A Letter to Delilah Read online

  A Letter to Delilah

  Jaxson Kidman

  Contents

  Hey darlin’

  A Letter to Delilah

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  More from Jaxson

  Hey darlin’

  It’s been a while since we’ve done this.

  A true stand alone novel from me.

  This one hit home in a lot of ways.

  I have been sitting on it for a long time, wondering if I would ever release it.

  Considering the circumstances of life right now, there’s no better time than the present.

  All I ask you do is (1) read the book, (2) review it, (3) and then email me with any thoughts and questions.

  Thank you darlin’ … you never fail to amaze me with your love and support.

  Much love,

  - Jaxson

  A Letter to Delilah

  The letter was not meant for me to read.

  It was for Delilah.

  She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s loved.

  She’s everything I want to be.

  And I need to know who wrote the letter.

  Why?

  You might think I’m crazy… but I’m in love with the person who wrote it.

  Even if I’ve never met him.

  Prologue

  A Meeting I

  A LITTLE WHILE AGO

  (Josh)

  “I’m going to ask the obvious question… do you still miss her?”

  There wasn’t a need to answer that question. So I didn’t. It didn’t matter where I sat or who I was talking to, the questions were up to me to answer. Or not answer.

  “I had the dream again. That’s why I’m here.”

  “The dream. Right.”

  “With the plane…”

  “I know the dream. Do you want to describe it again?”

  I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and stared at the ugly patterned carpet. It always bothered the hell out of me. Everything in the room was square, yet this rug, this damn area rug, was a giant circle. It really pissed me off, and I had no idea why.

  “The dream,” I said as I stared at the rug. “It’s always the same. We’re on a plane. A normal plane. Like the kind you’d take on vacation. A commercial jet or whatever. But there’s a door that’s almost like a regular door. There are no seats there. It’s tall, wide, it even has a brass doorknob. And I’m always listening to music. I have earbuds in. Then I see her. Just walking from the front of the plane. She’s older, but it’s her. I stand up and watch as she walks to the door and opens it. The door flies from her hand and there’s a thud as it’s ripped away from the plane. Nobody looks up though. Not a single fucking person looks up as she stands there. Her hair blowing with the air rushing through the plane. I rip the earbuds out and drop everything on my seat. I have no idea why I’m not running toward her to save her. Especially after having the same dream over and over and over.”

  I lifted my gaze from the carpet.

  “Go on, Josh.”

  “You know the ending.”

  “Maybe you’d like to get it off your chest?”

  “She fucking jumps, okay? She fucking jumps out of the plane. Right out of the open door. Before I could get to her. Before I could wrap my arms around her. Before I could tell her how sorry I am. How much I love her. And that she doesn’t need to jump out of the plane. I can take care of her.”

  I stood up from the way too comfortable couch and began to pace. I needed a drink. I needed a cigarette. I needed a woman, with her perfect body, to distract me from this shit. All of my favorite addictions waiting outside this room.

  Soon enough, I’d be done.

  There was a time limit here, which was good.

  “Have you ever thought about what that means?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The dream, Josh. Can we break it down together?”

  “The dream? How?”

  “Step by step. Take the plane, for example. A dream about a plane can mean several things. Think of it this way - you’re high in the air. You’re above everything. Think of it as a sense of awareness. Think about the speed of the plane. How fast you’re moving. That’s a representation of your life.”

  “You do know she was never on a plane,” I said. “Think about that. She never got to go on a plane. So why am I dreaming of her on a plane?”

  “Could be guilt, Josh. I’m not going to lie to you. But what if it means something else? Something much bigger?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Well, dreaming of death is always hard. Death is the ultimate end. It’s the final goodbye to life. When we dream of death, it’s our inner feelings that control it. Feelings of guilt. Feelings of jealousy. Sometimes we dream of someone dying because we care so much about them. Other times, it could be a sense of betrayal. Or even something as simple as, say, a career change. So you have these two powerful images… a plane and death.”

  “Wait a second,” I said as I waved my hand. “This has nothing to do with that. I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit. My life is hectic, sure. But this has nothing to do with it.”

