I know it's a strange request, but could you please do it soon? We both want this, so you'd be helping him as well. Please consider it.
"Mom, can we get ice cream? It's Friday!" Glenda is at it again, pulling her out of her thoughts. She looks down at her daughter, who is currently tugging at her hand and pointing at the colorful display of differently flavored sweets. Glen is on her other side, saying nothing, but she can see him looking longingly in the same direction.
She sighs fondly and shakes her head. "Why not- only the best for my babies, after all," she complies, and Glenda squeals in glee, jumping around the aisle before reaching for one of the containers closer to the top.
She hadn't had ice cream on the grocery list, but the kids have been in school all day, and they were so good, even while she took her time through every item on the list while browsing aisle after aisle. Even Glenda, who would sometimes antagonize her brother if she became idle for too long. Besides, there was nothing wrong with a little sugar once in a while.
So she reaches over Glenda's head where her outstretched fingers are barely nudging the Rocky Road, and plucks the container from its shelf. "There," she says, handing it to Glenda. "Now tell me which one you want, Glen."
Glen is staring at each one, meticulously deciding which flavor he should get. He was always so meticulous, similar to herself.
Life has been very peaceful, she realizes, since she'd sent Charles away. She sees a nice therapist once every two weeks, and she's started a hair salon just down the road from her home where she's able to cut and burn and then wash and dry all that she wants. She drinks her favorite wines and she paints just for the fun of it, and she can cry at all the movies she wants without being made to feel stupid for it.
"This one, Mom," Glen's quiet voice says, and she reaches out again, this time for Birthday Cake. This one will give all of them cavities, she thinks, but she puts it in the cart with the rest of the items anyways.
It isn't that hates Charles, or that she thinks he ever hated her. At one point, she knows that they truly did love each other. But in the same way anyone can fall in love, she supposes that they can fall out of it too. She's not entirely sure who fell out of love first though, Charles, or herself. Or perhaps they had both fallen out of it at the same time.
She stands in a checkout line and her eyes glaze over the magazine covers and random assortment of last minute items to buy. She hears the children's voices faintly in the background, and wonders what if would have been like if Charles were here with her. She knows instantly that it would be a mess.
They loved so passionately, and they fought with the same vigor. Like a flame, warm and then chaotic and damaging. She had thought she would never get over him, but it seems time was like aloe to her blistering wounds. The more time she had to think on it, the more she began to feel quite alright with the fact that they would no longer burn each other.
"That'll be $86.74, ma'am," the cashier says, and it isn't that she doesn't still love him, and she's sure he still loves her as well, but it isn't the same anymore. They're different people now. She loves him in the way she'd love a brother she's had to bail out for the fourth time.
She takes the receipt, calls for the kids to come along behind her, and they head to the car.
She is curious as to why it's been so quiet. After the nurse had been killed, she had been expecting a little more. But nothing seems to have come up lately. She hasn't heard from him at all.
In a way, it could be good. But she still worries, as she always does. She can't help it.
"I'm doing this because even after all this, I still fucking love you. Love is a strange phenomenon, isn't it?"
She almost misses the red light.
"Mom, do you think I have enough marshmallows for my school project and to eat later? We can have ice cream and s'mores!" Glenda has not noticed the car tires screeching as she halts just in time for the red light, but she can tell it startled Glen. "I can make little chocolate marshmallow men and then burn them and eat them!"
Glenda has the most impish grin on her face. Tiffany laughs. "We'll see when you're done with your project, won't we, sweet cheeks?" she responds, turning down their street.
Charles has no idea, and she would never tell him. She promised she wouldn't say a word. Why she gave this promise to a complete stranger, she'll never understand. But then again, it wasn't quite like promising anything to a complete stranger at all. As much as Charles talked about him, Andy Barclay might as well have been a close friend of the family. She laughs at the thought.
She parks just outside the garage door and slides out of the car to a cool breeze. It's fall. She can feel it coming. It is her favorite time of the year. She can see her neighbor outside, already raking stray leaves in his yard. She waves, and he waves back, before continuing his mission.
She loves the leaves. She couldn't bring herself to ever rake them. If they wanted to be where they fell, she'd let them. Why pull them away from where they wanted to be most?
