Letters From Cynthia

Cynthia was gone. That was all Zoe could think about as she stood in front of the large Victorian style house that she had once called home. A letter burned a hole in her pocket. It had come from Cynthia’s lawyer a week ago. Zoe’s latest tiny apartment had closed around her even smaller as her eyes flicked across the impossible words “Last Will and Testament...”. The house and $20,000, that was what she was left with. She would rather have Cynthia back. But the only way that would happen now was in her memories.

Cynthia’s rocking chair sat on the porch, it looked wrong up there by itself, without her. Zoe took a deep breath and stepped up the front steps. Her fingers rested on the chair, the wood warm to the touch from the morning sun. She shook her head and unlocked the door, swinging it open to empty silence. She stepped in.

The house was still but warm. She could feel Cynthia’s presence in the sun coming in through the front curtains. Zoe had always loved how cozy the house felt on a sunny day. Even though it was only her and Cynthia, the house had always been filled with love and laughter, the warmth of family. They were each the miracle the other had been hoping for when the world considered it too late for both of them. Zoe was 16 and close to aging out of the system when Cynthia came into her life. Cynthia was full of life. Music, color, creativity, laughter: these were all a part of her day-to-day. Heck, Cynthia had taken Zoe to get her first tattoo only a week after she’d adopted her. Cynthia had gotten the same one. Sitting in their chairs next to each other, Cynthia smiled through her tears.

Zoe looked down at her arm now, pulled up her sleeve to reveal that tattoo. It was a quote from her favorite book, Jane Eyre, “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being, with an independent will.” In the spirit of her favorite heroine, Zoe never let herself be tied down, she lived life for herself and valued her independence. Cynthia taught her that it was safe to live freely and never disappoint herself. So she did as much as she could. She traveled, listened to the stories of strangers and shared her own, met all kinds of people, and tried every type of food she could. She got odd jobs wherever she traveled, just enough to support herself while she explored all that the world had to offer. Zoe had always told herself she didn’t need a house to come home to. She knew now that this house was what had allowed her to feel so free; it had been a place to call home, waiting for her return if the world didn’t treat her well.

She gravitated to the kitchen where she and Cynthia had spent many nights talking over cups of tea. Filling the kettle with water now and setting it on the stove to boil helped to center her, brought her into this moment, and to the realization that Cynthia was really gone.

When Zoe had left at 18 to explore the world, they had kept a weekly call to check in and update each other on their lives. Their relationship had always been more like a close friendship than parent and child, so it was not uncommon for Zoe to tell Cynthia about everything from the new person she was sleeping with to the best pizza she’d ever had in Italy that week. But the more time Zoe spent away from home, the more infrequent the calls became. She was busy, living her life, learning new things, leaving her past behind. Zoe squeezed her eyes shut. Why hadn’t she appreciated Cynthia when she had her here?

They spoke for the last time a few months ago. Zoe hadn’t recognized anything different in Cynthia’s voice, and Cynthia hadn’t mentioned being sick. It must have come on fast and Cynthia didn’t want to drag it out, but damn, Zoe wished she’d had a chance to say a real goodbye.

The tea kettle whistled. Zoe stood from her seat at the kitchen table. She reached into the cupboard and, on instinct, pulled out two cups. But Cynthia wasn’t there. Zoe would have to prepare her own cup. Just one. Alone.

She turned off the stove, leaving the kettle and cups there, and went up the stairs to Cynthia’s room. It was clean and tidy, just like it had always been when Cynthia was alive. Everything in here sat exactly where Cynthia had last left it. The letter told her that Cynthia had spent her last days at home, letting her time come when it may. Zoe walked further into the room. Cynthia’s perfume still lingered. She walked over to the bed and sat down, opened up the drawer of the bedside table to see the last book Cynthia had been reading. Some last connection to her. Zoe was surprised to find, not the quirky or scandalous covers of the mysteries and romances that Cynthia loved to read, but a small stack of black journals. Just soft, black leather. Zoe reached in and pulled out the first book, moved the elastic band from the front and opened it.

