Chapter 27: The Love Letter

Max clicked and clacked on her laptop, skimming for appropriate work around Gotham. It was the same it was every week. Gotham Times was always looking for journalists, but any other outlets such as GCN or WGOT were looking for highly qualified editors. Nothing her pay grade or worth her resume. Bills started to pile up, burdens of keeping on top of it all was heavily placed on Edward's shoulders. He'd claim it was no issue or hardship on their relationship, but Max was personally grated by the knowing. Given their recent rough patch, she had no intentions of creating another rift. Money was the sole divider of couples, after all.

The job in Omaha was waiting for her. Neatly arranged and secure for her first day in November, but that was still months away. They still needed money for the move. Money for a livelihood in the inflated economy of Gotham. The worst was considering she'd have to hang the hat of writing and journaling for retail or fast food if nothing else came up.

The grit of it all, was the stagnancy. Max was a person of work. She had drive always. Always ambitious and at the most peace when she had something to love and something to do and something to look forward to. 2 out of 3 was no longer satisfactory.

Edward was at work, and she remained at home. Caring for the house and making sure meals and his lunches were made was a slap in her confidence. A wedge in her feminism. At least stay at home mothers have something to do, what do you do?

Then she got a call from her mother. It was the eve before Yumi's birthday, and Max had sent her a text asking her plans. Of course, a text was always warranting a call in her mother's case.

"Hello, peanut!"

"Hey birthday girl, how's it hanging?"

Her mother hissed in the phone, "Shh! I don't want to hear it! Birthdays are just getting old."

"What, so you don't wanna talk about you being two years shy of the hilltop?"

"Maxine!"

Max sputtered a lighthearted giggle, making Yumi titter in response, knowing the teasing was in good fun.

"I'm thirty, and will always be thirty. You can't make a Leo feel old if you tried!"

"Yeah, okay, mom. There's nothing wrong with getting old, you know."

Her mom said, "And you! Just like a Sagittarius. Always a little ray of sunshine, aren't you? How's Eddie? You guys still going strong? No more scuttlebutt?"

"Nope. Still doing great. He's excited to leave, I think we both are. He's a bit more energetic lately. Usually I have to wake him up for work. He's like a spring chicken nowadays."

"Oh, my! Energetic how?"

Max went inward and stammered, knowing what her mother was getting at. "I don't know. He's… just full of energy. He's happy and excited. Sometimes too excited, but it's kind of refreshing."

"Haha! You two spunky monkeys. I'd bet he's keeping you very refreshed, isn't he?"

Max groaned, "Oh my God…" That brought a blared cackle from her mother.

"Make up sex is the best sex! You ain't telling me different. Good for you, baby!"

"Mom. I beg of you."

"What's his sign again? I totally forgot." Yumi asked, affirming her recent obsession with astrologies and zodiacs was still in high drive. Max was just happy it was no longer psychedelics and essential oils.

Max flecked a brow and said, "Aquarius. Why does it matter? Let me guess, you're gonna check our compatibility online, aren't you?"

"No! Haha, I don't have to! I already know an Aquarius and Sagittarius match is divine! So, how's the job search, honey? Last time we talked it was as dry as a nun's knickers."

"Same old, same old," sighed Max, closing her laptop. "Would it be a huge disservice to myself if I went back to flipping burgers?"

"Shit! That bad?"

"Yup. I'm sure I could do some commercial writing or what have you, but… I don't know, something like that doesn't really interest me, anymore. I know I need the money and I know freelancing is only kicking me in the ass but… I just want to write something real. Something that means something."

Yumi gasped in the phone then, "Well, honey, your Sobo and I were just chatting about it but why not use this time to start your book! Find yourself a publisher and get crackin'!"

"I'm sorry. Book?"

"Yeah! You've only talked about writing a book for Celeste forever! Kept saying you wanted to wait till her case was solved. Well, it's solved and ended just the way it should. I know people would be dying to read it. A publisher would be all over that!"

Max indulged the idea. It had been staining her mind for a while, but the loss in not working, her relationship problems, and much else kept it on the back burner. Not to mention, the dejecting time and dedication it would demand. Time that was short in Gotham. Time she would rather utilize in Omaha when things settled down. And there was the other burning hinderance.