  “Or maybe it has everything to do with it, Josh. Maybe it’s the final goodbye. You’re in a plane. Way up in the air. Whether you believe in heaven or hell, I think all of us subconsciously look for that comfort in the end. So the plane puts you near where she has to go. And what if she didn’t exactly jump, Josh? What if she left the plane to go to her next place?”

  I stared with my lip slowly curling. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “No. I’m just giving you my thoughts. We’re just talking. Does any of that make sense?”

  “No. Fuck that.”

  “Okay. Well, the dream is the same. It’s always the same. Not a single detail changes. So maybe you should try a goodbye. Get it out of you.”

  “A goodbye? She’s gone.”

  “Not inside your heart. Or your head.”

  I shook my head. “So, what do I do? Talk to the sky? Talk to the ground?”

  “Write her a letter.”

  “What?”

  “Write her a letter. The act of writing. Think about it. Your heart and mind work together to create words. And you’re getting it out. You’re writing it out. And it’ll be there. Meaning you can look at it, if you want. You could throw the letter out. Burn the letter. Keep it tucked away. Maybe even sleep with it, so the next time you have that dream, you can give her the let
ter before she exits the plane.”

  “Exits the plane?” I asked, almost growling. “She jumps. She fucking jumps.”

  “Okay. Give her the letter before she jumps.”

  “A letter. That’s the plan then? I write her a letter. I say goodbye. I let her go for good.”

  “Well, you said it yourself, Josh… she’s already gone.”

  That angered me.

  Only I was allowed to say that she was gone.

  And only I was going to make the final decision on what to do next.

  Being gone and saying goodbye were two very different things.

  A Gathering

  A LONG WHILE AGO

  (Amelia)

  Fly, baby, fly… just spread those wings and fly. Never be afraid of the fall because you can fly. You can soar high above the clouds, all the way to the stars. You can see the stars during the day. Yes, you can. You just have to fly high enough. And you can fly high enough.

  She always left those type of notes under my pillow. Kind of like the way the Tooth Fairy would sneak a dollar there for every tooth I lost. My plan had been to save up enough money to buy my own house, but I realized I was running out of teeth and houses were way too expensive.

  I tried to draw pictures to sell, but the only person who bought one was Mom.

  So I wrote stories, like she did.

  Her stories were better.

  Mine were always about animals that could talk.

  Mom laughed.

  Nobody ever wanted to buy my stories.

  So, I was stuck with twelve dollars and no chance of buying a house.

  And Mom was upset, as always.

  Even when she took her magical pills, as she called them, she was still upset. Nothing seemed to help her anymore. Not even my latest story. Which was about a pig that wanted to live with ducks because it wanted to learn how to fly. But first, the pig had to learn how to swim. And when a group of mean geese tried to pick on the ducks, the pig defended the ducks.

  There was more to the story, but whatever, it wasn’t that good at all.

  I sat on the floor in front of my bed with Mom’s newest note in my hand.

  Fly, baby, fly…

  I looked to the window and shook my head.

  Jumping out of my window would be stupid. And dangerous.

  I couldn’t fly. I wasn’t some character in a story. I couldn’t fly above the clouds. Or see the stars in the daytime. Or any of that other crap Mom wrote about.

  But what I could do was keep writing. And get really good at it. So I could make money at it. Then buy my own house. Then I could do whatever I wanted to and be happy.

  I heard the shattering of glass and looked to my right.

  Mr. Monkey sat there, lifeless as he was designed to be. Two years ago, I heard him talk and saw him move. But now I was older, wiser and stuffed animals didn’t move. Or talk. Ever. Even when Mom said to use my imagination, it didn’t matter.

  “Well, looks like another crazy night,” I whispered to the stuffed animal.

  Across from me was Mary. She was once a white unicorn that was now dirty from time and me carrying her around for so long. That was before I realized unicorns were kind of babyish. Or maybe because Sarah at school called me a diaper wearing freak-head and told me to put the unicorn’s horn up my butt. Everyone laughed. I blushed. And that night I had to let Mary know she was going to stay home from then on.

  We both cried.

  Well, at least I did.

  Mary didn’t cry. She was a stuffed unicorn, remember?

  Mary was in between Jeffrey, a black and white penguin, and Steven, a leatherback turtle that I got from an aquarium. That was the last true family trip I could remember. In all reality, I should have thrown Steven out because the memory attached to him was one that made me want to cry, but he had huge, marble-like eyes that forever stared at me.