Zoe was taken aback, the first page started with “Dear Zoe,” and the date was the day Cynthia had brought Zoe home, nearly 10 years ago. Cynthia’s loopy script filled the pages, and they all started the same way, a letter to Zoe, signed “Love, Cynthia”. Zoe pulled out the next book, and the next, and the next. Ten books in total. There were a few gaps, but there was a letter for nearly every day they had known each other, saved in the pages of these black books. How had she never known about this? Never seen Cynthia writing in one? She supposed she hadn’t been here for much of it. Zoe had only lived in the house for a few years before she left to explore the world. But still Cynthia had written, nearly every day.

Zoe sat back on the bed, leafed back to the front of the first book, and began to read.

When she flipped to the last page, her stomach grumbled loudly. She glanced at the window. The sun was setting. She had been lost in the letters all day and now the last page sat before her, the words “Dear Zoe” a little shakier than the rest, inviting her to read one more page. It was dated twelve days ago. Now she realized this was it, all she had left of Cynthia, the only mother she had ever known. She read this last letter slowly, intentionally, taking in every word. She imagined Cynthia next to her, speaking the words as she read.

Dear Zoe,

I know I’ll be gone soon. I wish you could be here, but I know you need to be out in the world, finding yourself, and I don’t want to take that away from you. Since this could be the last time I write here, I want you to know a few things.

First, that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m so glad I got to be your mom, even for a short time.

Second, remember to take time to slow down and appreciate what you do have, try not to spend all your time looking for the next thrill or you might miss what’s right in front of you.

Third, it’s good to be independent, and you know I love you for it, but know that it’s okay to need people sometimes, to let someone else in, to let your scars show to someone who will hold them with care.

Finally, know that you are loved. So, so loved. Take care of yourself, or maybe find someone to share that with, someone that will let you take care of them too.

Love always,

Mom

Zoe set the last book down on the bed. She didn’t hold it in anymore and let the tears flow. A small smile came to her face. Her mom was gone, but Zoe still had her with her: in the tattoo inked on her arm, in every new day that she savored, in the heart of this house.

She stood, a little lightheaded, and made her way down to the kitchen; she needed something to eat. Finding nothing in the fridge, she opened the freezer. A tray of homemade lasagna sat on the shelf, a sticky note taped to the top. “Bake at 400 for an hour or until the cheese on the sides is bubbling. Take care of yourself. Love, Mom.”

Zoe smiled, Mom’s final act of care. She preheated the oven and put the kettle back on the stove, ready for another try. The doorbell rang. Who would be coming to the house now? She walked over to the front door and looked through the peephole. A small gasp escaped her lips.

Eli. She hadn’t seen him in years, but he had been helping Cynthia around the house since he was a kid. When Zoe moved in, Cynthia had introduced them, and they became fast friends. Eli was shy and sweet and he slowly made his way past her hard exterior, with soft and steady kindness. He was her first kiss, her first love. She had thought that he was the one. But while she wanted to travel and see the world, he was content helping his dad at their carpentry shop. She had left and they lost touch, but now, here he was, standing on her porch.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

He had started back down the steps, but turned as he heard the door open.

“Eli.” Her voice came out in a whisper.

“Hey, Z.” A wide smile broke across his face. “It’s good to see you.”

She stood still, open-mouthed, until he held out his arms, and she let herself fall into them. He pulled her close. He was warm and strong, and smelled of fresh cut wood. She noticed a second rocking chair had joined the first on the porch.

“What’s that?”

Eli released her and turned to where she was looking. “Ah, Cynthia asked me to make her another one, but now I’m getting the feeling she meant it for you.”

“But it’s just me.” Zoe said quietly.

Eli shrugged, one arm still around her. She leaned into him. Mom had told her to appreciate what was right in front of her, and now Eli was here. Somehow, even when she was gone, Mom was still taking care of her.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“I’d love to.” He answered without hesitation.

She smiled and started into the house. The kettle was whistling again, and the two cups she had left on the counter waited patiently, looking just right. She glanced over as Eli reached into the tea cabinet to pull out their favorite tea, which Mom had always kept on hand. The oven beeped, and she slid the lasagna in as Eli poured the steaming water into each of their cups. Could this be it? Could she start over with him? Would he even want to try? She’d only know if she asked.

“Stay for dinner?”

He smiled, and took her hand. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”