"I don't know, mom. I'm a little put off about making money off her story."

"It's not just her story, Max. It's all of ours! Think about the shitstorm you could write, starting right from that day in Webbler. Not just the case. Celeste's death impacted all of us, and somehow we all made it to the other side a stronger family. A comeback! People want to see those stories! Remember the rally outside the courthouse? People give a shit! I've only rejected two news outlets for a story already because I knew you'd want to put our stories onto paper."

"So what… an autobiography about us? That's not…"

"Max. People know Celeste for how she died. They know her as a victim. Maybe you can finally write how she lived. Her roots and message. A love letter for your sister."

Despite the cons, it was lighting a fire. The pros excelled. Celeste's case was a famous one. One that sparked outrage and unity. One that spread across America as a whole. The financial benefit would not outweigh the spiritual and emotional one. The final honour to her sister's memory that would live on positively. Not just a true crime story people would curdle to hear in their air pods. Where Celeste wasn't just the little girl stolen and murdered, but someone angelic and meaningful.

Max smiled lightly to herself, looking up at the picture of Celeste framed on her wall. "A love letter."

The air was warm and wet in the set of August. The streets busy and roaring in a city haze. Max was making her way up close to Square Garden, the busiest of Gotham. She walked on foot, taking forms of transit to a bistro to meet an executive of a respected publishing company. She wore a sleeveless button up that tucked in her skinny jeans. Her black hair tied in a high pony, swiping from one shoulder to the other. The sun was a kiss on her skin. Not too warm. The Gotham summers were always mild and muggy, as rain seemed to cling to the city no matter the season. A day of the sun out and proud was to be enjoyed greedily, and a day like this was full of promise. Max's strut down the street was confident and even excited, eager to meet with Rosanna Cliff, a renown author of her own works, now employed by a well off publishing company.

The bistro had some heavy traffic, but she could spot a woman with brown skin and red lips like rubies. Her golden brown hair tied in a bun wearing a flowing silk blouse of sky blue. They caught eyes and both waved, a smile filling Max's cheeks to seem as well-mannered as possible.

"Maxine! Glad to finally meet you." Rosanna greeted warmly, holding her hand out for a shake.

Max stuttered a nervous greeting in turn, fumbling with her chair in sitting down. She cringed at herself and thought, hiding out as a jobless hermit certainly didn't do your social skills any help, did they.

Rosanna continued, "Wow! Gotta say, I'm kind of a fan. You going the extra mile for your sister was inspiring. What a tragedy, though. I wanted to offer my condolences… You're probably sick of hearing them by now."

"Uh, no. Thank you. It was a long time ago."

"But the wound still heals, clearly. Twenty years passed and you managed to reopen the case. Made an impactful statement in court. Now you're wanting a book deal to tell her real story. It's no secret Celeste will always be a strong part of your life."

Max nodded, "Yes. She will be."

"Did you want to order anything? My treat. Gotta ask, would be kind of awkward you watching me eat my Caesar salad alone."

Max obliged, "Yeah!"

Rosanna called over the waitress who took her order, Max stated, "Uh, I'll get a cheeseburger and iced tea, thanks."

As the waitress left with her notepad, Rosanna commented, "Smart. Gotta get the burger at a bistro, after all."

"Exactly," smiled Max, feeling less uncomfortable.

"Well. You're a journalist. An adept writer. The works I've read from you aren't just a relay of the facts, it's a bit of nuance. Your own perspectives with a drop of creative writing – even if it's just a news story. You got the skills to create a fantastic novel. One about Celeste would be a page turner across the nation, there's no doubt about that. We're definitely interested."

"Really?" Max exclaimed, brimming a grin. "I mean, that's great!"

"Have you started writing?"

Max paused then, remembering the long nights and droll day hours staring at a blank Word page. Waging warfare in her head on where to start. She fibbed, "Yeah, of course!"

"Perfect! Well, we can offer an advance to help with the costs of being home writing it to life but typically we need at least the first five chapters before we send the funds." Rosanna flipped open a binder and turned it for Max's view, pointing to the advance sum. Max glanced down and instantly went fuzzy in the fingers. An amount that could pay several bills and then some. Pay for the cost of moving. Take a tremendous amount of stress off Edward's shoulders. However, the catch was glaring.

