I don't own Frozen.

August 23

Dear Jane,

I got released yesterday, after some stern words from the physical therapist and a prescription for some serious painkillers. He nearly sent me to a real therapist. Said I was depressed. And I said no, I just had a… person who was an asshole. Long story short, instead of sending me to an actual therapist he suggested I write out 'my grievances', ball them up and throw them in a cup. Because 'whatever it is won't matter in a month.' I'm thinking it will, but at this point, I'll try anything. So, grievance number one:

You're an asshole.

Fuck you,

Anna

August 25

"… and even though it's been eight years, it's still hard to go out with my friends, y'know? 'Cause they don't talk about it, not to me, so when they catch themselves offering me a drink, they just look guilty. And it's not their fault. But it gets weird again, and there's always this… thing, separating us. I know they're doing the best they can, and me, too. Doesn't make it suck any less, but, I don't know. It just hits me a little harder that I'm an addict and they're not. I guess that's all I have."

A grizzled old man sporting a trucker hat lumbered down into the teensy metal folding chair, low light of the gym at the YMCA on Staten Island's north end spooky and melancholy. Jane roosted above in the metal rafters where the lights weren't lit, clenching and unclenching a pair of gloved hands. Even if they had wanted to turn on the lights at this end of the court, the bulbs probably wouldn't flare to life. They'd putter, or explode at the flick of a switch.

Her powers had been unpredictable and ruthless since the fourteenth funeral.

She waited until the majority of attendees exited the court, one lone person breaking down the card table with the Mr. Coffee pot, storing the off-brand cookies in a plastic bag for the following night's meeting.

"Excuse me."

The young man in holey Converse turned around, scanned the nothing of the gym.

"Hello?" he asked, into the void. "Is anyone—oh!"

"Sorry," Jane mumbled, catching the cookies as they fell. "I… didn't mean to… I was… I wanted to come, to the session, but I can't, I mean…" Jane put the plastic tray of cookies on the nearest chair. "I don't do well around people."

"But… you want help?" the guy asked her. He couldn't yet be thirty, but there were deep parentheses around his mouth, stubble on his chin, and burdens in his eyes.

Jane didn't want to add to them.

"No," Jane faltered, took a step back into the darkness. "I'm sorry, this was wrong—"

"What's with the catwoman get up?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"All the black. And the hat? Like Selina Kyle, but no leather. Which, is honestly the best part."

"It's a… I don't know. It's all I have," Jane said, wringing her hands in the dark.

"We can help with that here," he said gently. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"Ha!" Jane laughed weakly. "That's not… not the problem I need solved."

"Then why don't you tell me what it is?" he asked, motioning toward an empty chair. He held his hands up, and sat in a chair furthest from her. "No obligations. Just want to hear what you've got to say."

"You'll certainly get an earful," Jane replied, taking a tense seat. "I'm sorry to keep you."

"I'm Jeremiah. Jerry," he said, shaking off her last comment. "If you want to tell me your name, that's cool. Or just a first name, or you don't have to. I'm just here to listen to you."

Jane scratched at the space between her eyebrows, felt the charges humming, belligerent and caustic underneath her gloves. The lights overhead at the far end of the court flickered.

"Believe it or not, I'd love to tell you my name," she started. "But right now… in my life… I don't know what it is."

August 27

Dear Jane,

I saw you at the last funeral. Figured you'd go to as many as you could; you always were excessively noble. You probably think you deserve to sit through that. You blended in well, with your black. But then you hugged that guy. Some strange kid, you just stole him away from the rest of the group and you hugged him…

You used to hug me like that.

You looked me right in the face, across the rows of gravestones. I saw the headlights flashing on the hearse, so you must still have problems when you look at me. Because you didn't come hug me like you hugged that kid.

But you called. You actually did it. Want to know how I know it was you? 'Cause I just got this phone three days ago, and I haven't given the number to anyone. Yeah, I don't use the one you gave me anymore. And yeah, I'm still really bitter. And probably a little drunk. So, look at that, something else we have in common, besides our DNA. You called, and I didn't answer.

Because you left me.

