This Is Not How It Ends

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “Slow night,” he said, but I guessed it had something to do with the date. “Come inside.” I followed him, this time through floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to the living room. A dusty gloom settled around us, and I had to let him know how sorry I was.

  “What are you sorry for?” He was barefoot, heading toward the bar. He must’ve changed before he found us downstairs, because he was in jeans and a white polo. Pouring himself a drink, he finished the golden liquid in one gulp.

  “I’m sorry she’s not here.”

  He pulled back on the second drink and caught my eyes in his. Their depth made it impossible to turn away. “Do you want to stay? I can show you how to make the best coq au vin you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to head out. Sunny’s probably hungry, and I think it’s best if you two are alone.”

  He attempted a smile. It wasn’t a convincing one, but enough to make me think he’d forgiven me, or whatever it was that was bothering him had passed. “What I’ll serve you is far better, and safer, than anything you’ll cook up. And we’ll let Sunny have a bite, too.” It was there. A subtle glint in his eye. And I couldn’t say no.

  We entered the kitchen, and I watched him intently, how he carefully sliced the mushrooms and sprinkled the onion and garlic. He was a sensory person; he could navigate through the kitchen by touching, tasting, breathing the ingredients.

  “Jimmy’s the same way with his talent, though he gets his skill from his mother. She was an incredible artist.”

  “I bet he inherited the best of both of you.”

  Ben was a patient teacher. I had always been most comfortable with directions like “remove from plastic and place in the microwave 20–25 minutes.” He encouraged me to close my eyes and absorb the flavors. We practiced techniques, and he guided me on the proper way to chop the vegetables and brown the chicken, setting aside a separate helping for Sunny. How I wished I had taken the time to share this experience with my mother. “I’m nervous,” I told him, hesitating to pour too much Burgundy into the pan.

  “Trust your instinct.”

  Despite his efforts, I didn’t have his self-assurance, the essential gift for a gourmet. He came up from behind me and placed his hand over mine. “Relax,” he said as we together gently added the wine. It was the moment Jimmy entered the kitchen, and I quickly stepped away from Ben, letting him finish the pour.

  “Are you staying for dinner, Charlotte?” Jimmy asked.

  “Actually, I probably should go,” I said, feeling suddenly out of place.

  Ben seemed composed, standing over the coq au vin, the rich smells filling the kitchen. “You can’t ditch the best part of the cooking lesson, Charlotte. The reward.”

  Long after we finished the delicious meal, and long after Jimmy went to bed, Ben and I took our seats on the back patio. He’d finished a bottle of wine, and I’d nursed my one glass. I marveled at the change I saw in him—from the kitchen, to the table he shared with his son, to being alone with a woman. His confidence had waned, his mood faded, and he’d shut down. Food and its creation had kept him occupied. Answering Jimmy’s no less than a million questions kept him on track. But the awkward silence that followed was uncomfortably loud.

  On an ordinary night, I’d have thanked him graciously and left. Tonight was not ordinary. Outside, the moon was suspended over the water, and the glow spread for miles. Our conversation was strained and superficial. Without buffers, we scrambled for things to say. When I gushed over Jimmy’s artwork, this seemed to pull Ben from his mind. “He hasn’t touched the easel since we got here. I thought he would. I set everything up . . . the canvas, the brushes. He won’t go near it.”

  “This doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Jimmy’s still in quite a bit of pain.” And then, “Do you happen to remember when the allergies started?”

  He cocked his head. “I’m not really sure. A few years ago. Definitely after Sari died.”

  “Sometimes, not always, allergies emerge when there’s serious trauma. I became allergic after my dad left.”

  He considered what I was saying. “I didn’t think of that. Maybe you’re right. The symptoms seemed to worsen in the past year or so.”

  “I’ve read the body holds our misfortunes, that sensitivities are a combination of the physical and the emotional. It could be Liberty nonsense, but who really knows? Pain may not have a cure—only time. I wish we could do more for Jimmy.”

