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Things at Jefferson High School are gloriously shitty. The PTA pushed for online grade books, and now parents have access to their children’s grades 24/7. You would hate working here now because of this new development. All parents have to do is log on to a computer, go to the Jefferson High School Web page, enter an ID # and a password, and they can see if their kid turned in his homework on any given day or scored poorly on a pop quiz or whatever. Of course, this means if we are behind on our grading, parents will know and the aggressive ones will call. Parent-teacher conferences have increased because of this. Every time a student misses a single homework, I’m hearing from parents. Our sports teams are losing pretty regularly too. Coach Ritchie and Coach Malone both miss you. Believe me when I say they could not fill your shoes, and the kids are worse off without Coach Peoples at the helm. The life of a teacher is still hectic and crazy—and I am glad you don’t have to deal with this type of stress as you heal.

Sorry to hear about your father being aloof. I know how much that used to upset you. And I’m also sorry your Eagles are up and down—but at least they beat the Redskins last weekend, right? And season tickets with Jake, you must feel as though you died and went to heaven.

I think it’s best to say I am remarried. I won’t go into details unless you want me to, Pat. I’m sure this comes as a shock to you, especially after Tiffany read me the many parts of your diary that seemed to indicate you still hope to reconcile our marriage. You need to know this is not going to happen. The truth is I was planning on divorcing you before the accident, before you were checked into the neural health facility. We were not a good match. You were never home. And let’s face it—our sex life was shit. I cheated on you because of this, which you may or may not remember. I am not trying to hurt you, Pat—far from it. I am not proud of my infidelity. I regret cheating on you. But our marriage was over before I began my affair. Your mind is not right, but I have been told your therapist is one of the best in South Jersey, your treatments are working, and your memory will return soon; when it does, you will remember how I hurt you, and then you will not even want to write me, let alone try to re-create what you think we once had.

I understand my blunt response to your very long and passionate letter might make you upset, and if you don’t want to write me again, I will understand. But I wanted to be honest with you. What’s the point if we lie now?

Yours,

Nikki

P.S.—I was very impressed with your finally reading many of the books on my American Lit. syllabus. Many students have also complained about the novels being so depressing. Try Mark Twain. Huck Finn ends happily. You might like that one. But I’ll tell you the same thing I tell my students when they complain about the depressing nature of American literature: life is not a PG feel-good movie. Real life often ends badly, like our marriage did, Pat. And literature tries to document this reality, while showing us it is still possible for people to endure nobly. It sounds like you have endured very nobly since you returned to New Jersey, and I want you to know I admire that. I hope you are able to reinvent yourself and live out the rest of your life with a quiet sense of satisfaction, which is what I have been trying to do since we parted.

Letter #3-November 18, 2006

Dear Nikki,

As soon as I read your letter, I had my mother check out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the Collingswood Public Library. Eager to enjoy a literary book with a happy ending, I read the entire work in one sitting, which required me to forgo sleep for an evening. I don’t know if Tiffany read you the parts in my diary about my black friend Danny, but this book would make him go wild, as Twain uses the n-word more than 200 times. I know this because after reading the first few chapters, I started over and kept a running tally. Every time Twain used the n-word, I made a mark on a piece of paper, and when I finished the book, there were more than 200 marks! Danny says that only black people can use the n-word, which is sort of a universal truth nowadays, so I am surprised the school board allows you to teach such a book.

But I did like the book very much. Even though Tom Sawyer should have told Jim he was free right away, I was so happy for Jim at the end of the novel when he gained his freedom. Also, the way that Huck and Jim stuck together through bad times reminded me of Danny and Pat getting each other’s backs in the bad place. What really struck me was how Huck kept struggling with the idea that God did not want him to help Jim run away, because Jim was a slave. I realize people had different values back then, and that the church and government approved of slavery, but Huck really impressed me when he said if helping free Jim meant going to hell, he would go to hell.