I play your voicemail over and over, but I had to stop using that other phone. Too many pictures, too many videos. How can I stay mad at you when I watch you sneeze from the powdered sugar on the cronuts? Or with that baseball cap on? There's this one picture of us, on the beach in the Hamptons, and you're kissing my cheek, and I'm winking at the camera, and it just looks like everything is going to be perfect forever. Your hand on my face and your hair tucked into your braid and I just… I get so caught up in what we had. I needed to put it away, to get another device, but it didn't matter, because you called the new one anyway. And I don't know whether to be happy or sad about it. That I can't get rid of you. That I never want to get rid of you.

Right now, I'm just pissed I didn't answer the phone.

Sorry I called you an asshole,

Anna

September 1

"Five days?"

"Yes."

"Better than four."

"Brilliant insight."

"There's not really insight to this process. And that's what it is, a process. Why they call them steps, you know? One by one—"

"One day at a time. Too bad it's such a hollow, demoralizing mantra. Why not, 'one day and then time jump a year'?" Jane asked, hands tucked snugly into her armpits. She sat with Jerry in a dingy office at the Y, lukewarm coffee mugs taking up space on a messy desk.

"That cuts out all the hard work."

"I'm not opposed to hard work. But I need to know if there's a way to expedite the results."

"You have to come to terms with how your drinking has affected your life. Even though you're here, and you want help, you've been vague with your background. It's anonymous, I understand that, but your sponsor gets a little more leeway, okay? It's my job to make you feel safe, the kind of safe that doesn't end with you breaking the seal on a bottle."

Jane leaned precariously on the back legs of the chair, swallowed thickly.

"Is there some type of… confidentiality clause?" she asked.

"Anonymous."

"No, I get that. But if I've committed a… felony? How does that—"

"NAs have meetings, they talk, and they're trying to stay clean. Drug possession is a felony, depending on the amount, the substance, the state, so you're not going to get in any trouble talking to me. I trafficked heroin. That was my thing. But I don't do that anymore. Now, I try to help people."

"I want to help people, too," Jane said quietly. "But I only seem to make things worse."

"Does it have something to do… with the funerals? You said you've been to a lot lately."

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

…

…

…

"No."

"Okay. You said the other day that you didn't know your name. Why don't we talk about that?"

"Not that, either."

"Then what do you want to talk about? It can be anything. Movies, sports, books, something that you can externalize besides this obvious self-resentment."

Jane curled tighter into herself.

"My… I don't know what to call her. She was a— I don't know. We worked together. Then it got complicated."

"But your drinking affects her?"

"Yes. But it's why I drink, the thing that affects her. It's… it makes it easier to be around people—"

"Drinking makes it easier to be around her?"

"No! I was sober when I met her, sober when I was with her, but recent… events, I picked it up again, to suppress my... to cope with… circumstances."

"But it's damaging your relationship with her?"

"That and about a million other things."

"But you don't want to lose her, do you?"

"No. She's the most important thing in the world to me."

"Then tell me about her. Tell me why she's worth the struggle you're going through."

"Okay, okay," Jane hummed, took a staggering inhale. "I don't think I can tell you everything, but... she... let's call her A."

September 3

Dear Jane,

Thank you for calling again. It was good to hear from you, to know you were okay. You sounded… well, not better, and that scares me a little. It scares me that I can't see you to know you're okay. It scares me that I did this to you. It makes me think about what I've done to other people, not the actual bad stuff, because it was bad, and I know that. But like… the aftershocks of the cons? Ripple effect? People I conned had families, or employees, and sure, some of them were bad. But others weren't, and their families didn't need to suffer because of me. You knew that from the beginning. Had a foresight that I didn't. And that's why you hid yourself away.

That kid at the funeral from the other day? I looked at the program. That was his mom, Jane. We… I… I killed his mom, in some twisted, roundabout way. And I know I said that I wasn't sorry but now… now I don't know what I am.

Thinking of you,

Anna

September 12

"So what is it you do to stay so svelte?" Jerry asked.

"Sorry?"

"You're like, really lean. I mean, you're young, and you've probably still got the metabolism of a teenager, but you've got to do something extra, right? Cardio? I know girls are supposed to really like the elliptical—"

"Yoga. I do yoga."