"Help me bring in the groceries, kids," she says, and Glenda immediately tries to carry every bag possible, while Glen quickly grabs the eggs and protects them in shaking arms. Tiffany has to take some of Glenda's load, but between the three of them, all the groceries make it safely to the kitchen table.
She had honestly hesitated, at first, but when Andy had written her she became aware that it was the right thing to do. In truth, she had thought about doing it for a long time before she read his letter; the letter itself was merely the last push over the edge. A sign, if it must be called something. That letter told her that it wasn't only Charles who was aching for the bitter cycle once again.
She hopes it was the right thing to do. She puts a pot of water on the stove eye and hopes very hard that it was.
Tiffany:
I don't know if I should have said "Dear Tiffany" or not. I also don't know if you'd want me to use the name Ray or Valentine- so I left it as is. I hope you don't think I am being rude. I would never want to come across that way to you. You do not deserve disrespect of any kind.
He worried so much over it, she could tell. Strangely, she couldn't help but love him for it. She almost wonders how Charles could have ever been so cruel to such a gentle creature, but then again, Charles was cruel to everyone. She knew better than most.
She hears a crash towards the back of the house, and she immediately stiffens. But then Glen's voice chirps out, "Glenda, that's my Lego house!" and she calms again. A false alarm. She pulls out some ground beef from the small freezer and lays it in the microwave to thaw. The letter is still running through her mind.
It had struck her as odd that of all people, Andy Barclay would write her. How he would even know how to find her address was already beyond her. But what really had boggled her mind was how he had gone through all the effort to find her, just to write her this letter.
Please don't tell him. I'd like to die without him ever knowing. The last thing I want to give him before I go is something to inflate his ego. Or worse, something that will cause him to let me live and suffer with the consequences.
And he would, she knew. Charles would never let Andy hear the end of it, if he knew. She takes out the garlic and the onions, chops them neatly on the white board, and suddenly realizes that this is probably why she chose to not tell Charles at all. With Charles, it was a poor decision to let him have the upper hand.
But she wonders if she should have told Andy, if perhaps she should have written him back. What would he have done, if he knew.
"Three Blind Mice, my ass- I've got two blind men. How's that for a story?" she asks to no one in particular, tossing the diced onions and garlic into a pan to fry. She watches as it sizzles and pops in the oil, bound to a long and merciless torment. But something good would come out of it- in the end, it would make the meat taste finer.
Wouldn't it?
Please let me go in peace.
He was so polite, or that was the way she read it. Andy Barclay has been waiting to die a long time, she thinks. She knows Charles was probably not happy with that at all, when he found out. What was the point of a chase if the hunted no longer ran?
She touches the beef, and it's satisfactorily thawed out. Soft, ready to be changed into something indescribable. She slides it out of its package into the pan, and can immediately smell it. She lowers the heat of the stove eye and slices the beef with her spatula, letting the onions and garlic sink into it.
The phone rings, and she picks it up. A customer wants to come in for a hair appointment. It sounds exciting, and challenging, and she is already so eager to begin that she schedules him as soon as possible.
She lives a good life now. She doesn't know why she continues to worry about Charles, or Andy Barclay, when should be none of her business now.
And yet, browning the meat on the stove, she can't help but wonder how things would be different if she told Andy. If she should tell Andy- or if it would only make things worse. Perhaps she had already made things worse by sending Charles his way. But he had asked for it. He had wanted her to send Charles to him.
I need it to be him. I hate to admit it, but it wouldn't feel right any other way. Nothing feels right when he's not around- even though nothing really feels right when he is around.
What would he do- how would he feel?
"If only you knew, Andy Barclay," she mumbles to herself, tossing salt and basil into the pan. She can still hear the kids upstairs, playing and screaming with glee. She is the only one who knows, and she supposes that unless one of them decides to raise the white flag, neither of them will ever find out.
In a disgustingly sadistic twist of fate, Chucky needs Andy just as much as Andy needs Chucky. And from the way things look, she thinks to herself that she will have to take this secret to her grave. She sighs and sprays another pan down, opening a package of hamburger buns.