AU: Letters Never Sent

[Joshua Bernstein]

Tears rolled down Joshua Bernstein's face as he sat surrounded by boxes. So many months had passed since those unexpected phone calls, first the one from Sean that was so cryptic and worrying, and then the one from Sean's coworkers saying the telepath was in the hospital.

He had rushed over to Maddock to see the other man, but the telepath had never woken from his coma. Josh still went over to visit whenever he could, talking to Sean's inert form and hoping that he would awaken.

But he never did.

And although he had resisted acknowledging the necessity of taking control of Sean's estates in his absence, he had finally succumbed. Fortunately, Sean was responsible and organized, but unfortunately this meant rather a lot of boxes to go through. Not all of the boxes were immediately identifiable, and the attorney pried one open to peer at the contents within. It looked like some form of journal.

Curiosity got the better of him.

Nobody had told him what had happened to land his best friend in a coma; maybe he could learn.

Of course, if Sean woke up this would be awkward but what if....no, of course he would wake up. Josh still couldn't face the idea that he might not.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The journal was kept in immaculate condition, although the pages within had begun to yellow a bit with age. Each page contained the thoughts and observations of a man in a coma, from when he had been in a position to have thoughts and observations to communicate and the ability to save them for posterity.

Sean had always been meticulous. Even in his youth, he had been meticulous, and he had only gained more care with each passing year.

The entry began as every entry did: with the date written in the upper right-hand corner. June 1979.

Dear Journal:

We finally unpacked the last box. Josh was a little embarrassed, because it had some of his stag magazines. I keep telling him not to worry about that between us, since I won’t judge him, but I don’t think that’s sunk in yet. There’s plenty of time.

His stag magazines aren’t even that interesting, not compared to so many other outlets. I know he borrowed most of them from Greg, and Greg never asked for them back. Heaven knows he has more than enough to spare. Not that it matters, since they’re Josh’s now, and they’re “put away” at the bottom of his underwear drawer, where his parents will never find them.

I feel at home, in a way I never have before. Living with my parents was home, of course, and Hammel was home in a way, as tough as it could be to have to deal with roommates. But this...this apartment is only mine and Josh’s. We don’t have to hide here, and whatever minimal subterfuge we have with the guest room pales in comparison to how I can wrap my arms around him and kiss him whenever I want. Or whenever he wants me to.

We’re finally home.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh felt his chest constrict. Memories of their life together before he had thrown it away flooded the attorney, and he inhaled shakily. They'd been so happy then, and the subsequent yearning over his own foolish decision often obscured the struggle he'd felt at the time.

He should never have left.

If he'd stayed with Sean maybe he would never have even come back to Pilot Ridge. They could have stayed in the City, and whatever had injured so many Hammel faculty wouldn't have hurt Sean.

Still, this entry held no clues as to what had happened. He flipped to another page, scanning for any mention of Hammel. Or, if he were honest, for his own name.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Josh’s primary problem with this task was that Sean had consistently kept a journal since he had first developed his telepathy four decades prior. That resulted in so many journals, and the contents of any given volume were temporarily similar. As the attorney had a journal from their first months living together in their apartment in the Village, each entry had similar themes.

Dear Journal:

This must be what it feels like to fall in love.

I don’t have to work this summer, which gives me plenty of time in the neighborhood and the apartment. Sometimes, I read on his side of the bed while he’s at work, so that I can feel closer to him.

Our friends tease sometimes, because of Josh’s lack of experience, but he isn’t as naïve as they think he is. He’s an adult, and he’s able to cope with life, and it isn’t as though I’ve been alive for so much longer than he has. I’ve only just turned twenty-two. The telepathy might make me more aware than non-psychics, but that goes for anyone my age, or even someone older.

The two most naïve traits he has are how much he loves grilled cheese sandwiches and that he gets so easily impressed by everything I do. He’ll grow out of both of those eventually, and we can be on more equal footing.

Sometimes, I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for us. But today, I want to focus on the moments we have here and now. I wouldn’t trade these for anything in the world.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The posit e note that the journal entry ended on contrasted sharply with the reality of the present day. Decades lay between the Sean of the journal and the Sean in a coma, decades that he could never bring back. He couldn't change the past such that Sean's hopes came true.

