Dear Bruce,
If you’re reading this, you’ve opened your safe and found this envelope. Please don’t be alarmed... I haven’t taken anything. I’ve left you (a kind of gift or offering) my mother’s gold cross. I’ve been imbuing it (my friend Regina calls it that) with my thoughts and feelings.
Ever since the day I moved in, I’ve known you were different. Remember? I was lugging my mattress down the stairwell, half tripping and fighting back tears. No one else lifted a finger, but you grabbed it without a second thought. I never got to say thank you.
Later that night, while I was brushing my teeth, I heard you through your medicine cabinet (the one right behind mine). At first I thought it was just the thin walls... but then the sound moved. It was like a radio tuning, and suddenly I heard your voice in my head. I stared into the mirror, knowing you were behind it, and my face started to go soft at the edges and your face came up through it, like a picture underwater. Then it was me again. Then you. Back and forth, like one of those movie shots where the camera spins around two people (only I was both of them). I had to hold onto the sink... I really thought I was losing my mind!
I wonder what you felt, that moment when I was staring into your face in the mirror... without your glasses, your face had this pale kind of vulnerability... a rawness. When my own face finally steadied, I saw that our eyes are actually the same color.
In my mind you were saying nice things to yourself (“Damn fine specimen,” you said, smoothing your eyebrows with your thumbs) and it made me laugh... but then your mind clouded, and you started listing. That’s how I know the code to your door and safe. You say the numbers to yourself when you’re uneasy, and I hear them clear as day.
I had to try the code, Bruce... I needed proof! Not just for you, but for me. Something real I could hold in my hand and say, See? It’s true... I didn’t imagine this.
I believe (I really do) that if you take the cross in your hand and clear your mind, you’ll be able to hear me the way I hear you... and then maybe, slowly, we can begin a new kind of...
Don’t worry, Bruce, you probably won’t ever get this letter. I’d never have the nerve to break into your apartment!
Today’s assignment in Regina’s workbook was “Write to You.” I knew Regina meant for me to write to myself, but I cheated and turned the “you” into you, Bruce. Serves her right for calling me a “church mouse.” Just last night on the phone she said, “Take some risks, Tammy—stop being such a good girl all the time!”
The workbook is about honing my psychic abilities. Regina says it’s my chrysalis time, and I think she’s right.
I’m changing, but it would take a whole other Tammy to take that next step. Still, I have to admit I get tired of the one-way Bruce Radio Station... sometimes I want it to be two-way, you know?
These last couple of days your thoughts have been louder than ever, and when I try to watch Gilmore Girls, even my headphones can’t drown you out.
You want to know how you sound? It’s like this:
Sort by error. Off-center strike, lamination flaw. 1971 nickel—soft in the strike. 1984 dime—die crack. Reorder by mint, not year. No, by error. No, by coin. No, by year. 71/76/84/73...
You’ll never make anything shine, Bruce. You’re a half-measure, son. Talking too much. Taking up too much room. Rim thin, field cloudy, edge bleed-through, clad not pure, idiot, can’t do anything right, hands too big...
Handsome devil, Bruce. That jawline! Smile smaller, less teeth. Don’t mess it up again... 71/76/84/73...
As we pace in our matching apartments, me mirroring your steps, I wonder if you can somehow feel it... feel me there with you. And last night, when you were lying on the floor, drinking vodka and crying, singing along with I’m on Fire on repeat... I lay down the same way with a glass of water, sipping when you did. Did that help at all, Bruce?
When Regina gave me the Skin-Thin workbook (that’s what I call it, because of what you said that first day in the hallway—remember? “Hope you like Springsteen, neighbor! These walls are skin-thin!”)
The workbook was probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. I mean, how many people have someone write a whole book for them!
Regina gave it to me right here in the middle of my living room (just like yours, only opposite). When I took it, she didn’t let go at first. She looked right into my eyes and said, “Tammy, this is powerful stuff. You’ve got to know what it’s for.”
Her suitcases were by the door. I smiled, pretending to be happy she was off to her healing retreat in California. I already miss the smell of incense in her hair when she tosses it around (which she does a lot, Bruce).
But don’t worry, Regina still calls once a week, and I go under the blankets so you won’t hear me through the walls!
I’ve filled out the data sheets every day for three months now, and I can tell my skills are improving, even if some of the exercises Regina gives me are a little… weird.
I still struggle with the free-writing parts. She says they’re a kind of “psychic enema.” Ew. I think of it more like opening a dam, letting the water run clear.
Anyway, I can hear you talking to your sister now, so I’d better go be with you. Those calls always tie you in knots, and you’ve got a big date tonight. I hope this one goes better than the others.
I have to write it all down… something big happened tonight, sorry if it’s a little jumbled!
