and know that I'm quite alive and breathing well," Amber mused. "Is that good enough for you? I am still walking around with strong legs, after all.”
Matthew opened his mouth and looked like he was about to protest. But the words seemed to die in his mouth as he thought about what he was about to say and he closed it again. Amber smiled in satisfaction for she knew she had won the battle.
"You needn’t worry about me, but if it assures you in any way I promise to start eating properly from now on," she said. Matthew didn't look like he believed what she said, but he didn't have much choice. He gave a stiff nod.
"But you must keep your promise," he said. His authoritative voice left her no room for further negotiations.
"I will," Amber replied. She set down her cup. It was still a bit full, but she didn't want to drink it anymore. She's been feeling like this for days now. She would start something, but then suddenly stop, and never continue it again. She yawned.
"I'm going to rest in my bedroom now," Amber announced. "Once you're done with drinking, do
you mind putting it in the sink? I'll wash it later."
She turned and was just about to walk out the door when Matthew suddenly blurted out, "Wait, I found something about Emily."
His words were so unexpected and so random that Amber almost toppled over in her haste to turn around to face the man. She stared at him wide-eyed. "What is it? What did you find? And why didn't you say so earlier?” She wasn’t really thinking about what she was saying. They just came tumbling out of her mouth, each word tripping over the other.
Matthew pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to her. "It's a letter written by her," he confessed. “It’s dated a month before the accident.”
Amber wasted no time is rushing forward to grab the envelope. It was thick and felt heavy in her hands. She could already tell that there were a lot of papers sealed inside. Her tiredness suddenly evaporated and was replaced by a new profound energy. She flipped over the envelope and read the few words scribbled on the front:
To Whomever Who Finds This
Amber swallowed back a lump in her throat. The writing was definitely her daughters. She could recognize it anywhere. Of course she would, she was her mother! She could almost feel the warmth of Emily's hands as she was writing the
letter.
"Where did you find this?" Amber asked breathlessly, still no believing what she was seeing and holding in her hands. It felt like a dream, not reality. She was shaking slightly and was swaying on her spot.
"Apparently, after the people at the university cleared out Emily's dorm, they kept this letter and never told anyone. Why they did this I was never told. All I know is that the boss at my workplace handed this to me and asked me to pass it to you," he explained shamefully and turned his face down.
"I haven't read it. I think it would be more appropriate for you to be the first reader."
"Emily..." Amber's voice was barely above a whisper. Her voice was so fragile, like liquefied glass, breakable with a little snap. "Emily wrote this?"
"Yes, Mrs. Helsing," Matthew told her softly. "I believe it's the last letter she ever wrote."
Amber's eyes bore into the crisp paper. "Emily..." she whispered again.
Matthew set his untouched cup of tea, now cold, on the dinner table. "I think I'll take my leave now and give you time alone," he said quietly. He slowly and quietly backed out of the room and a moment later, the front door slammed shut. Silence encased the room.
Amber did not seem to hear. She had tuned out everything around her and was staring at the envelope in her hands as if in some trance. Then
she quickly shook herself out of her daze and ripped open the letter. She pulled out the pieces of paper inside and began to read it, her eyes scanning and grasping tightly onto every single little word like they was her lifeline:
Dear Reader,
This is going to sound really weird because I don’t really like writing about my life, but I’m really sad right now and I think that writing down my feelings might help. I want to write the reason why I’m crying right now. I hope that the rain would stop beating outside of the window and my tears will be dried by the end of the letter.
It was raining harshly that day. People were rushing back as fast as they could to avoid the disaster of traffic. I was amongst them, coming back to the dorms after my last class. I could barely see where I was going. The roads were slippery and the puddles mounted three inches high. My umbrella was useless. The rain still somehow managed to seek its way to drench me.
I was trudging back through the mud, my hair whipping around my face, and that was when I came upon a little boy, no older than 4, huddled by a wall. The rain had drenched his clothes to his skin, chilling him to the bones. He looked so small, so weak, so fragile sitting there, curled into a tight ball, as if that would somehow protect him from the heresy of rain.
