Dear Ms. Thompson,
Dripping water echoes loudly off the spotless white tile. They have to see about getting that faucet fixed at some point, bring in an actual plumber to look at it. She'd tried to fix it herself, last week, and ended up sitting in a puddle of water and baffled as ever. She knows it drives Meryl nuts.
Still, this is the nicest place they've lived in; fairly new construction and facing northeast so it catches the cool breezes coming off the mountains. Meryl is already champing at the bit to leave again, off to look for Vash. Milly wants to stay, though, and she can be stubborn when she wants - so they stay.
Meryl is still trying to finish the report on Vash so the company will send them their last three paychecks. Over and over she's bemoaned how fantastic and surreal things sounded when you put them down on paper. No one would believe them if they told the whole truth. Milly doesn't mind too much; she's working construction now, building a new aqueduct system for the town. She has a white hard hat that marks her as an underforeman.
Today the formenan sends her home from work because she gets sick, heaving up her frosted flakes and milk all over the scaffolding in the earthworks. They have to hose the stanchions off with chem-dry while she sits in the shade with a wet towel over her face. The foreman hovers next to her like a large, worried bumblebee in his bright yellow coveralls.
"You sure you're gonna be okay, hon?" he asks. "You been looking peaky for the last couple weeks."
She likes John. He's sweet and works as hard as everyone else, even though he's boss. Maybe it's just the bristly salt and pepper mustache he had, but he reminds her a lot of her father. "Yes, sir. I'm feeling much better already."
"There's the smile I was looking for. You had me worried."
She really wants to talk to him, spill everything in one rushed minute - he'd be an okay substitute, since dad is half a continent away. It makes her homesick, just thinking about it. The words won't come, though, they just stuck in her throat until she gives up. Secrets don't come natural to her, and neither does grief. "If you don't mind, I think I should go home and lay down."
"By all means. Take tomorrow off too, understand? I want you feeling fit before you come back."
"I will."
In regards to the results of your tests,
Meryl is pretty surprised to see her home at barely ten o'clock.
"I got sick again." she says.
"Ah." Meryl nods, threading yet another piece of paper into the guts of their rusting typewriter. "I hear that there's a new strain of stomach flu going around. You should probably stay home for a couple of days, get a doctor visit."
"Yeah...maybe you're right." she smiles like someone who's queasy. The picture of Vash on Meryl's desk seems to smile in return, just for her. She wishes she'd gotten a picture of her own to keep in her room, but not one of Vash. It's too late, now.
The typewriter clacks a few sentences out. Meryl curses the uneven type that makes the letter 'e' higher than all the others. "I also heard from Devin that the deli had a shipment of bad horse in a couple of days ago. Eaten there lately?"
"No."
"You don't have to worry about food poisoning, then. Damnit!" Meryl rips the sheet of paper off the typewriter angrily, then pinches the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. She glances at her partner. "Why don't you lay down. You're not looking so good."
She nods and turns away.
"Milly?"
"Yes?"
"You doing okay? It's pretty tough right now. You need to talk?"
That gets her best smile. Meryl has enough to worry about, doesn't she? "No, it's fine. Just the flu, probably."
There's no mention of her little side trip to the post office on the way home, like there was no mention of her trip to the doctor last week. Meryl never asks.
We received them from the lab yesterday and sent you this letter immediately
Milly tries to sleep, but her bed makes her restless, too big and too small at the same time. She tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable. When sleep finally comes, there are dreams.
Always, she dreams of the last day. Of sadness that they share with their eyes and at the same time pretend around, seeking the comfort of normalcy. Of stilted jokes that trip over all the unspoken words. And later, of callussed hands, bare skin, and rough blankets. Her world is filled by soft hair that smells of almonds, sweat, and sweet smoke from hand-rolled cigarrettes, and she drowns over and over again in eyes too deep with emotion. Then burning lips, the feeling of being whole for just an instant.
She struggles out of her tangled sheets and runs into the bathroom.
It is our most felicitous duty to inform you,
The faucet still drips, but it is mingled with the tears falling softly from her eyes. She still has the letter, the first and last, all she has left. She reads it far more often than she should anyway, but it seems right to do, now.
"...I wasn't joking when I told you that you smell good. You smell like the fictional "some day" wife I dreamed up for myself. It's been a long time since I've been truly touched, by anyone. If it had been any other day, I don't know what I would have done..."
She can't ever get any further than that. The first time, she made it through the entire letter, numb with shock. Since then, she can't read through the tears that she makes certain never fall on the paper. It's so selfish of her, but it's everything she has. She keeps the crumpled piece of paper, folded and refolded so many times, in her pocket so there's always that little piece of him with her. She wraps herself around it, that deep ache, so she can still smile.
She returns the letter to her pocket, unable to read any more. She pulls another letter from her pocket, this one still in its crisp, white envelope.
If only he knew. In a second, she will as well.
That the analysis came up as
Meryl pounds on the bathroom door, worried because Milly has been ignoring her attempts to speak through it. "Milly? Are you okay? Milly?"
"Just a minute!" she chokes out, sweeping the grey flecked formica countertop clear into the trashcan. She adds a layer of toilet paper on top of the trash with shaking hands. There, hidden away, hers alone.
"Milly!"
She yanks the door open and half falls out into the hallway, almost crushing Meryl. Her partner's face is a mask of shock. "Milly? What's wrong?"
She doesn't answer, pushing her way down the hall. Tears are running quickly from her eyes now, though she doesn't know if they are born of grief or joy. Maybe the two are the same.
"Milly, talk to me!"
Positive. Her only secret, now hidden under layers of white toilet paper, reads positive.