Page 2 of When I'm Gone
“Sure, honey.” Then, feeling a little guilty, he added, “Grab a glass of milk with it too, okay?”
“Uh, Dad? I can’t pour my own milk. It’s too heavy. I always spill.” She put the end of her shoulder-length brown hair in the corner of her mouth, a habit ever since her hair was long enough to reach. Natalie had thought it was a soothing mechanism, but it still grossed her out. Luke chose to ignore it; May could use a bit of comfort right now.
“I’ll send Will down to help you.”
“He’s not still mad at me, is he?” She pulled the wet strand of hair out of her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. Luke shuddered.Okay, maybe it is really gross.
“No, hon, he’s not. He’s sad, and sometimes sad comes out as mad.”
“Hmm. Okay.” She shrugged her shoulders and ripped the package open between her teeth before walking back into the kitchen.
“I love you,” Luke called after her.
“You too!” she shouted back over her shoulder.
After getting Clayton down and coaxing Will into helping his little sister with a snack and bedtime, Luke tossed his suit coat on the bed and yanked off his belt with a snap. He could wear the belt again, he decided, but not the suit. How can you wear a suit you wore to your wife’s funeral without remembering ... everything? He retrieved the suit bag from the closet and quickly hung the coat inside. A flash of blue in the pocket caught his eye.
The letter. He’d forgotten, or maybe he’d made himself forget. It looked like Natalie’s handwriting, and because of that, he grabbed the letter and let the suit bag fall to the floor along with its wooden hanger. He ripped the envelope open by sliding his finger under the flap. A folded sheet of spiral notebook paper slid out. Well, that confirmed it. No one but Natalie would write letters to her widower in a fifty-cent spiral notebook and rip it out without cutting off the fringe.
Luke threw the empty envelope on his bed but paused when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. His dusty-blond hair was still carefully combed in a part, tie knotted at his throat. He looked neat and tidy, ready for a job interview or big presentation at work. The only sign of how devastating this day had been was a coating of straw-colored stubble on his chin. It didn’t feel right that he could appear so put together on the outside when he was falling apart on the inside. Luke quickly untucked his dress shirt, loosened the knot on his tie, and ran a hand through his hair till the part disappeared.
There, much better,he thought, reassessing his reflection.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. With shaking hands, Luke sat on the edge of his bed, his back to the mirror, and unfolded the spiral notebook paper. At the top, written in what was undoubtedly Natalie’s handwriting, it said: “The day I’m buried.” Underneath was a block of writing, the looping letters so familiar it was like she was whispering in his ear as he read.
Dear Luke,
Or maybe I should say “Dearest Luke” or “To my loving husband, Luke,” or I could go casual and say, “Yo, Luke!” I’m not sure how a dead lady addresses her husband. If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Or you’re snooping around my stuff, found my private journal, and decided to read it. Which, if that’s the case, shame on you! But I’m guessing I’m dead, because you’re not really the nosy type.
First let me say—I love you. I love you and our children more than I could ever write in words. The idea that you are living and I am not makes me want to throw up, like when we had that horrible stomach flu right after Clayton was born. It makes me angry and jealous and a bunch of other really ugly emotions. So, before I get all mushy on what has probably already been a supermushy day, I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t want to leave you.
I feel pretty melodramatic writing you a letter to open on the day of my burial. According to Dr. Saunders I have a pretty decent chance of beating this thing, but you know me: I don’t trust doctors. No harm in starting this journal, you know, just in case. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing; maybe this will be my first step toward finally writing the novel dancing around my brain for the past ten years. They say write what you know, right? Apparently I know cancer and we arenotfriends.
First day of chemo tomorrow. I’m so nervous. No, it’s not about the hair thing even though I know I whine about it enough. I’m less worried about losing hair and more worried I’m going to lose myself, become one of those hollow chemo patients I see sitting in Saunders’s waiting room, skin and bones. Today there was a girl who threw up right there in the waiting room after her treatment. It was probably one of her first times because she still had her hair, or maybe it was an awesome wig. Note to self, ask where she got her wig.
You want to know the worst part? The nurses acted like it was no big deal, like cleaning up vomit off the waiting room floor (and walls and chairs) was normal in an oncologist’s office. Come to think of it, there’s no carpet in Saunders’s offices at all. Maybe they had to hire steam cleaners one too many times so they decided linoleum was more cost-efficient?
Anyway, enough about that. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow. Tonight I hope you give our kids an extra hug and kiss from their mother. I don’t think you should tell them about this yet. It can be quite scary to think your mom is writing you from heaven ... or wherever I am. I know when Tangerine went belly-up in the fishbowl, you told the kids, “When you die, you die.” I’ll be honest—I thought it was a bit cruel. I wonder if you think I’m gone forever now? Worm food, fertilizer, pushing up daisies, taking the big nap. Well, wherever I am, I love you. I miss you. I’ll write again tomorrow.
Love,
Natalie
Luke smoothed the creases in the page against his thigh. He didn’t know what to think. Reading the note, he heard her voice in his head, just like she was sitting next to him. He thought it would make him sad, but somehow, it didn’t. The letter made him feel warm in his midsection. It made him want to hang up the suit instead of burn it.
He folded the paper carefully along the already-formed creases, put it back in the envelope, and placed it on his pillow. It looked like it belonged there. Natalie was always doing thoughtful things like that. Once she even wrote him a love note in black ink on the banana she put in his lunch. At the time Luke had thought a love note via banana was the strangest message delivery method ever. Until today. Writing letters from beyond the grave was far stranger but also—wonderful. Could there really be another one tomorrow? The idea almost made him smile.
Maybe he’d revisit the suit issue another day. He finished changing into his holey sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, wondering if he’d get any sleep tonight. Grief seemed to chase away the comfort of sleep, and he longed for a night where he could drift off into a blissfully unaware dreamworld, where life was potentially weird but definitely less paralyzing. His doctor had prescribed him a sleep aid, but Luke was almost used to the insomnia by now.
He finished hanging his dress pants and suit coat on the oversize wooden hangers they came on and worked the garment bag over them until it zipped closed. He eyed the spot where he usually hung it, toward the front of the closet right before his short-sleeved work shirts. If he was going to keep the suit, it couldn’t stay there at the front of the closet, where he’d see it every time he got dressed or grabbed a pair of shoes. It would have to go to the back, where, after some time, he might even forget about it. He rushed boldly to the back of the walk-in closet, his back to Natalie’s side, where her dresses and blouses hung undisturbed, unaware they no longer had an owner to wear them.
Currently, the last item in his closet was a black, oversize Hawaiian shirt with bold red flowers plastered across the chest. Luke prodded the shirt forward to make room and placed his suit in the resulting gap. When the metal hook hit the rod with a clank, a white piece of fringe from the notebook paper fluttered to the carpet like snow. Luke watched it fall in awe, like it was the first snow of the season. But as soon as it hit the carpet, he snatched it up quickly as though it would melt. Holding the stray scrap of paper in his palm, Luke settled to the floor and leaned against the pliable wall of Natalie’s clothes. Her familiar scent of fabric softener and lotion engulfed him as he studied the piece of fringe.
The letter didn’t take away the hollow place inside him that burned like an essential internal organ had been removed, but it did do something else. For the first time in months, he didn’t dread the sun coming up in the morning because there might be more. Isn’t that what she said? She’d write more?
Lately Luke had given up on hope, finding it an utterly useless exercise that left him with nothing but bitterness. But tonight, as he imagined another blue envelope slipping mysteriously through the mail slot on his front door, something like hope stirred inside him again. Luke picked up the fringe between his thumb and index finger, rubbed it gently, and whispered, “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 2
