Dear Nobody by Gillian McCain Page A

pretty? She's a little angle just like you and me. No, I meant angel not angle —I always confuse it! I like her hair.
    Oh, I dyed my hair again. It's black. I'll send you more pictures soon so you can see it.
    Well, I'm going to stop writing now and go make a sandwich.
    Love forever, XOXO,
    Mary Rose

    P.S. Oh, don't pay any attention to the back of this envelope. The hospital tutor is trying to teach me how to do multiplication tables. I made it all the way to the eights! Always reckoned I was a smart bitch!

Dear Nobody,
    My real dad came to visit me in the hospital. He’s in Reading, but he doesn’t want me to tell anyone that he’s here, because then he’ll have to pay more child support.
    Once when I was eleven, he tried to get to know me long enough until he convinced my mom to drop charges on child support for me. He gave me some song and dance about getting a new job close to our house and how it would allow him to be more of a “dad” and buy us presents and stuff. After my mom dropped the charges—I didn’t see him for two years. Then, the next time I saw him, we had a sort of a “falling out.”
    And here I am fifteen years old—keeping a secret so he doesn’t have to pay support. I’m so stupid. And he asked me if I wanted to move in with him when I got out—so HE can get child support from my mom! That’s just bullshit. But I still put up with it—I don’t really know what to do.
    I just don’t need him in my life right now—although I’m so desperate for company, I should count my blessings that I, at least, got a visitor.
    Dad is scared I’ll get drunk, and tell my mom that he’s here.
    I should just fucking tell her anyway.

Dear Nobody,
    I’ve been home from the hospital for a week, and I just finished reading letters from people I used to know and love, and looking over some old pictures. Then, to make things even worse, I found a tape of myself talking to three or four old friends of mine from Reading.
    I sounded so different then, like another person, with another soul. I was talking, I was laughing, I was HAPPY. It was weird—to hear all of those old voices, to see photos of all those old familiar faces. Back then I seemed so carefree, and I was. I had so many good stories, a new one for every day of the week. Life was so great then, compared to now. It seemed like I actually HAD FUN . Now it seems like I just have a GOOD time, not exactly a FUN time.
    I really, really, really miss FUN.
    When will I start having FUN again?

Dear Nobody,
    My friend from the hospital died today. Her name was Jennifer—and like me, she had Cystic Fibrosis, too. Jennifer looked just as healthy as me. Our chronic cough was even the same (when I was coughing up blood). We looked the same—we both looked exceptionally healthy. Who’s next? Which one of us?
    Jennifer is not my first friend who has died. Tiffany was eleven when she died. Jennifer was thirteen. Heidi died before I even got to know her. Sarah is practically dead, but not yet. What about the rest of us? When do we die? We’re getting old for our age. Sarah is seventeen at the end of October. She’s in her old age. Timmy is seventeen. He’s in his old age. Jess and Tiffany never got theirs. My old age. What is it?
    Maybe Jennifer died instead of me?
    After someone is dead and gone—especially someone so young, and beautiful—what I am supposed to feel—is not exactly what I do feel. When I had first heard Jennifer had died, I was in shock. I admired her beauty, her humor, and her intelligence. She had only been thirteen. I felt so many different ways all at once. I didn’t know if I felt guilty to be alive, or happy that it wasn’t me. I can picture her sitting right across from me—eight feet apart—which was the rule at the hospital—so that we didn’t make each other sicker. We would smile at each other in