I paused. It was odd to see a little boy on the
streets, all by himself, so I went up to him. I bent down and used my umbrella to shield some of the rain from him. He looked up and his distant eyes stared up into mine, blankly.
I will never forget that blank, empty, hollow stare. It was almost haunting, the way he looked at me, and I could feel it deep into my soul, drawing out all my fears and weakness.
I willed myself to pull out of his eyes and gave him a kind smile.
"Hello," I found myself saying above the loud rumbling. A raging thunder boomed in the distance. "What are you doing here? It's raining so hard. Where are your parents?"
The boy continued to stare at me with those eyes as if he didn't hear me.
"What are you doing here all alone?" I repeated, a little louder, just in case he couldn't hear me the first time.
The boy gave me one more look-over and said, in a raw, raspy voice that sounded almost like an old man's, "I don't have a mommy and a daddy."
At first I didn't comprehend his words.
Then I understood and I retaliated. "Oh! Is that why you're here all alone?" I asked, appalled.
The boy took a moment before nodding slowly. I asked, "What is your name?"
He went silent, thinking hard. Then he said, "James. Just James." I smiled to myself and held out my hand.
"Well, James, my name is Emily. Come with
me," I said. "You don't have to be here anymore. I know of a place where you can live. It's a place for kids like you."
The boy looked doubtful. "A place for kids like me?" he repeated, his voice shallow. I nodded. "That's right. It's an orphanage down the street. I heard that it has good quality. Would you like to go there?"
The boy stared at my hand for a long time, his forehead creased in concentration. Finally, he made up his mind and took my hand, softly and shyly. I stood up and pulled him up with me. He stood on shaking legs and wobbling knees. I grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright and together we walked through the storm to The School for Homeless Boys. The School for Homeless Boys was, as the name explains, a school for orphaned boys. It sat at the corner of Elmerson Street, shielded by deciduous trees. I passed by it often as I walked to my part-time job. It was a huge red brick building with plenty of trees and flowers decorating the front of the school. I saw, once or twice, some of the students there walking around in their black and red uniforms and a teacher accompanying them. It was always the same teacher. I never got to know her name; I would see her and she would notice me staring at her, so I would pick up my pace and quickly walk pass.
I took James there and I knocked on the front door. The iron door opened and a woman with
brown hair pulled up into a bun and small specta-
cles that hung low on the bridge of her nose, greeted us. Her chin was pointed and her face was long. She towered above us.
"Hello, my name is Mrs. Mackle. How may I he
lp you?"
Her voice was snippy, crisp, and staccato. She sounded tired like she had to say that line for a long time and didn't want to anymore.
"My name is Emily Helsing," I said. "I found a little boy on the streets, all by himself. Do you mind helping and taking him in?"
Mrs. Mackle narrowed her squinty eyes on the boy beside me. James flinched and moved to hide behind my legs.
I, myself, felt the urge to hide behind something. The stare that she was giving us made me shiver in fear and the howling wind did no help to calm my nerves.
"Very well," she finally said and held up her nose in the air. "Come inside."
I gripped James' hand tightly to give myself confidence and made a move to go inside, but Mrs. Mackle struck out her hand in lightning speed and blocked my way.
"No, no, not you," she scolded with a cold voice. "I meant the boy. You are dropping him off here, aren't you? You're not even the boy's parent."
I felt a cold hot anger fire up inside of me, but I forced it down and said with gritted teeth, "Ah,
yes. I apologize. You are right. Well, I'll see you
later James."
I bent down to pat the top of his mop of messy brown hair. James didn't say anything. He was looking down at his shoes. I stood back up.
"Please take care of him," I told Mrs. Mackle. I didn’t understand why I suddenly felt so protective of James. I had only met him a little while ago, but I already held a strong connection to him. She gave a curt nod and