  “You’ve already done enough.”

  The patio was quiet, with the moon guiding us down a path. His gratitude felt nice, and I steered the conversation in a different direction. “Tell me about meeting Philip.”

  “It was New York. He used to come in all the time. Big shot equity guy and his partners.”

  I smiled at the picture.

  “He sort of took me under his wing. Said he saw ‘potential.’ God, his jokes were stupid, but he had us all laughing.

  “One of his friends owned the Morada Bay property, and Philip brokered the deal right there at the bar . . . said it’s ripe for the picking . . . a great place to settle down with the family. Philip can be a little intense at times. Demanding.”

  “You mean pushy?” I laughed.

  “I never thought I’d leave the City. And the Keys, well, let’s just say, I had no interest.”

  The day had morphed into night, and even though Ben was sitting directly in front of me, I couldn’t read his face. I knew he was fighting heartrending emotions because the pause was replete with an unspeakable ache. “Fate spoke on my behalf,” he breathed. “Here I am. Philip got his way. He always does.”

  “That’s Philip.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him we’d already met?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think I was embarrassed, like I had said too much to you. And when you didn’t say anything, I left it alone.”

  “I’ll admit I was surprised your fiancé was Philip. He always called you Charley, never Charlotte. And I didn’t want to embarrass you—better to start over. You didn’t know about Sari, and I liked it that way. You were one person who didn’t feel sorry for me . . .”

  “But I did.”

  Silence slithered between us, a prickly quiet that enveloped my heart. I cleared my throat, believing the right words would come, but they were lost. People were complicated. I was building a sensitivity to Ben. “How did you meet her?” I finally asked, proceeding with caution.

  He thrust his feet up on the chair. “You don’t want me to talk about Sari, Charlotte. People don’t like to hear things that make them uncomfortable. Death is one of them.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

  He took his time before answering. “Sari and I . . . we met in college and married right after graduation. We were that couple everybody noticed. Envied. Do you know how hard it is to satisfy those same people? Life was good. We were happy. We had the restaurant and Jimmy. And then . . .”

  His voice cracked, and my hand came down near his.

  He looked at me and continued. “I can’t tell you how we met without telling you how it ends. I can’t feel those early feelings and be back there again knowing what I know.”

  “If it’s difficult . . .”

  “Nobody asks.” His voice trailed off. “Everyone tiptoes around Ben. Poor Ben. The widower. Pathetic fucking word.”

  Through the bleakness of night, I thought I saw a tear glisten down his cheek. How I wanted to reach across the space between us and wipe it away, but I stopped myself.

  “I wish more people would ask,” he continued. “I’d tell them how beautiful she was that first day. How she wore a Wonder Woman costume to class. It was a dare, from her roommate.” He stopped to wipe his nose, and that’s when Sunny appeared, his golden tail wagging in the air. I swore that dog could sense pain. He stuck his face down in front of Ben and started to lick. Ben didn’t stop him. He sat there, letting Sunny wash away his sorrow like he once did mine.

  Ben had
no one to talk to. All the nights spent in his restaurants, busily masking his feelings, keeping those around him at bay. It was all superfluous and cordial. Delving into heavier conversation was forbidden, or worse, denied. The formality of it all kept him from disclosing how truly alone he felt. Best to keep things light like the Islamorada breezes. If we planted ourselves beneath a curtain of delusion, we would never have to face the heartache of what was right in front of us.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said, nudging Sunny away.

  “Don’t. He knows what you need.”

  Ben hesitated. Sunny took that as an opportunity to go full-on slobber mode. There was something natural about his comforting Ben. Devotion like that could mend whatever was broken.

  Each of us felt loss, whether it was through a seed planted inside or one nearby that took root and grew. Loss didn’t discriminate, it was a game of chance. Like love. And sometimes even love led to isolation. Loneliness, by definition, is a solitary experience, but I learned painfully fast how loneliness travels through skin and body and binds you to those with similar hurt.

