September 6
Dear Hope,
This is silly. You keep telling me that mail gives you something to read, but it also seems like a waste of time. I see you every day, and I can find nothing to write about. If there is something to say, no doubt it’s already come out of my mouth. But to please you, I’ll sit here in your room and write a letter.
I don’t know what to do. I’m a thirteen-year-old girl in the modern century. Letter writing is for old people who have nothing to do but crochet. I don’t even use full words in my emails anymore- everything is LOL and LMFAO.
So what do I do now? Put this in an envelope and mail it to you? But you’re right in front of me, napping, so I’ll just put it next to you.

XOXO,

Grace

September 7
Dear Grace,
You really aren’t any good at this. Paper is the eyes to the soul; what you put on it differs from letters typed into your Gmail account. The written word is deeper than any acronym.
And I will remind you that while you may find it boring, you have a full life. School and friends and parties every day. I haven’t left this room in almost two years. Your scenery changes with you, but I am stuck in an everlasting prison of pink wallpaper and polka-dotted bedspreads.
The window is open today, because the weather is warm. Outside, the leaves pile into ruffles of red and brown, like curling lace on a white woolen dress. The air is soft against my skin, a summer’s good-bye kiss.
Except that Mom has hurried in, worried I might catch a cold, and slammed the glass back into place. Even as I write, she starts her lecture. I have no reason to dictate her words here because I am sure you know them as well as I do.
“Hope, you are very sick, you must be careful . . .”
“Hope, you mustn’t do risky things, with such poor health . . .”
“Hope, you needn’t get up, you should be resting . . .”
She can’t even say the damn word. Leukemia. Leukemia, leukemia, leukemia. Sometimes I want to run to the porch and yell to the whole world, “I have leukemia!” Except that I can’t run anymore.
It makes me feel better, to write this down. Almost as if you’re sharing the pain with me. Is that a selfish thing to want? Perhaps so.

If you need something to write about, write about memories. Good ones.

Love,

Hope

September 21
Dear Hope,
Today you shoved a piece of paper into my hands and demanded that I write something, because we haven’t passed letters in awhile. So here I am, on the little wooden swing outside, swaying back and forth. Across the road, the new neighbors’ kids are playing. They’re adorable, just toddlers, really.
We used to play like that too, even when you were too old for it. I remember you being sixteen, and patiently holding my American Girl doll for me. That was two years ago, right before your diagnosis. I was probably too old for it to, being eleven and all. You getting sick made me grow up.
These new neighbors, I think their name is the Thompsons, have a puppy. He’s a little Golden Retriever, barely bigger then a loaf of bread. He keeps licking the kids’ faces, and they keep laughing.
I don’t know what else to write.

Sincerely,

Grace

September 23
Dear Grace,
Your last letter made me think of when we had a puppy. He was a Border Collie, wasn’t he? Not even two months old the summer I got sick. You took him everywhere: when we went to the pool, on walks, over to the little ice cream place down the road.
I remember the day we got him. We were sitting on the porch in late May, me in a yellow sundress, you in a t-shirt and denim shorts. I thought Jeremy Willis was going to come by on his way to the pool, and I wanted to look my best. Jeremy was the cutest boy that year in my class, and every girl wanted him. I kept trying to get you to go inside, lest you embarrass me.
You were fidgeting, because the next week was your birthday and what you wanted more than anything was a dog. I didn’t care much. I didn’t care much about anything that summer, except for getting a tan and convincing Jeremy Willis to kiss me.
Then Mom and Dad pulled up in the old Toyota SUV, both smiling like God himself had visited us on this lucky day. Neither of us knew what to do, because they were both supposed to be at work.
Dad opened the back door and pulled out the little puppy, somewhat unceremoniously dumping him into your arms. “Happy birthday,” he said gruffly. And then, “He peed in the back seat.”
But you were entirely focused on your early birthday present, smiling as you rocked the dog. I kept laughing and stroking his head because he was so cute.
Later, I realized that Jeremy Willis had walked by and I didn’t give a damn.


Hope

October 1
Dear Hope,
Of course I remember that dog. We named him Numbers, because Dad kept saying, “He did the number one on the seat. He did the number one on the seat. C’mon dog, respect the truck.”
Except he didn’t last the whole summer. In August some jerk ran him over with his car, then left Numbers there on the road, like garbage. We were all crying anyway, because you had just gotten your hospital tests back, but that made it worse. I was devastated, and though Mom and Dad promised I would, I never got a new pet. After that, everything was all about you.
I don’t want to write about that dog anymore. That was the worst summer of my life.

Grace

October 4
Dear Hope,
I don’t know what to do. I’ve been pacing the hall of the ICU for hours, and you’re still in surgery. But this is just an episode, right? You’ve had these before, where something goes wrong and you’ll be here for days, or even weeks.
And then you’ll come home, and everything will be back to normal.
Please get better, so I can give this to you,

Grace

October 9
Dear Hope,
Nothing has changed. Mom won’t stop crying, because the doctor says you don’t have a lot of time left. But they’ve been saying that for two years, so I don’t believe it.
You told me to write about memories, so here’s one:
We’re both on the porch, the one in the backyard, me holding the hose and you the soap. It’s July. We have the slip-n-slide out, which is really just a long piece of black tarp. I hold the water so that it shoots down the plastic covering, and you dump the dish detergent out in front of you. Then you leap and go sliding down the hill on the tarp.
I wanna go, but before I can, Numbers tries to walk across the covering, instead ending up rocketing down the hill. He seems terrified, but you catch him, and we keep laughing and laughing. By the end of the day, all three of us are muddy, wet and happy.
It was only the next week that he got hit by that car, and you got diagnosed. I guess that was probably the last happy memory I have of us.
I’ll put this by your bedside, and when you wake up, you’ll read it and laugh too.

Grace

October 15
Dear Hope,
Stop dying. It hurts.

Grace

October 19
Dear Hope,
You’re dead.
Was that too blunt? It doesn’t matter, because you’re dead. Mom keeps spewing all this crap about you being above us with God and all the angels, but I don’t buy it because we’ve never gone to church before.
Your funeral’s tomorrow. I don’t want to go, because I have to wear black, and all our old aunts and uncles and cousins will come and pat my cheeks and tell me how sorry they are. But I don’t even remember their names.
It doesn’t hurt anymore. All I feel is this numbness, like I don’t really believe it yet. I’m probably crazy, because I’m writing a letter to my dead sister. Mom is making me go to a therapist next week, and the shrink will probably tell me the same thing.
I found a letter in your room, addressed to me. I don’t know if I should read it, because it will be the last words of yours I will ever hear or see.
I don’t know what to do, Hope. You’re dead. You’re gone.
But of course it’s obvious. What sort of a sister would I be if I didn’t read it?

Grace

October 2
Dear Grace,
I killed your dog.
I guess I should have told you earlier. Maybe I thought that, back then, since I was going to be dead soon, I had a right to make sure someone went with me.
I didn’t plan it or anything. We got back from the hospital, and I knew that I had leukemia, and that the next week I’d start treatment. Mom kept telling me in this fake voice that “everything’s going to be okay!” and you were crying and Dad just sat there not saying anything at all. Finally, after you went upstairs, I shouted at Mom to shut up, and I grabbed the keys, and I ran to the car. Just for a quick drive, so that I could forget about everything and everyone . . .
I was crying too hard to see properly, and it was raining. There was just a little bump, and I got out to see if I’d hit a log or something . . .
I’m so sorry, Grace.
I’m so sorry.