When I read your letter, I cried for a long time. I know I was a bad husband, and I am not mad at you for cheating on me or leaving me or even remarrying. You deserve to be happy. And if you are married now, your getting back together with me would be a sin, because it would mean that we would be committing adultery, even though I still think of you as my wife. These thoughts make me feel dizzy, as if I am spinning out of control. These thoughts make me want to bang my fist against the little white scar above my right eyebrow, which itches every time I get confused or agitated. To use your metaphor … since I can remember, I have been driving on a dark highway, passing endless dashes and lines. Everything else has only been a pit stop—family, Eagles, dancing, my workouts. I have been driving toward you the whole time, only desiring one thing—our reunion. And now I finally realize I’m trying to woo a married woman, which I know is a sin. But I don’t think you understand how hard I worked for this happy ending. I am very fit, and am now practicing being kind rather than right. I am not the man you were married to for all those lonely years. I am a better man. A man who will take you dancing and will give up sports entirely—coaching and Eagles—if that makes you happy. My conscience tells me that I should not continue to pursue these feelings, but your telling me to read Twain’s novel made me think that maybe you were giving me a sign. Huck thought he shouldn’t help Jim escape, but he followed his heart, he freed Jim, and that is what led to the happy ending. So maybe you are telling me in an indirect way that I should follow my heart? Why else would you specifically recommend The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to me?

Also, our time together wasn’t all bad. Maybe the end was grim, but remember the beginning? Remember college? Remember when we drove to Massachusetts in the middle of the night? It was the Friday after midterms and we were watching one of those travel shows on PBS, because we both thought we would travel back then. All our friends had gone to the rugby house for a party, but we stayed in together for a night of pizza and wine on the couch of my town house. We were watching that show about whale watching off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard, and you asked me if they made wine in Martha’s Vineyard. I said the New England growing season would be too short to get the proper types of grapes, but you insisted that there must be a vineyard there if the island was called Martha’s Vineyard. We had this really heated fake argument—laughing and hitting each other with pillows—and then suddenly we were in my old Taurus, driving north.

I’m sure you didn’t think I was really going to drive you all the way to Massachusetts without a change of clothes or toiletries, but soon we were over the Tappan Zee Bridge, and you were smiling, and I was holding your hand.

We never made it to Martha’s Vineyard, but we spent a pretty wild weekend in an economy motel just outside of Cape Cod. Do you remember walking on the beach in March? Our lovemaking smelling like decades’ worth other people’s cigarette smoke as we enjoyed each other over and over in that motel room? Remember how when we jumped on the mattress, smoke seemed to leak out the sides? The lobster dinner we splurged for at that cheesy restaurant called Captain Bob’s, where the waiters wore eye patches?

We always said we were going to return to Massachusetts, take the ferry, and see if Martha’s Vineyard actually had vineyards. Why didn’t we do this then? Probably because we had class on Monday morning. But I wish we had taken that ferry when we had the chance. What was the worst thing that could have happened? We would have missed class. It seems so silly now to drive all the way to Cape Cod with the intention of taking the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard only to spend the weekend in an economy motel on the mainland.

What I’m trying to say is that maybe we can still take the ferry, Nikki. Maybe it’s not too late.

I know this is all so complicated right now. But there must be a reason that we are in contact again. There must be a reason that I lost my memory and then was filled with a vicious need to improve myself. There must be a reason if Tiffany was able to arrange this letter exchange. All I’m asking is that you keep the possibility of a reunion open as we continue to communicate through our liaison.

My therapist Cliff says he feels as though I am poised for a breakthrough, and he feels he has stabilized my violent tendencies with medications. I know that in my writings I mentioned spitting out many of my meds when I first came home, but I am taking all my pills now and can feel my mental health stabilizing. Every day I feel as though I am getting closer to regaining my memory of our demise. And no matter what I remember—no matter what really happened between us—it will not change how I feel about you. You are living with another man, you are remarried—what could be worse? I still love you. I will always love you and am only now ready to prove my love for you.

I hope this note was concise enough, as I tried very hard to keep it under five pages and was successful. I miss you so much, Nikki. Every freckle on your beautiful nose.

Love,

Pat, Your Sexy Stud Muffin

(Remember that from the wedding video?)

Letter #4-November 29, 2006

Dear Pat,

Tiffany informs me you are sincere, and from what she has told me about your new personality, it seems as though you are a completely transformed man. Whether this is the result of the accident, therapy, medication, or simply sheer willpower, you are to be congratulated, because this is no small feat.

