At one point a big black cat began to curl around Max’s legs, making the infinity sign. When Max bent down to pet it, the cat raised his head to greet Max’s hand, so Max gave him a big scratch behind the ears. The cat closed his eyes in appreciation. Max did the same. And they seemed to be communicating. I wondered if Max was practicing his cat telepathy.
“Did you even fucking see that? How that cat picked me to fucking commune with?” Max yelled at us when the cat moved on. “What the fuck, hey?”
Elizabeth and I both smiled, because Max was so high.
Smiling didn’t really make sense, considering the grander picture. No money, not a “real” job between us, and no idea what we would do when we returned to Philadelphia, nor who was even paying the bills that kept arriving at Mom’s house marked paid in full—and to be frank, all three of us were a tragic mess emotionally.
But somehow just seeing a grown man enjoying the company of a feral cat on a cold winter’s morning in Ottawa, to the wild degree that Max was living and fully appreciating that very moment—well, somehow it was enough for that time and place.
Enough to feel good about.
More than enough to make us smile.
And that’s all I feel like sharing with you, Richard Gere, even though there is much more to the story—like how we got Father McNamee’s body back into the United States; and how his family wouldn’t speak to me at the funeral, even though we never told anyone the truth about him being my biological father; and how a tall man in an expensive-looking suit walked up to me, shook my hand firmly, and, while holding my shoulders and looking directly into my eyes, said, “Dicky was very proud of you,” and when I failed to respond, he added, “We grew up together, eh? Best friends all through school. And where I come from, you take care of your best friends, so don’t worry about anything—just between you and me only, eh?” and then he winked and I double-winked back my promise to tell no one, not even Max and Elizabeth; and how Father Hachette helped the three of us find a therapist who would counsel us individually and also as a group, or what she called a “family unit,” at a nominal cost we could afford; and how Elizabeth goes to Saturday-evening Mass with me now even though she still doesn’t officially believe in God; and how Wendy broke down sobbing when, wearing her large sunglasses again, she applied for financial aid at Temple University, hoping to escape Adam once and for all, and a handsome financial aid adviser named Franklin consoled her, took her to dinner, and eventually put together a fantastic financial aid and loan package for her, winning her away from abusive Adam—I know all this because Franklin and Wendy now attend Saturday-night Mass at Saint Gabriel’s, and sometimes we all double-date afterward at the local pizza place, where I inspect Wendy’s face and arms happily, because bruises no longer appear on her skin; and how I got promoted to manager at my new job, working at the fast-food restaurant Wendy’s downtown—synchronicity?—and Elizabeth was officially hired part-time by the Free Library of Philadelphia, and Max even got a raise at the “fucking movies,” so we are now finally able to pay our bills without any help from my new well-dressed and tall Canadian friend who calls me every once in a while to say, “Dicky’s looking down from heaven with a smile on his face, eh?” which always makes me feel good—like I’m finally a grown man capable of making his father proud.
As you know, there was a big gap between the first batch of letters and the last few, Richard Gere. I’m sorry my letters stopped so suddenly, but I got a little overwhelmed with all that happened in such a short period of time. It feels strange, to be honest, writing again—makes me feel a little crazy, or maybe it reminds me of how bubbling mad my mind got and maybe could become again if I’m not careful, if I don’t take care of myself.
Our new therapist, whose name is Dr. Hanson—she’s a tiny lady whose ballerina bun doubles as a pincushion for writing utensils—said it would be good for me to finish telling you my story, if only to say good-bye, to officially end the Richard Gere chapter of my life.
“Close the Richard Gere loop,” she said. “It’s very important to give your subconscious closure.”
She also told me that it was necessary to tell you—and thereby admit to my subconscious—that I wasn’t one hundred percent truthful in my letters, but embellished a bit from time to time to make things more interesting. Dr. Hanson says I did this because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough to correspond with such a famous and important person as yourself, Richard Gere. But please know that—while that previous statement is technically true—metaphorically speaking, everything I wrote you was also one hundred percent equally true.
In some ways, I was more truthful with you than I’ve ever been with anyone else in my entire life, including Mom, so I hope you can be proud of that, Richard Gere.
I’m trying to hide less behind metaphor in my real life now.
Dr. Hanson says this is important.
I agree with her.
So does Elizabeth.
Dr. Hanson really is a gifted and healing person—maybe even a little like Saint Brother André, but in the modern world of here and right now, and not overtly religious.
I’m enjoying my new life.
I really am.
I’m living without Mom, and I’m okay.
Miracle?
Did we get one?
Maybe.
Regardless, I’m grateful.
One last thing—Elizabeth and I hold hands almost every day now.
It’s true.
Are you proud of me, Richard Gere?