He might not ever be able to speak to Sean again.

This thought was depressing enough that he simply sat in silence for a moment before putting the journal back, careful that it went into the correct place among its fellows. He couldn't even muster up any outrage over Sean's opinion on his love of grilled cheese sandwiches.

If Sean woke up, he wouldn't eat a grilled sandwich again. He would only eat responsible adult food like quinoa and asparagus.

He wiped his sleeve across his face, then pulled out another journal. He blew dust off the cover before opening it at random.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The next journal was several years later, with the entry to which he opened the page dated in the mid-1980s.

Dear Journal:

Kathleen married Colin today, and so I’m currently seated in a somewhat disheveled tuxedo on my childhood bed.

The ceremony was nice, even if it ran a little long, and it was awkward because I was the only one who didn’t take communion.

I had nobody to talk to for most of the reception. Mom and Dad were busy being the parents of the bride, and I didn’t bring a guest. Being single doesn’t lend itself to easily finding dates for weddings, and Kathleen made me promise not to invite Josh. She didn’t want to be embarrassed on the biggest day of her adult life, and as offensive and isolating as the request was, I couldn’t deny her that wish. That was most of her wedding gift.

I also bought her a television set for the bedroom.

Kathleen and my parents made me promise not to talk about politics or social issues or mention anyone that I might be seeing, because they now think that I’m gay. I’m not gay, but they don’t care about proper labels, not after the revelation.

I don’t regret it, even with the fallout.

None of the rest of the family knows about my relationship history. So it was an isolating reception where I occasionally had to hold my tongue about an insensitive observation about other people, and otherwise didn’t get to do much else. I don’t dance, I’m not allowed to sing, I had to sit at the High Table on display despite having nobody with whom to talk, and I had to wait until the last guest left before we went home.

At least the food was good, and there was an open bar. I’m sure I’m more than a bit tipsy now. We’ll see how my handwriting holds up in the morning.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh squeezed his eyes shut as he commiserated with his friend's past self. He had always found himself offended on Sean's behalf for the opinions and judgment of the other mans family. Reading this only made him feel worse about it. The older man so rarely admitted to feeling lonely, so it was difficult to see it written there, undeniable proof.

This also was not any clue to what had happened with the Hammel staff, and so once he opened his eyes again he flipped to the last entry in the journal.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Dear Journal:

We made love last night.

At least it felt like lovemaking. Different, of course, because it’s been a few years, and we’ve both grown as people. Different because we weren’t sober, but it was still us. He was still himself.

Tipsy, but himself. I was tipsy too.

I think he uses a different cologne now. I don’t recognize the scent, although I’m not in the habit of smelling him when we’re out having lunch or at a party together. It complements him nicely, I think. A bit subtler than back in the day.

When I woke this morning, I spent as much time in bed beside him as I could, since he hadn’t woken yet. Eventually, I needed coffee, and so, as quietly as I could, I left for the kitchen. I spent a while making breakfast, all of his favorites, to celebrate what we shared the night before.

But when he came downstairs, he’d already dressed. He was embarrassed, confused, and filled with guilt about it. He murmured quickly about having to get to Temple services and promised to call, and then he walked out the door before I could meet him in the foyer.

He regrets it.

I haven’t been this happy in a long time, and he regrets it.

I can’t blame him. We broke up, after all. I know how he feels. I shouldn’t have thought that anything had changed because of a bad decision the night before.

Still...it hurt a bit.

I’d like to unpack everything with him, so that we can check in with each other about how we feel. But I don’t want to pressure him, not like last time. I can’t let that happen.

I suppose I’ll have to wait for him to make the first move.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The only thing that Josh was learning from these journals was that he was the biggest screw up in the history of the world. He'd assumed that Sean regretted those unintended nights together, that if he had dared to express any anticipation over what they might mean he would only be greeted with rejection.

He should have been only greeted with rejection.

Hastily he shut the journal, swallowing a sob as he thrust it back into the box. In his haste he knocked over another box beside it, scattering photographs everywhere. He began to collect them, forcing himself to take a slower pace. He didn't need to knock over every box in the room.

