Page 51 of Returned Mail

Now there is this. Proof that, at some point, Monica wrote back. Maybe once. Maybe a hundred times. I have no idea. But she wrote this one. And George never received it.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath me.

My brain starts doing what it does best. Making everything worse. When did she send it? Before she left? After? Before she decided she was done with him? Was this the letter where she told him? Told him what? I don't know. I don't know anything.

I force myself to stop.

The envelope is not an answer. It is just another question. A dangerous one. I look at George's letters. All of them unopened.

For weeks, I've been building a story around their existence without admitting that's what I was doing. He keeps writing. She told me to throw them away. I filled in the space between those facts myself. Maybe she never cared. Maybe he cared too much. Maybe he was trying to save something. Maybe she had already let it die.

All assumptions. All mine. And now one returned piece of mail has blown a hole straight through them.

“This is none of your business.”

I look at Monica's letter again.

RETURN TO SENDER. UNDELIVERABLE.

She may not know it came back. George may not know it exists. That is all I know. It should be enough, but it isn't. I grab my phone. Find Monica's number. My thumb hovers over the call button. I could tell her. I should tell her. Hi. Sorry to bother you again. A letter you sent to George came back. Simple. Responsible. Normal.

I press call.

The line doesn’t ring. It goes straight to voicemail. I hang up before the message finishes. I stare at the screen, then I hover to the message app, and type.

Me: Hi, Monica. It's Mia from the loft. Sorry to bother you again. A letter was delivered here today that appears to have been returned to sender. It's from you and addressed to George Hale. Let me know what you'd like me to do with it.

I read the message twice. Send it. There. Good.

That is what a normal person does. I place the phone beside me and wait. Nothing happens. People do not organize their lives around responding instantly to strangers who accidentally inherited their returned mail.

I put Monica's letter on top of George’s, and close the box.

Monica didn’t respond last night.

Or this morning.

By lunch, I've checked my phone seven times.

At two seventeen, my phone buzzes during a meeting. I look down so fast my coworker glances at me. Not Monica. Lyann. A picture of a dog wearing sunglasses.

I lock my phone.

By six, there's still nothing. I tell myself that means nothing. She's abroad. She's busy. Maybe the number doesn't work internationally. Maybe she saw the message and decided it wasn't worth answering.

Maybe she blocked me after the first call. Fair. Honestly, fair.

I go home. Check the mailbox, and it’s empty again. The disappointment comes automatically.

Upstairs, I change into sweatpants and reheat leftovers. I watch half an episode of something without absorbing any of it. At ten thirty, I take my phone to bed. No response. The wooden box is in the closet. I can feel its existence from across the room. Which is ridiculous. Objects do not radiate guilt.

I turn off the lamp, close my eyes, and try to fall asleep.

The next evening, Monica still hasn't answered.

But another letter from George arrives.

Seventeen now.