"Oh, great! I was wondering how we were going to start talking about your headspace."

"My headspace?"

"Look," Jerry started, "—this program has been around for a long time. And I don't care what you believe in, Buddha or Jesus or unicorns or whatever. But part of this is realizing that you need help, and being okay with that. Being okay with asking for help, being okay with centering yourself, clearing your head, maybe even acknowledging something bigger than yourself. Centering your body and head-clearing play a large part in yoga, so you've sorta got a head start in that regard. If I'm not available, or if you can't reconcile with A, then liquor is going to be harder and harder to resist. I'm saying it's good to have an outlet, that you can't put all your eggs in a single basket, you follow?"

"No. We went from Jesus to yoga to liquor to eggs and I'm starting to wonder how you were selected as a counselor in the first place."

Jerry offered her a crooked, snaggle-toothed grin. "That's the first joke I've ever heard you crack. And here I thought you were a robot."

"You should see my C-3PO impression."

"Star Wars?"

"For A."

"Well, I mean that you can't trade one crutch for another. A lot of people give up alcohol and go to drugs, or vice versa. Some get hooked on cigarettes, or a person, and if that person isn't there, their whole world falls apart. I think maybe you know something about that," Jerry finished knowingly.

Jane nodded, tucked her arms across her torso. "Yes, unfortunately."

"You're an addict. Your sponsor is supposed to help you, and so is your family, to an extent. But the rest is up to you. You have to be brave and face your dependency without shutting yourself away. Finding some fulfillment besides your job, besides your family. My suggestion: there's yoga classes here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, beginner to advanced. Teacher's real Zen, keeps it calm and cool. Why don't you go?"

"I told you. I can't be around people."

"Your mysterious 'condition'. Are you sure you're not just anti-social?"

"It is deadly," Jane said.

"And yet, here I am," Jerry waved absentmindedly toward his person. "From what little you've told me, you have a nontraditional job and don't keep normal hours. You probably sit and sulk which is the last thing an alcoholic needs. You came for help. And that's good. And you're trying to communicate with A, which is good, too. Why don't you sit in on one yoga session, in the back. Don't even have to talk to anyone. Just breathe, and stretch, and do whatever else you guys do in those classes."

Jane's cheeks reddened when she took the Post-It with yoga class times from Jerry. And her mind drifted to a morning with Anna, the younger girl staring at her in her skin-tight aerobics gear, blushing and stammering something about bacon.

"I'll try."

September 15

Dear Jane,

I went back to my warehouse today. I'd scoped it out for a week or so, stake-out style. Just long nights in the front seat of a shabby car, gas station coffee, oldies on the radio. I wish you could have been there. It was… pretty okay, actually. I read a book. I know, I know, not doing much staking-out if I'm reading, right? But there were no scary men in black suits, no sign of Hans or any other aggressive-looking Germans. So I went back in there, and I was surrounded by all the faces I'd grown up with, pictures I'd loved since I was a kid, people who'd seen me through some pretty dark days. I spent an hour in Spain, another in the postmodern period because I got stuck in this self-loathing ennui, and then moved along and brightened with three hours in Paris.

It was lovely being with them again, Jane. And I so wish you could see them. The stories I could tell about each and every frame. Not just the painting itself! But my story, with it. How I came to love it, how I stole it, what it took to ship it or get it into the warehouse. But there's something I think I need to work on, something that I realized, looking at those faces, and those landscapes, the still lifes…

I don't know how to be alone with myself. I'm surrounded by so many stories that I never had to decide what my own was. You told me to do that. To figure out who I was. Who I am. Maybe even who I want to be. You told me yesterday, during our phone call, that you were working on your life. That you were working on finding Hans, on ending the 'subject alpha' project of WGT for good. That you were working on the drinking, and that maybe, maybe we could see each other when things were a bit more settled.

I want to do that. You're working on you, so I should work on me. I think if I can figure out how to be alone, and be okay with it, then maybe I'll get another shot with you. One where I won't scare you off.