  I leaned back into the chair and marveled at the stars, holes in the dark sky that reminded us of light and dreams. Ben broke the trickle of thoughts. “I heard you talking to Jimmy earlier,” he said. “You have to be careful. None of this makes sense to him.”

  I tried to respond, but he cut me off.

  “You don’t really know what he’s going through.”

  “I lost my mother, Ben. And I lost my father, too. I know about loss.” My voice shook as I continued. “I watched my mother slowly die, shrivel into nothingness. I bargained with God. And then, I begged him to take her. No one should have to see a loved one suffer like that. No one.”

  He was taking it in, and I felt a small victory. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “But you can’t tell Jimmy she’s with him.” His voice was flat. “You can’t tell him she’s all around him when she’s not. You don’t know if that’s true.”

  “Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t make it untrue. I feel my mom. All the time. Through clouds, through coincidences, through anything that makes sense of what doesn’t make sense.” I also felt my father, though it was an altogether different feeling.

  “It’s not fair to him, Charlotte. She’s gone.” Sunny backed away from the sound of his trembling voice. “There’s nothing that can change that.”

  “I know how hard today must be for you.”

  He looked out toward the pitch-black water, and if I could see his eyes, I’d find them clouded with sorrow. “He told you.”

  “He did. He needs you.” He played with the collar on his shirt. “Ben,” I began.

  The wind picked up and took my words with it. When he looked up again, the moon hit his face, and the pain there physically hurt.

  “When I was a little girl, I had a lot of trouble going to sleep. My dad had left by then . . . It wasn’t death, but it may as well have been. All the emotions were the same, but worse, I thought, because he had a choice. Mom would tuck me in, and I’d make her stay with me until I fell asleep.” He was watching me, and I didn’t know where the words were coming from. Words I hadn’t even shared with Philip. Philip, who was fun and light and magic. Philip, who had always managed to keep me from these sorts of feelings.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Which was all I needed to uncover the pain, to reveal my younger, vulnerable self. “I had this theory that sleep was the closest we came to death. If I drifted off to sleep, what if I didn’t wake up?” My fingernails jutted into my palms as I went on, remembering the fear. “I later learned it wasn’t death, but the fear of separation, from my mother, from the wakefulness of life. A different form of loss and suffering. It’s no surprise Jimmy has trouble at bedtime. He’s saying good night, but it’s also, goodbye, for now.”

  Ben remained quiet, my words latching on inside and squeezing.

  I leaned in closer. “I understand, Ben.”

  The night was turning stale and humid. A line of sweat slipped down my back. When he began to speak, it sounded as though the sea quieted and the trees stood still.

  “Three days after her birthday, we were walking home from the restaurant. It was this perfect day in the City. We’d spent the afternoon in the park with Jimmy. He was seven and just . . . he laughed so hard that day. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh since. Not like that.

  “We tucked him in and the babysitter arrived. Sari and I went to the restaurant. We were going to have a quick drink. Just the two of us.” He was shaking his head back and forth. “God, she looked beautiful that night. So beautiful. She washed her hair and left it to dry in the warm summer air . . . the smell . . .”

  He swallowed more wine, and the pain painted his cheeks. “We were walking home. It was summer . . . New York clears out on the weekends. We didn’t have a care in the world. The restaurant was at the top of its game. We were up for a James Beard Award. We were ready to have another baby . . . She stepped off the street corner . . . It happened so fast—”

  My hand came over my mouth.

  The tears rolled from his eyes, and he didn’t make a sound, grief sliding down his face. “Jimmy woke up and she was gone. He closed his eyes unaware that when they opened again, his life would never be the same.” Mute sorrow crossed his face, quickly turning to anguish. “There’s no explanation. No reason why Jimmy would have to lose his mother. She’s the person who was supposed to love him all his life. How is he supposed to live without her?”

