You went to jail and left Mom in her late stages of leukemia. She died because of you. I hope you rot in hell.

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Dear Evie,

It was an accident. I did not kill a woman with child. It was an accident!

I did NOT leave your mother… I would never. I had no choice.

Get this right: I LOVED HER. AND YOU AS WELL. I LOVE BOTH OF YOU SO MUCH!!!

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Dear Evie,

I apologize for that outrageous letter. I was too … emotional.

Please forgive your old man, I beg of you.

Let us talk about something else. Something happier. Remember the times I used to take you on my Harley for rides? That was fun, was it not?

Love,

Andy

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To Andy,

You mean those rides where you ditched me at the arcade while you and your buddies went off elsewhere? You always ended up drunk. I had to walk home sometimes. I would be glad if you remembered to pick me up. But then I worried about you lashing out at me while I kept my trembling hands wrapped tightly around your waist, trying not to fall off the bike. Yep, some fun I had on those rides.

Those crazy nights, you would talk trash and beat the crap out of Mom.

You wanted to hit me too, but Mom made me hide in the room and lock the door.

When she stayed at the hospital, you never went to visit. Not once! You got home from work and dropped some change on the table, ten bucks if I was lucky, and told me to fix myself dinner. Like I was some wretched beggar. Then you’d leave again, God knows where you been to. Sometimes you didn’t show up for days.

When the social services came for me, you just let them take me away. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me, huh?

You never treated me like a daughter. Why write now?

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Dear Evie,

Please stop saying all these painful things. These poison-laden words, they seep into my brain and make me depressed. You do not know how much you really mean to me. You were my little baby girl, my precious sunshine. You still are.

I have not been well lately. My head hurts more than it used to. I do not want to waste another second of my life remembering the bad things. Just the happy moments. Please?

Love,

Andy

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Dear Evie,

Remember the times I used to read you bedtime stories? Your mother would sit in bed with us but she was always the first to fall asleep.

Your favorite was The Ugly Ducking because you thought of yourself that way. I told you, no, silly. You’re a butterfly.

That was when you asked for butterfly clips – you said you were a caterpillar and you were waiting to become a butterfly.

Now that you’ve become a butterfly … you have all the freedom to roam, baby girl. I wonder, will you still come to my window?

Love,

Andy

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Dear Evie,

It is Dec 15th today. My calendar says so. I have one simple request.

Will you visit for Christmas?

Love always,

Andy

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To Andy,

How have you been? I’ve not heard from you in a year, well, almost. It’s not like I care, but I think I should inform you I’ve been pregnant since March and will be giving birth to a boy soon. Josh and I got married in February. Uncle Fred gave me away. He looked out for me. You ‘gave me away’ a long time ago.

We hope to welcome our son into the family before Christmas.

From,

Evie

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Dear Andy,

I’m writing on behalf of Evie. She asked me to tell you she has safely delivered our baby boy. We’re going to name him Atticus. Evie wanted some kind of literary influence.

I’m sending you a snapshot of that little monster. Is he adorable or what?

Best wishes,

Josh

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Dear Andy,

You never wrote back.

Anyway, what do you think of your grandson? Did you notice the color of his eyes? Yep, they’re cerulean blue, even bluer than mine.

He has your eyes.

I hope you liked my Christmas card. It’s a snowman. We roll the snow into a ball and build snowmen.

Like those you and Mom and I used to put up.

Yours truly,

Evie

P/S: It’s okay to write. Josh convinced me to go for therapy, so I did.

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Dear Andy,

Merry Christmas.

Love,

Evie

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To the attention of Ms. Evie Brown,

We’re sorry to inform that Mr. Andy Dufresne is no longer capable of handling any correspondence. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s three years ago and has been battling the disease since.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t respond to much these days, not even his own name.

I can arrange for a visit if you wish.

Sincerely,

P. Oliver

Warden at Federal Correctional Institutional of South Denver