It was wrong of me to propose. I get that now, like you said, a ring as a link in a chain. That shouldn't have been why I asked you to marry me. There were, and are, plenty of reasons why I shouldn't have asked you, and only one reason why I should have: because I love you. But I don't think we're ready to face that again. So I'm going to try something new. I'm going to be patient. I'm not going to pursue. I'm going to wait. I'm going to let you run point on this. And I'll be around, just working on me in the mean time.

I never told you how proud I am of you for talking with that counselor guy. But I am. So proud.

Sincerely,

Anna

September 18

"Did you get a chance to go to that yoga class I suggested?"

"Something came up, and I had to travel out of town. Work-related stuff."

"You never told me what you do. Again, nothing specific. But if you have a high-stress job, you might want to consider if that's really a position that's good for you right now," Jerry said. "I'm not saying to quit, the last thing you want to be is financially insecure, but now that you're thinking clearly, you'll want to make the best kind of decisions for you. Put yourself in the right environment."

"My job… there's a bit of travel. It's in… IT. But that's not why I had to go out of town."

"You said for your job."

"More of a personal job. Something I needed to get accomplished. From… from before I asked for help. I think I… I might have done a bad thing."

Jerry leaned forward, wiped his stubbly chin with his hand. "There's a difference between being goal-oriented and being obsessive. No more harboring grudges. No need to prolong vendettas from bad times. Believe me, those can get you hurt. Did you relapse?"

"No…" Jane whispered, and stared down at her quivering hands. "He deserved it." The halogen bulbs overhead flickered infinitesimally.

Jerry eyed her, critical. "What do you mean, 'he deserved it'?"

"Just that he got his. Karma. Recompense. The past is… in the past. I don't want to brood over it."

"But you brood over other things. What's the difference between him and others you've wronged?"

"Not all of them deserved it. He did."

"Who are you to decide that?"

"I'm not… I'm… I'm the one that did it…" she choked out. "I've… I've hurt a lot of people. People who didn't deserve it, and people who did. I didn't… I meant it, but it's still hard to control…"

"Hey—"

"It's my fault. I wasn't even… I was completely sober when I did it. But they were hurting her, were hurting me, were going to hurt other people—"

Jerry passed over a box of Kleenex.

"Drinking's your coping mechanism," Jerry said softly. "Not for pain inflicted on yourself, but you don't like to think about the pain you cause other people?"

…

…

…

"Does that make me so bad?" she gasped, whisper soft. "If I want to forget, just for a little while, how horrible of a person I am?"

"It doesn't make you bad. It makes you human."

Jane sobbed quietly and didn't speak for the rest of her visit.

September 24

Dear Jane,

I know you told me not to, but I had to see for myself. To see him… or what's left of him.

I never thought I'd break into a federal prison ward.

It wasn't a smart move. I'm on his list of known contacts, and Interpol's been gunning for me for years. But as soon as he's extradited to Germany, we'll never see him again. And if we do, it'll be him behind bars. His brothers wouldn't fight their legal system, just for a comatose body. And with what he's accused of? I don't know how the international courts will work it out. He's not conscious to stand any type of trial. I don't even know if he can be extradited while unconscious, like, moved off of American soil when he faces so many federal charges. Is he some pseudo ward of the state if his family doesn't claim him?

They told me he could wake up. They told me he might not. They told me he'd never be able to use his left arm again, because his nerves are shot. Maybe his whole left side. And there's this ugly scar where his sideburn used to be.

I don't feel bad for him. In fact, I'm still a little scared. If there's anyone out there from my past that could beat a coma and make my life hell again, it's Hans. But thank you. I know you might not have felt great doing it, but if you did, or if you made something happen to put him in that state, well… I understand. And I forgive you. And I thank you. I don't know what's right to say to you to make you feel okay about what you did, but I know that you and I are safer for his incapacitation. Other people are safer, and I can't be sorry for that. It's not the same as the building collapse.

It's NOT, Jane. We needed to put an end to it. And that's why I can't harbor much remorse for him.



I can only be grateful, for the time being, that we finally have a chance to breathe.

Stay safe,

Anna

P.S. You know it's been over a month, right? I'm trying, really hard Jane.

*Disclaimer* I have not been to, nor do I really know anything about twelve-step programs. Continue on, friends, it's a double update.

