Page 26 of The Strawberry Field
“She’s a gem,” he replies.“Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“She obviously adores you.”
“It’s mutual.”
He heads for the door, then pauses.“Okay then.”
He turns, hand on the knob. Then, just as quickly, he changes his mind.
“I’ll send you that link,” he says.
“Thanks.”
He opens the truck door. Hattie jumps inside. Jake slides in beside her, starts the engine, and waves as he pulls down the driveway.
I watch him go with intense regret, wishing I could have given him another answer. But there is no other answer. I can’t fight anymore. There’s no will for that left inside me. Everything I had once lived for is gone: my family, my career. I am a shell of who I used to be. It’s no one’s fault. I’m rational enough to understand this. It’s the way it is. The path my life has taken. The circumstances that conspired to take away the people I loved. And more recently, my inward collapse, stealing my ability to follow through on a career I loved as well.
I walk inside, my feet heavy as lead. The boulder settles again on my chest.
I head into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, not because I want it, but because I need to do something. Anything.
I sit at the table, open the Notes app on my laptop, and start searching for a local painter.
One number. Then another.
I’m not getting up until I finish this list.
Because it’s the only thing I have right now that still feels like I’m in control of it.
*
THE EMAIL ARRIVES just as I’m finishing up my list.
It’s from Kate, Michael’s sister. We met only once, at a dinner that felt too polished, too quiet. She was kind. Gentle. And mostly silent.
I start reading with a pit in my stomach.
Hi Sawyer,
I hope this isn’t too much, or too soon. I was going through some of Michael’s things this morning—just trying to sort through a few boxes. I found a letter with your name on it. It was never mailed. I don’t know why. But I felt like you should know it exists. No pressure at all, but if you’d like, I can text you a photo of it. Or just send it in the mail. Let me know.
Warmly,
Kate
I stare at the screen for a long time, heart suddenly too loud in my ears.
A letter.
From Michael.
Written, sealed, and never sent.
I reply: Please text me a photo of it.
I close my laptop and go in the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, a dull knot of anxiety in my chest. My phone dings from the nightstand in the bedroom. I drop the towel in my hand and walk over to pick it up. The notification says it’s from Kate. I tap the screen and open the text, then click on the photo.
I immediately recognize Michael’s precise handwriting. Seeing my name in his ink makes something in my chest crack.