He heaved a sigh as he looked over the photos, filled with nostalgia and loneliness and regret and worry.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean had always liked to take pictures and to pose for pictures. He hadn’t considered himself a photographer, not even as an amateur hobbyist, and that showed in the photos that he took, as they wholly lacked artistic merit. Some of the photos taken by others were of higher artistic quality.

Unlike the journals which were arranged in chronological order, the photographs had been categorized primarily by person or event or simply by how much the telepath had enjoyed the end result.

The ones that had spilled and scattered were among Sean’s most cherished photographs. Polaroid pictures from his childhood: his First Communion, his Confirmation, Kathleen’s First Communion and Confirmation. Sean’s graduation photo from Hammel, his graduation photo from NYU, his graduation photo from Columbia’s School of Medicine.

Mixed in with those family photos, with those pictures of academic and career accomplishments, was a familiar Polaroid snapshot. Taken from the telepath’s more intimate relationship with Josh decades ago, the two young men sat on a beat-up sofa in an apartment that neither had seen for decades. Their arms were around one another, with the younger man’s head resting on Sean’s shoulder.

Both smiled, because they were happy, and they had been so deeply in love.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh ran his fingers over the lines of Sean's face. So young, so happy. It seemed as if everything in these boxes was designed solely to remind him painfully of his loss. Not just the lost opportunity, but the complete absence of Sean, which was far worse.

The attorney heaved a sigh before collecting the older photos from the telepath's childhood, returning them to the box. These all seemed to be personal items, which, while certainly useful in that he felt somewhat closer to Sean by their presence, were not what he was actually rifling through Sean's things for.

Not helpful, and cresting difficulty with his search by increasing his emotional turmoil.

He decided to call it quits for the day.

---

The next day Josh found himself at the bank in the role of Sean's estate manager. He thought he had found most of the important documents at last, after scouring Sean's home office. He still had to make a trip to Hammel but given how many faculty were still hospitalized he was putting that off.

The safety deposit box at the bank was therefore the next place to rummage through. It might have nothing, but he wanted to be thorough.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean had always been a responsible person, a trait that became magnified when he manifested his telepathy, and again upon reaching adulthood. As a single man, Sean had been responsible for all of his own affairs. As a psychiatrist, he was responsible for maintaining confidentiality and treatment for multiple other people, all of whom relied upon him. As a trusted leader and colleague, he had been responsible for the Hammel faculty in their battle with M.S.A.D.

Long prior to Gabriel Underwood’s return to Pilot Ridge, Sean had prepared a living will, and he had also endowed Josh with his Power of Attorney should he find himself unable to make medical decisions for himself. Sean’s attorney in Burlington had provided Josh with all of that information, after the news of the coma came through.

The paperwork provided to the bank allowed Josh entrance to the safe deposit box. The bank teller expressed her sympathies as she used the bank key to help the attorney access the box. Then, she left it, and the attorney, alone in the private room to review the contents of the box.

The box contained precisely what one might expect from a man of Sean’s age and responsibilities. The stock certificates for the stock he owned. A still maturing bond. The deed to his house and the title to his boat. Spare keys to storage units wherein his confidential information was located, while the record period remained active. A backup drive of newer files, disengaged from the computer. Copies of accreditation information for his medical license. Particularly valuable jewelry –inherited from his family and Robert’s. A small collection of rare coins. Then, finally, two envelopes of letters. One was labeled “Last Will and Testament” while the other was labeled “Read this First.”

[Joshua Bernstein]

The Last Will and Testament he wouldn't touch, not until he was forced to acknowledge it as a necessity. The spare keys he pocketed, resolving to look through the storage units tomorrow. Already his window of time for the day was fading; he had other work, and then of course visiting the hospital. The visit never ended differently, but he was obligated by affection and guilt and yearning to go anyway.

The other letter, the one labeled read first grabbed his attention and he reached out for it. He didn't want to destroy the contents, and so he pulled his keys out of his pockets, using the edge of his house key to carefully tear open the envelope.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The letter contained in the envelope was written in Sean's neat script and was several pages in length. Unlike the journals, the letter was written on his personal letterhead.