  Plus, Steven was the one I held tight the one night when things went way too far. The night Mom fell down the steps. The night my father left for a week. He came back when he was out of money, in tears, saying that what happened on the steps would never happen again. I figured that meant he was going to fix them so Mom wouldn’t fall again, but they were never fixed.

  And come to think of it, I never remembered her falling down the steps at all.

  What I did remember…

  I shivered and looked at Steven.

  “Can you talk, dammit?” I growled.

  The stuffed turtle stared at me.

  I missed being younger. I missed everything from before the age of six. That’s when life really was worth living.

  Now…

  I looked at the door and heard the noise.

  More glass shattering.

  More pounding.

  The yelling was just background noise at that point.

  I reached up to my bed and found my favorite notebook.

  I had been working on a new story. One that was going to change everything. The story that wasn’t about talking animals. Well, that was a lie. There were talking animals in my story, but the main character was a woman. A strong woman. Who drank a lot of coffee. Who smiled a lot. Who wasn’t afraid to fight back and win. Who had to face the kind of stuff my Mom did - like the broken stairs that maybe weren’t exactly broken at all - and who would kick some butt.

  She could talk to animals and they could talk back to her.

  It was magical.

  The story was magical.

  And Mom was going to be the first one to read it.

  I heard the thudding up the stairs and I looked at Steven. Then Jeffrey. Then Mary. And finally, Mr. Monkey.

  “You’re up,” I said.

  I grabbed Mr. Monkey and threw him at the door.

  It didn’t do a thing though.

  The door opened a few seconds later and in came my father.

  Showing his teeth like an evil hyena in a cartoon movie.

  He kicked Mr. Monkey, sending him sailing through the air.

  “Get back here!” Mom’s voice yelled. “She has nothing to do with this!”

  “She has everything to do with it,” my father said.

  Quiet. Calm.

  Which was the scariest of all.

  The louder he was, the more likely it was that he was going to break something.

  But the quieter he was… the more likely it was that he was going to break someone.

  My father stopped inches from me. His work boots were filthy, cut and frayed. His jeans were dirty too. He smelled weird.

  “What the fuck is that?” he asked me, pointing to my bright pink notebook.

  I hated myself for choosing such a color for such an important story. I should have gone basic, so nobody would notice it.

  “Nothing,” I said in a brave voice.

  “Liar,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

  He crouched and reached for the notebook.

  I had nowhere near the strength of him as he ripped it out of my hand. The top of the metal ring caught the inside of my thumb. I yelled as I felt the stinging pain.

  “Serves you right,” my father said.

  He tore open the notebook and ripped out a page.

  “No!” I cried out.

  “Shut up,” he growled at me. “This is the garbage that got us here.”

  “Please. Daddy… please…”

  He looked down at me. “You think that’s going to work on me? I know how much you hate me. And trust me, it’s for your own good.”

  My father reached into his back pocket.

  I cringed and feared the worst.

  I wasn’t even sure what the worst was.

  He took out a metal lighter and flicked the lid open with his thumb. He sparked the lighter and a bright flame gently swayed left to right. He put that flame to the corner of the notebook and grinned as I watched it catch on fire.

  My bottom lip quivered and I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get up and attack him. But I knew better. He was bigger. Stronger
. He was meaner. He was a jerk. He was an asshole.

  And I didn’t care if he was my father.

  “There, that’s better,” he said.

  He dropped the notebook to the floor as it continued to burn.

  “Save yourself the trouble, Amelia. You can’t fly. You can’t do anything she tells you. You’re both useless. What a fucking waste.”

  The second he turned to leave, I dove at the notebook.

  It was fully engulfed.

  The heat hitting my face as tears filled my eyes.

  I reached for Steven and slammed him down on the notebook.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to the stuffed turtle.

  The feeling of fire must have hurt, but I had no choice. It was either burn Steven or burn down the house.

  “I’m so, so, so, sorry,” I said as tears fell from my eyes and hit Steven’s plush shell.

  That’s when I heard a loud scream.

  I thought it was Steven.

  But I knew better.

  It was coming from downstairs.

  Chapter 1

  Words Not Yours

  IN A LITTLE BIT

  (Amelia)