Work Text:
‘Hi Mom,
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I hope you’re doing okay.’
Christopher sighs. Did it always feel like this, when he wrote these letters? Like he was just talking into an empty void?
The thing is, he knows that it didn’t. He remembers, vividly, what it was like after the tsunami.
How badly he wanted his mom.
So, when his therapist suggested he write her a letter, he did. And then, when it helped, he kept writing them. God, the number of letters he wrote her over the following few years... he thinks he filled three notebooks with them.
He doesn’t even remember the last time he wrote one.
That thought fills him with a deep, encroaching guilt, even though he knows that these letters were only ever for him. It’s not like he could mail them to the afterlife. But he still feels like he forgot something important.
He thinks back; the last one he wrote was probably after his dad’s breakdown. He’d been so angry at her, for not being there to help. His pen ripped through the page as he did his best to scream in ink that she should have been there. That he shouldn’t have had to wait nearly forty-five minutes for Buck to get there and be able to help, thirty minutes after the screaming stopped, terrified that his dad had left him too. That his mom should have been there, should have been able to stop it from happening in the first place.
He knows it wasn’t fair.
His mom had died. Even though she left, her not being there that day wasn’t her fault.
But he’d needed to be angry at someone. And he couldn’t be angry at his dad, not then.
Right now, though? He’s furious at his dad.
He misses his mom.
‘Things are a mess here. Dad’s gone crazy again. I think.’
Chris grits his teeth.
‘I hope? Honestly mom, I’m not sure. Would it be better if he had lost his mind? I feel like an awful person for it, but I think it would be easier if he had. Because then, at least I can put this in a different box from the one I put the dad I love in.
At least, if he’s crazy, then the dad that watches nature documentaries with me and Buck, the dad that once burned pasta, the dad that ruffles my hair and tells me he loves me every time he leaves my room, at least that person didn’t do this. I can put all of this somewhere else, maybe with the dad that destroyed his room with a baseball bat, and I can forget him. I don’t have to forgive him, then.’
Chris blinks, then blinks again, feeling a burning sensation behind his eyes, warning him that he’s about to cry. He presses his hands to his face, trying to push the tears back; he doesn’t want to cry, not again.
‘The thing is, mom, I don’t know if I can keep putting the different versions of dad in those boxes. Because, if I’m honest, I know that the dad that put a hole in his bedroom wall is the same guy that has never so much as lifted a hand at me in warning. The same guy that didn’t go on a single date when you were gone is the guy that had an affair with someone who looked just like you.
What do I do with that?
I’m not sure why I’m even asking you. I mean, you left him too.
That’s a thing we have in common, us Diazes. I suppose it was my turn to leave, wasn’t it?
Only difference is, I ran to Texas, when you both left it.
I’m starting to understand why both of you ran away from here.’
Chirs scratches that last line out, annoyed. It’s true, sure, but for some reason, admitting it on paper feels like betraying himself. Like he’s acknowledging that he really doesn’t want to be in El Paso, that he’s only still here because he kind of wants to hurt his dad like his dad hurt him.
‘I really miss LA. The heat is so much worse here; I feel like I’m sweating out more than I can drink! Tia Adriana says it’s the humidity, which is probably true. Man, I’m glad I didn’t have to grow up here like you and dad did.
Would you forgive him, mom? For seeing that woman?
I wish I knew. I don’t have any idea what you would do. I don’t know you well enough.’
The tears start to fall, then. Chris gives in and lets them, lets them drop down to the paper and smudge the ink. It’s not like anyone is going to read this letter anyway.
He takes a deep breath. This next part, he needs to say. He just wishes someone would respond.
‘I suppose I should explain why I’m writing you this letter. Since it’s been so long, and all.
Do you think dad ever loved you? Like, really loved, in the way you’re supposed to love your wife.
Because I’m not sure. I know he loves you as my mom. But you two never really wanted to get married, did you? I don't think dad knows how to deal with the truth of it.
I think he loves Buck, though. And I don’t think he wants to admit it.
Oh! On the topic of Buck, he has a boyfriend now! He’s pretty excited about the whole thing.
Dad does not like the boyfriend. Which is ridiculous, since he was friends with the guy first! But the second he started dating Buck, dad changed his opinion.
I don’t remember what he was like with Buck’s last girlfriend, but I bet he was the same way.
Am I allowed to tell you that? Can I tell him that? I feel like I shouldn’t.
I’m not actually talking to him at all right now. So I guess it doesn’t matter.
I was so scared when I saw that lady.
Not just because she looked like you. But because dad didn’t really look like him. Not with that look in his eyes. It was like he wasn’t really there.
Do you think he’ll ever get better, mom?
I wish you could tell me what to do. I think you knew him better. He hides so much from me.
And then he does shit like this.
I think I need to put him back together in my mind, don’t I? Because I can’t forgive the guy who brought a woman who looked like you into our home unless he’s the same guy who once spent three hours trying to fix my broken geography project. (Turns out, we used cornstarch instead of baking soda. Buck figured it out, but dad really did try his best.)
How do I do that, though?
I wish you could tell me, mom.
It’s not your fault for not being here, anymore. But I kind of miss being mad at you for it. It was easier to be angry at you than it is to be angry at him; this hurts more. I'm not sure I even know why.
I think I might call dad soon. If I do, I’ll make sure to update you on how it goes.
I miss you, mom.
Love, Christopher
He closes the notebook, then climbs into bed. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or next month, he'll speak to his dad. Tell him what he just told a piece of paper, pretending it was the mom who he doesn't even really know anymore. But for now, he just wants to sleep.