Dear Josh:

I don’t want to start off with a mess of clichés, but if you’re reading this, then you’ve gotten word of my death and you’re at the bank, or you’ve just gotten my safe deposit box out of the bank. There’s another envelope that goes with this one, but it contains only legal papers and funeral instructions; this is the one you’re supposed to read first. This is the one you have to read first.

I owe you an explanation. The night that I called you and left that cryptic message all but begging you to come over was rock bottom. I know that I haven’t told you explicitly what happened that night, and it’s not my story to tell, not my secret to divulge. I’ve been carrying so many secrets since I was twelve; you know that. It’s a heavy burden sometimes, and lately I’ve wondered whether I’m the right one to carry it all.

The women who attacked you in the woods are still at large. And they’re out for blood. I can’t get into too much detail about how I know that, but they are, and I’m as sure of this as I am of anything. They’re armed and dangerous, and they have friends in high places; friends who participated in the attack on Hammel last summer. I’ve tried the police and nobody listens. So I’m on guard. I don’t know when or where the first (strike through) next blood will be drawn, but I can’t let it happen on my watch. I will do what I can for my children.

You know that I have trouble sleeping, but it’s been worse these past few weeks, with all of this horror looming on the horizon, with the uncertainty of specifics and knowing that it could come at any minute. The thought of failure has crossed my mind. Honestly, I’m worried about it, even though I can’t say as much to anyone beyond a few practical warnings. I’m an old man. I haven’t been in shape in years, and my knees hurt when I run; I’m no match physically. When the call comes, I will be armed only with loyalty and my powers.

I’ve become everything Kathleen has always feared.

I’ve never used my powers to hurt someone. When I used to have the power slips, it was never my intention to hurt, and it always took the form of frustrations and inconveniences rather than harm. When I got nervous, my classmates would forget their lessons sometimes, but that wasn’t the same as what I’m facing now, what I’m armed with. I’m not twelve now. I’m 53 and I can wipe someone’s mind clean forever. I keep that to myself because I don’t like to make people afraid; there’s enough of that already.

If I’ve died, may it be to keep you, my friends, and the children safe.

You promised to deliver my eulogy, and I’m sorry that you’ll have to make good on that promise. Talk about anything you want that doesn’t belittle Hammel. You’re welcome to call me an idiot through the entire ceremony, although I understand if your heart isn’t in it. I don’t demand a good eulogy, but I do demand that you, and only you, deliver it. If Kathleen comes, please tell her it was an accident and that she’ll always be my little sister. Give Ryan my love.

I have an attorney who isn’t you; his office is in Burlington. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but the Hammel attorney told me that there’s a rule about attorneys not being able to make wills that they could stand to benefit from. And you have benefited. I’ll summarize it here; it’s just restating what’s in the will.

The house is yours. You can do what you want with it, but it would make me happy in principle if you moved in. You know where everything is, and the mortgage is paid off, and so all of the equity is yours, no strings attached. I’ve left Ryan a trust account, but if he wants anything from the house, he can have it within reason. He can have the car if you don’t want it; I know you don’t drive but if you’d rather sell it, that’s fine. He can’t have the van, and otherwise use your judgment for anything else in the house: furniture, personal items, the contents of the liquor cabinet. It’s your call, because it’s yours now. Please don’t ever give away the van. Let it rust on cinder blocks if you have to, but don’t give it away. The boat is yours. The stock I own is yours; the certificates are in the safe deposit box. The rest of my bank accounts are yours, and the statement information is with the will. You’re the sole beneficiary of my life insurance and you’re entitled to whatever my health insurance might pay out. It’s all yours. The remnants of my life are yours.

The remnants of my life have always been yours.

I’m getting sentimental now, but this is my last chance to say any of this, and I don’t want to die knowing that I could have said something and skipped the opportunity yet again.