"Five chapters?" Max asked weakly. "Like… is there a timeframe or…"

"Well, it's Friday. I'll give it till Monday afternoon. You should be close to five chapters by now, right?"

The white screen of nothing flashed again, but Max agreed, "Okay. Monday it is."

"Fantastic. You send those into me, we can go over the deal and get some signatures, then we are in business, baby."

After her paid lunch, Max made it home and directed all attention to opening her laptop and getting started as soon as possible. However, as soon as she sat at the table across from her laptop – the white mass of nothing dejected her again. Where to start.

She knew the premise of her novel, she knew the sentiment she wanted to invoke, but not how to portray it. It needed to be in a way the reader could understand Celeste, understand her worth. A gradual relationship between reader and her sister. Would she start with the typical rundown of Celeste's innocent personality? The prospects of good facing evil? A police report of that day? No. No. No. No.

No matter what came to her, nothing seemed good enough to honour Celeste. Everything was a parody compared to reality. Those zeros in the binder were swiftly becoming a pipe dream. Another tall tale that would amount to nothing.

Wait. I got her case reopened. I shown myself undaunted in a court. I've always been her fighter since day one. You're thinking about the damn numbers, Max. Think about her. Start from the beginning. Start with some accountability.

Accountability? Max remembered the day vividly. Somehow it always conjured up a blur of nostalgic and somewhat harrowing memories. One of those memories being Mr. Trunks. He was prominent that day. Somehow just as prominent as the van and Celeste, herself. Her insignificant blue elephant stuffed animal to some. On that day he surely wasn't. It was that toy that stalled their leave of the park. Her love for that toy that made Max fall into hysteria, forcing Celeste to find it before the white van took her. A thought she constantly thwarted from in guilt. Writing was a form of healing. Maybe to create an opus, pain had to be felt. Yes, thought Max, accountability. Lead it with the toy, bring it back to the home of the cause. The domino effect and circumstance.

After a moment, the page was no longer blank. She had given it a chapter title.

Chapter 1: Mr. Trunks

Home is in a blue elephant stuffy. Yes. That's good, now let it flow. Max's words eased onto the screen timid and scrutinized at first. The mold of writing apathetic and false media started to shed. A gradual bliss of journaling came back like muscle memory. Creating her own world and experience in a limelight of tragedy, nostalgia, family, and loss. The fear of the grief came back and stung, yet she utilized it. Grief turning into art in words. Her own heart crying out on the page. Soon fifty characters became four hundred. The excitement of writing something true outweighed her grief and regret, becoming something that felt real.

You have 72 hours and five chapters, Max. Let's see what you can do.

The push and pull with herself for the right words gradually became easier and less forced. The flow was happening, becoming something that surely became an addiction. Each character she recalled as her family were recreated in her own words. Birthing a newfound love and respect for each. Even conjuring new memories she had forgotten or could barely recall. The writing was a time lapse of sentiment. With no intention of describing the crime, it became solely on the lives it impacted. Her mother, her father, her grandparents, her aunt and uncle, and most importantly, herself. Yumi and Jeffery appeared on her screen like characters in a novel – yet they were family. Somehow she was forced to detach herself if only a little to bring them to life in a way that was genuine – not just the perspective of a daughter. Most pivotal of all, Celeste. Her name needed to have gravity. Her name was meant to invoke the strongest emotion in her reader. Not a vomit riddled mass of praise, but a tribute of her light and sacrifice, her legacy.

Before Max knew it, she had gathered five pages of characters. Almost a full chapter. By that time, Edward returned home. He called a greeting at the door, she made a slurred and loud yap in response. A disorientated attempt at saying "hey", she managed it barely with her eyes still glued to the laptop. She knew if she got distracted now, the flow would be disrupted. The storytelling diminished.

Edward came in an draped his bag over the chair. He glanced down to Max in a daze of typing and unblinking. He raised a brow and wanted to ask, but felt as if another greeting would suffice.

"Hey?"

Max said it sharply, "Hi."

"You… doing something?"

"Yup."

"Can I ask or…"

Max interrupted, "I'll talk to you in a minute, I'm almost done." She was on her last paragraph, knowing confidently she could reset after each chapter, at least.