First allow me to say I recommended Huck Finn for your reading enjoyment only. I was not trying to send you a hidden message. Based on everything you have written and what Tiffany has told me—maybe you should read The Catcher in the Rye. It’s about a young boy named Holden who has a hard time coping with reality. Holden wants to live in a childhood world for the rest of his life, which makes him a very beautiful and interesting character, but one who has trouble finding his place in the real world. At present, it seems as though you are having a hard time dealing with reality. Part of me thrills at the changes you have made, because your letters really do present a better man. But I also worry that this worldview you have developed is fragile, and may be what kept you in the neural health facility for so many years and is keeping you in your parents’ basement for so many months. At some point you are going to have to leave the basement, Pat. You are going to have to get a job and earn money again, and then you might not be able to be the person you have been for the last few months.

Of course I remember Massachusetts. We were so young, and the memory is beautiful. I’ll carry it with me forever. But we WERE CHILDREN, Pat. That was more than a decade ago. I’m not the type of woman who would sleep in an economy motel anymore. Maybe you have again become the type of man who would whisk a woman away to Martha’s Vineyard. Maybe you are experiencing some sort of second childhood. I don’t know. But I do know you will NOT be experiencing a second childhood with me. I am not a child, Pat. I’m a woman who loves her current husband very much. My aim when I agreed to write you was never to allow you a second chance. My goal was not to allow you to reenter my life. I only wanted to give you a chance to say goodbye—to resolve any unresolved issues. I want to be clear about this.

Nikki

Letter #5-December 3, 2006

Dear Nikki,

The night after the Tennessee Titans destroyed the Eagles on their home turf—a game in which Donovan McNabb tore his ACL, ending his season and maybe even his career—Andre Waters shot himself to death. I realize you don’t care about any of this, but Waters was one of my favorite players back when I was a teenager. He was a big part of the Gang Green Defense. People called him Dirty Waters because he was fined so much for hitting too hard. And when I was a kid, Waters was a god to me. Jake says Waters probably killed himself after watching the Eagles play so poorly against the Titans, which was not a funny thing to say at all. My father is not talking to anyone, because he is upset about McNabb’s injury, which will most likely ruin the Eagles’ chances of making the play-offs. My new favorite player, Hank Baskett, is not getting many balls thrown to him anymore, but he actually threw an interception during a stupid trick play during the Indy Colts’ win over the Birds just this past weekend. And of course, there was also your last letter.

So I’m thinking this is the part of my movie where things appear as if nothing is going to work out. I have to remind myself that all movie characters go through this sort of dark period before they find their happy ending.

It was hard to wait two weeks for your reply. Your letter made me very sad, and in the past twenty-four hours I have written my reply at least a hundred times.

I don’t know if Tiffany read you the part of my memoir where I described my therapist’s office, but he has two leather recliners—one black, one brown. My therapist lets his patients choose which seat they want to sit in just so he can see what type of mood we are in. I’ve been picking the black one lately.

I’ve read certain parts of your letters to Cliff—that’s my therapist’s name. He doesn’t know about Tiffany’s involvement, because I promised her that I would not tell anyone that she has agreed to act as our liaison. When Cliff asked how I was able to make contact with you, I refused to answer. I hope that you don’t mind my reading some of your words to my therapist. It’s funny. Cliff keeps hinting that I should pursue a relationship with Tiffany. And I know Tiffany is reading this letter to you, so this part will be awkward for everyone involved, but Tiffany will just have to deal with it because this is what being a liaison requires, and I already danced so well, fulfilling my end of the bargain.

Cliff says that Tiffany and I have a lot in common at this point and that you and I have very little in common, because we are in very different places. I thought he meant that you were in Maryland and I was in New Jersey, but it turns out he means that I am still fighting to regain my mental health, and you are mentally stable. I asked Cliff why he would want me to pursue a relationship with someone who is as mentally unstable as me, and he said that you were not able to support me in the way I needed to be supported, which is why our marriage failed. I got very mad at Cliff when he said that, especially since I am the one to blame, but he insisted that you allowed me to become the person I was by enabling me—never putting me in my place and allowing me to emotionally abuse you for so long. He says that Tiffany will not allow me to do this and that our friendship is based on a mutual need and a commitment to bettering ourselves through physical fitness and dance.