After you got off the phone with your sister and started getting ready, I tried to follow some of Regina’s new advice. Since we’ve been experimenting with the ways I best conduit, we’ve discovered I’m all about water and electricity.
So tonight I set up an experiment: three candles, two bowls of water, a circle of salt, and one toe on the electrical socket. (Don’t worry, just on the socket, not in it!)
And the wildest thing happened, Bruce… usually I can only hear you in your apartment, but this time I went right out the door with you. I could see what you saw!
I lay back on my carpet, closed my eyes… and saw your loafers on the pavement, then the florist awning, clear as day.
You went straight for the small bouquet at first, just as I was willing you to do ( I was practically shouting that one, Bruce!) — but then you stopped, looked around, and picked the biggest bouquet in the place. White lilies and roses and baby’s breath, all wrapped in shiny cellophane that squeaked.
If someone ever brought me flowers like that, I think I’d faint from happiness.
You got to the restaurant first. You stood by the door, shifting aside whenever someone came in, running numbers in your head, and then your sister’s advice started looping: Wow her. But be vulnerable. But manly. Show you’ve got means, but let her pay half, let her be an equal. No gallantry. Be curious. Listen (actively!) but don’t interrupt.
When your date saw the restaurant she turned pink, looking down at her jeans and simple sweater. Everyone else was dressed to the nines... even you, Bruce.
You made that (better late than pregnant) joke when she came in, and she looked so confused as it hung there in the air. But she looked tired and kind. While you were talking with the waitress about where to put the giant bouquet, your date popped out a compact, smoothed the frizz of her French braid, then added a coat of pink lipstick.
It was a beautiful bouquet, Bruce, but so big you could hardly see each other across it, and when it sat on the floor it blocked the way. I was glad when you finally let the waitress move it into the hall by the bathrooms.
But you kept watching... every person who passed. It’ll be there later! Let it go! I was practically shouting!
You ordered champagne (to wow her) and your date tried to say something about not drinking, but you were already asking about her job, her family. You asked so many questions without letting her answer, and I noticed her hands clutching the edge of the table.
You told your thumb-sucking story (vulnerability). How, when you were twelve, they put a brace on the roof of your mouth to make you stop. “I was already so much bigger than all the other kids,” you said, “and the brace made me drool, which just made the teasing worse.” She gave you that tender, eyebrow-drawn head tilt, but then her eyes flicked away to the other tables... you were talking pretty loud.
She was kind though. That’s what got me, Bruce. The way she kept smiling, nodding, trying so hard to meet you halfway. He’s really trying, I wanted to tell her.
When the check came, you split the bill down to the cent (even the champagne she never touched).
Outside, under the streetlight, you said, “So, when are we going to do this again?” and you had your thumbs ready on your calendar app.
She put her hand on your shoulder, very gently, and it almost made me cry—“You’re a good man, Bruce. You really are. But I don’t think we’ll be doing this again.”
You handed her the flowers and she said, “They’re beautiful, but too big.” And you just stood there watching her walk away.
You walked home with the bouquet, those giant white lilies bobbing, the cellophane scritching in the silent street.
The signal hit me like a wave when you came in through the door. All the way across the wall I could feel you. For one second I felt the full storm of your emotions. Boy, was it a lot!
The flowers slammed down on the counter. You paced. You muttered about gallantry, about keeping your mouth shut.
You went straight to your safe and counted your coins. Then you counted them again.
I could hear your mind like static: off-metal planchet, strike-through, not mint state.
I tried to pace with you, but you were moving too fast. Something banged, fell over, and you were muttering to yourself. It was so jumbled, even in your mind, I could only make out the words too big over and over.
Then you started to sound really mad, ripping at the cellophane on the flowers, slamming things around. I’d never heard you like that before.
Then I heard your door open, a clump out in the hallway, and the slam as it closed again.
Quietly, as quiet as a mouse, I opened my door. Now I would really know... were they the flowers I imagined?
I stepped out into the hall and there they were… that beautiful bouquet, exactly as I’d seen them in my mind. I picked them up, cradled them in my arms, and felt their weight... that’s when I realized the lilies were an actual plant. Something alive!
I carried them back into my apartment. Clipped the pollen sacs from the open blossoms, soaked the roots in water, put the roses and baby’s breath in a vase, and set both gently on the shelf by the window. I scooted the crystals and candles away and placed my Skin-Thin book just barely touching the planter. I stood back and looked, and something clicked.
I put my hands on my gold cross, closed my eyes, and said as loud as I could inside my head:
Not too big, Bruce. Not too big at all.
Just enough.
You just haven’t found the right table yet.
such a cool concept and masterfully done. the weirdness of penning a letter and invading Bruce's room instead of talking to him is really something lol. love Tammy's sincerity here as well
This is so cool. I freakin' love the idea of this neighbor investigating their psychic powers and the skin-thin wall. I hope my neighbor isn't inhabiting my body like this