Edward shrugged and went to the fridge to start supper, seeing Max was far too preoccupied, otherwise. Not that he was judging, in fact, it was a relief to see her busy and stimulated. Suddenly she pushed up in her chair and praised, "Okay! I'm done the first chapter. Four more to go."

Edward smiled, "You got the book deal?"

"Kind of. I need five chapters by Monday."

"That's a tall order for the weekend."

Max blew air from her mouth, "I'm a fast writer. Tall order's my middle name. Do you wanna know the advance?"

Edward pulled a pan out of the cupboard. "What is it?"

"5,000."

He nearly dropped the pan on his foot. "What?!"

"Yup!" Max excitedly ran to him in a squeal, creating a laugh just as elated from him, too. "That's enough for the late rent due, that bullshit utility bill, insurance, and internet! Not to mention…" Max raised her hands in singsong, "Moving! Takes some stress off you, too."

"And extra, definitely extra. Babe, that's amazing!" He pecked her forehead and pulled her in. "Look at you go! That gives you a project to focus on while I'm away."

"Away?" Max flecked in concern, "Where you going?"

"I'll be in Metropolis for that business trip with Zach, I thought I told you about that last week?"

"No. You didn't. A business trip? You've never gone on a business trip before. Don't even get me started on Zach. Like what the fuck?"

Edward sighed and poured some water in a pot to boil. "I swore I told you. I'm sorry. Zach has an account there, and of course, he won't do it himself. So I'm basically his human calculator being strung along. It's a paid trip, though. All expenses."

"That's so weird, though." Max irked, "That's never happened."

"I know, that's why I made sure to tell you a week early. I thought I did. I feel bad now."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning, I'll be back Sunday night."

Max had several questions. Such as why it would be on the weekend, for starters. But seeing their recent amends and rebuild, she didn't want to push her luck.

"Okay," she sighed, a bit put off. "You'll text me?"

"Of course!" He exclaimed happily, pulling her in for a kiss. "And if you can tear yourself away from the computer screen long enough, I'll make tonight worth it." They playfully swayed in the kitchen, noses tickling the other. Max wove her arms along his shoulders and giggled, letting him kiss her cheek.

Then she pushed back and stated, "I can't. I have all my hours cemented in my brain. Takes at least four to five hours for each chapter. When I'm awake and not eating, I need to be writing. Giving me enough time to proof read and edit or add in whatever I think I missed."

"Oh," said Edward a bit deflated.

"But! When you get back and I have that book deal in writing I'm going to mount you – cow girl style," she winked, a goofy wiggle of her shoulders.

"I have no idea what that is but sounds fantastic." Edward dreamily said as she made a confident stride back to her laptop.

"Oh, it will be, Nashton! It will be!

For the rest of the night, Max sparsely ate, barely kept an engaging dialogue with Edward, and barely slept. By the time she was halfway through her second chapter, it was two in the morning. She debated with herself on sleep, but knew if she didn't, the writing could decline. One and a half chapters done provided a clear sense of what Max was writing, the intentions behind the words and the thesis of the story. Her homage to Celeste was becoming the feeling behind the intention.

By morning, she was already awake, back to her roots in creative writing had certainly ignited a spark. Edward woke in surprise to see her already up and active – drilled into her computer like second religion. She made sure to give her farewell and a longing kiss before he left, certain he'd have a safe transit to Metropolis (yet wishing him luck with Zach). Then in a blink, she was back to writing. Much of the facts of Celeste's case were cemented in her brain. She shot a few texts to her family for approval of particular events being included in the storytelling. Her father was a bit hesitant, but ultimately agreed – knowing the profit it would bring his daughter and tribute to Celeste. Sobo and Jiji were thrilled, as were Eiko and James. Her mother tried to call her in excitement, but there was no time to waste with the queen of chatter, an approval was all she needed. Then write. That's all that mattered. Writing.