You matter to me more than anyone ever has or ever could. Thirty-three years later and you’re still my best friend. I know I told you this on the phone when you said you were moving up here, but I was so ecstatic to think about us living in the same town again. That it would be like college. That despite work and your family obligations and my extracurricular activities we’d still stay up until three in the morning talking about politics and philosophy, and we’d go to the all-night diner outside of town, and we’d play pinochle while you accused me of cheating every time I won a trick, even though you didn’t mean it. That we’d go sailing in the nice weather and I would cook supper and it would be charmingly domestic.

Instead, one of your friends hates me, and if that’s news to you, there’s nothing I can say about it because it’s blindingly obvious. Instead you get put in the hospital, and have to spend months recovering, and I couldn’t protect you. Instead everything falls apart around us, and I have to spend every waking moment consumed with worry and offering reassurances to those who need them more than I do.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for putting you in this position. I’m sorry that I could only keep you from being killed and couldn’t stop them from hurting you. I’m sorry that I failed you. I’m sorry for all of the wasted opportunities.

I know we all swore on our non-existent firstborn children’s souls to never mention poker night again, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t know how much you remember from that night; you were very drunk. I was too, but you got a head start, and, with all deference due to an expert, I still handle my liquor better. But aside from scarring our friends for life, I asked you to spend the rest of your life with me. I got down on one knee, slipped off my balance, grabbed your hand, and nearly pulled you down with me, but I did ask. And you laughed and kissed me, and we woke up in my bed the next morning and pretended it never happened.

I didn’t want to be with you because I was drunk, even though I asked because I was drunk. I hope you understand the difference. I hope you understand what I have inside me, this dam holding back thoughts and emotions and secrets and needs and desires. Not every secret I carry is someone else’s.

When we were younger, I loved you so much that it hurt to be apart. I wanted to crawl inside you and stay there forever, because you were my home. Not the apartment, not Manhattan, but you.

And then...well, I wouldn’t say that our friendship has ever been traditional but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Except for more.

I never stopped loving you. I’ve loved others and it would be a lie to say that those relationships weren’t real because they were; everything I said at that botched...I don’t even know what to call that failure our friends tried...was true. I’ve dated other people and I’ve loved them; I’m glad that you’re my friend; I would be happy if you met someone so long as you found true happiness with him. But I’ve never stopped loving you, and I've loved you differently from how I've loved others.

I don’t know how you feel because I try to give you as much privacy as possible, even though we’re in sync when we’re together and I can’t always help overhearing. I don’t probe, and so I don’t know how you feel beneath the affectations and the dance we’ve done these past decades and whatever I might project back onto you, which I try not to do and which I try to sort through. I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I don’t need to be comforted. I know what you told me years ago; it’s burned in my memory. I’ve done what I can to respect that, to not suffocate you. I know it hasn’t been perfect but I’ve done my best.

That’s all I’ve ever been able to do, even when it’s not enough.

Yours,
Sean

[Joshua Bernstein]

Too much.

There was too much contained in that one letter. The emotions that he could only barely keep suppressed at the best of times threatened to overwhelm him, to drown him in sorrow and regret. He didn't want the house, because that would mean that the beginning of this letter was correct.

It wasn't. A coma wasn't dead. Sean would become conscious again.


He had to.

The attorney read and re-read the letter several times, swallowing a weight that settled in the pit of his stomach. He'd lost every opportunity to repair his relationship with Sean; the women who had put him in the hospital were still at large.

Well what else could they be? He'd never reported his assault to the police, and he'd never heard of any arrests. He'd also not heard of any more assaults. But somehow, they were involved in Sean's hospitalization, too.

He felt sick. He should have reported them, should have told the authorities as soon as he was stable enough. Then perhaps whatever attack had happened (how dreadful! Who would attack a school?) would never have taken place. Or would have had two (one?) less attacker.

This was all his fault.

All of it.

He folded up the letter and tucked it into his pocket, shuffling out of the vault despondently. He still had to visit the hospital, which he was sure was more imperative than ever now that he'd read this letter. He needed to see Sean, to reassure himself that the other man was still there, only unconscious and unresponsive. But not dead.

The hospital staff were very familiar with him by now, and so after he'd signed in they didn't even bother telling him what room Sean was in. Because he knew; he headed straight there, pushing open the door tentatively.

"Sean?"

He always greeted the unconscious man this way, as if somehow today he would receive an answer.