  I didn’t even attempt to explain it away. “I wish I had an answer . . .”

  “I shouldn’t be burdening you with this,” he said, wiping his face.

  “It’s okay,” I said, extending my hand so he would know I cared. “I’ve spent so many years avoiding my pain . . . it’s good to talk about it. We need to talk about it. It’s the only way to move through it.”

  “It hurts,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  He dropped his hand behind his head, and I was ashamed at how I wanted to hug him, this man I barely knew.

  “You’re lucky to have love, Charlotte. Philip’s a good man.”

  “Philip and I care about you, Ben. We’re here for you. You know that.”

  He reached for his back pocket and pulled out a ragged envelope. It was folded and stained. Our eyes met, and the wall began to vanish. “There is something you can do for me . . .”

  “Anything,” I said.

  He handed me the envelope. “It’s from him . . . the man . . . the one who did this.”

  He’d been sitting on it for weeks. The agony it must have caused to receive that letter. The range of emotions that meant many things but could never bring his wife back.

  “Ben, I’m not the person who should be doing this.”

  “Who else is there?”

  It sounded a lot like a compliment, but it wasn’t.

  I was staring deep into his eyes. “I’m not sure I can . . .” I tried to break free, but his gaze held me.

  “Please, Charlotte, do this for me.”

  I fingered the envelope, careful not to damage its contents. The paper was lined, like the kind Jimmy used for his homework. The handwriting was messy and hard to read.

  “Go on,” he said.

  I cleared my throat and read aloud.

  Mr. Ben,

  My heart is empty but for the pain I hold for you. I was driving along Amsterdam like I do every evening. The same route, the same customers. I always look out for pedestrians and other cars. Baby strollers. Joggers. Bicyclists. There’s so much action in the city it’s tough to keep up. But I’ve done it. For years I’ve managed to squeak by without incident. Until that night.

  Mr. Ben, I have a wife, and I have two daughters. I have disappointed them in the worst way you can let loved ones down. I was supposed to be their beacon, the one who could guide them through the dark. I have become the darkness. I have
shown them a life without light. I will live with that for the rest of my days.

  More than that, Mr. Ben, I will live with what I have done to you and your son. I have a picture of the three of you in my bedroom. I took it from the newspaper. Every single day I speak to your faces. I say, I’m sorry, but I say other things, too. I tell Sari (I hope you don’t mind that I call her by name), I tell her how handsome her boy is. I talk to you. I tell you my thoughts about life. About redemption. I pray every single day that you will not find someone to replace Sari, but that you will find someone to help ease the burden and pain of her loss. You can never replace her. I took her from you. I will live with that the rest of my life.

  The boy, James. Do you call him Jim or Jimmy? I watched you together one morning at the cemetery. You didn’t know I was there. I thought I heard you call him Jimmy. It suited him. He was a grown man in a boy’s body. I inflicted the pain and suffering that made him grow up too quickly. It’s because of me. As soon as you left, I dropped flowers on Sari’s grave. I have done that every Sunday since. I will do it for the rest of my life.

  I’m not asking for your forgiveness or pity. I have enough of my own.

  I was on my way home to my wife and two girls.

  I wasn’t in a rush.

  I was admiring the towering buildings with their glowing lights, how the city, despite its oppressive heat, was calm and sedate.

  In a million years, I could’ve never predicted what would happen next.

  She stepped out into the street. I looked up. The light was green. Why was she walking? I slammed on the brakes. It was too late. Do you know how I wish every single day I had better reflexes? That I saw her in time to stop? That I was just a few more inches back? Anything to have changed the cruel twist of fate.

  Mr. Ben, I see Sari every single night I lay my head to sleep. It haunts me to know that I could’ve done something to stop this tragedy. Again, I am not asking for your pity. Not at all. I am telling you, from my heart, if I could have changed anything, I would have. She was the beautiful girl with the smile. The one who took that fateful step with love in her eyes. For she was looking back at you when our paths crossed.