Her father's drinking, her mother's grief and clinging, the protection and fury of Eiko, the traditions and kindness of her grandparents – all was on the table. All balanced with the ugliest and warmest moments of their lives. All central around the impact of Celeste's death. Humour, sadness, warmth, and remembrance exalted the best she could appropriately. There were small moments she would recall her work at the Times. How it would take weeks to conjure up even a few paragraphs to pretty up Mitchell. Even if she was granted the luxury of crime writing, it never struck the kind of devotion she had now. Perhaps it was the real birth of her inborn passion. Constantly being diverted from creative writing in fear of the lacklustre pay. Clearly they didn't see that advance. Max's love for the craft grew deeper and more passionate through the hours of the weekend. Surrounded by a quiet home and still objects, her mind was loud and celebrating.

She reached her quota by Sunday morning. Ahead of schedule and perhaps sprinted, she was washed over in the accomplishment deprived for months. For years. She had met the deadline for Rosanna, even so, she wanted more. For the afternoon she spent listening to the text-to-speech of her story for any hiccups. If they did, she'd fix accordingly. Add detail and contrast. Cut the fat and blemishes. Less was more in writing, she honed that saying. By the time she was confident it was ready to send, it was the early evening. She sent in the compiled work to Rosanna and finally had time to absolve her surroundings.

She checked her phone then, no texts from Edward since Saturday. She gave a call. The phone rang monotonously. She was starting to understand he may be too busy to pick up.

As soon as she was about to hang up, he answered, "Hey baby."

"Hey! You on your way home?"

"Yeah! Should be there by eight, is that okay?"

She couldn't hold it in much longer. "I did it! I got those five chapters!"

"Seriously?! Wow! Shit, you do work fast! You send them?"

"Yup! As promised I got my cowgirl boots on, just waiting for a saddle! Yeehaw! Your pelvis gonna be aching tonight, boy!"

Edward nervously cackled in the phone, "Should I be scared? I feel like I should be scared."

"Oh, yes," said Max in a soft yet joking tone. "Very scared. Pray for your turtle neck tonight, Nashton. Pray for it."

A whir and rumble through the line came through, strangely familiar to Gotham's transit. Max flummoxed at that. "Are you in Gotham?"

"What? No. No, I'm at the Gilbert Station, just waiting to board for Gotham, though, should be soon."

"You're at the quietest train station in the world."

"Weird, there's a bunch of people all over. I gotta go, Zach is coming back. I'll talk to you at home. Love you."

Max said warily, "Love you."

She tried not to think too hard on it. There's no reason for Edward to lie as he never had, no reason for him to cheat as he never had the drive. She had the benefit of the doubt and comforted in it. Besides, her mind was still swimming and creating ideas to bring to life in her tale. She wouldn't wait for them to be forgotten, so she retreated to the sanctuary of her story once again – chapter six was on its way.

Monday morning was awaited in suspense – Max's phone close and at the loudest ring. When it did, she fumbled and slapped the phone into her palms, praying it was Rosanna.

"Maxine! I got those chapters, thank you. Just finished reading them now."

Max breathed out in relief and asked, "Okay! Uh. Thoughts, I guess?"

"I gotta say, kind of itching for chapter six."

Max's excitement pulled her feet into a hop on the floor before she jested, "Well, I got it written down, want me to send it, too?"

Rosanna had a hearty chortle on the other end. "You have done a fine job laying out the stage. Your family are… quite the characters. Especially that Eiko, sheesh. Talk about a force to be reckoned with."

"Oh, she is. She definitely is."

"Touching on your father's substance abuse and a broken home was riveting. Really shows the collateral of a loss like this, a loss we don't normally see from these cases behind the curtain. It offers a perspective that's genuine and raw, and the way you portray that is compelling. I'm really enjoying it, Maxine."

"Oh my God… thank you! Thank you! That means way too much, I actually feel like crying."

"You wanna really flatter a writer, don't compliment their looks, compliment their craft. Look, I know you're not frequent in this style of writing. I certainly know there will be a risk of writer's block and personal struggles that may delay it. I usually don't do these deals for inexperienced novelists but your story is one the world is going to want to hear. A family member of violent crime, a woman of colour, and a woman of a chaotic upbringing – the world needs that representation in an author, and that's you. Now we can sign this deal if we have an assurance it'll be completed by the new year. That'll be included in the contract. Do you still accept?"

Max didn't even hesitate. "You're damn right."

"That's what I like to hear! Let's do this, then. Welcome to being an author, Maxine. You're in for a hell of a ride."