Eventually those dreams stopped, and if I’ve dreamed anything since I haven’t remembered them. Now this.
Lisa, telling me to move on.
I stumble to the bathroom, turn on the faucet—the pipes jangle and pop and bang, and rust-colored water spurts out and then runs clear. Tastes like well water, but I grew up on well water so that’s fine.
I rinse my mouth, sip some. Shuffle outside. It’s just dawn, the sun peeking up red-orange over the top of the trees—all pines. Tall, green-boughed. The lake is glass-smooth, and the air smells like dawn, like dew and fresh sunlight.
Thank god, I brought my Brita pitcher, electric kettle, Chemex, coffee beans, and grinder. I set the Brita to trickling clean water for me, because well water makes shitty coffee, I can tell you. Plug in the burr grinder and grind some beans. Heat the water, and when it’s just off the boil, I slowly pour it over the grounds. Once it’s done, I pour myself a mug—I also brought my favorite mug, a hand-thrown piece Lisa made for me. Pottery was her passion and her profession, and part of what brought us together—making things by hand. That feeling of crafting something with your hands—there’s nothing like it.
For the first time in years, I sit and sip coffee and do…not a damn thing else. No cell phone—it’s off, in the glove box of my truck. No TV, no radio, no set to build. Just sit here and drink my coffee.
Off to my right a few hundred feet is another cabin—close enough to be considered neighbors, but far enough that you have privacy. Slightly larger than mine, but something in the craftsmanship I can see even from here says it was built by that same guy, Roger. Looks dark, to me. Either no one there, or no one is up yet. There’s a dock, as well. No boat at that one, but unlike mine, there’s an Adirondack chair at the end, and a little round table. Perfect for sitting and sipping something and watching the sunset; the cabins are at the south end of the lake and face north, so you’ll get the sunrise on the right and sunset on the left.
There’s no car visible at the other cabin, so I figure it’s empty for now. Whoever owns the rest of this property is not here. It’s natural to assume his wife would own it, but seeing as he gave this part to me, and a year after his death, I don’t like to hold on to that assumption. No matter, either way. I’m here for me.
I see no other cabins on the lake, just these two.
Finally, it’s late enough in the morning that the bank ought to be open, so I head into town with the lockbox key in my pocket. The town is minuscule—a crossing of two local highways, with a gas station, a church, a bank, a post office, a bait and tackle shop, an army and navy surplus, a tiny supermarket, a general store, a couple cafes, a couple bars, and one sit-down restaurant a quarter mile outside town on a different little lake. I don’t even know the name of the town, as the address of the cabin is not the same as the nearby town. Doesn’t matter.
I head into the bank. The teller is an elderly woman with bouffant white hair, half-moon glasses, and a necklace made from chunky beads of red plastic.
She smiles maternally at me. “Hello, dear. I don’t recognize you, which means you must be new here.” She extends her hand, and I shake her hand gently; her fingers are tiny and cold and wrinkled. “I’m Mrs. Forniss.”
“Nathan Fischer,” I say, offering her a smile. “I am new. Just got in last night. One of those two cabins down on the lake, about fifteen minutes from here.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh my. I heard someone bought the old Rupinksy property. Glad of it, as we all are. The Rupinsky family partly founded this town, but when Michael passed away back in, oh, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven? The property went into the care of an estate run by some cousin out in California, I guess, and those beautiful cabins were left empty for years. There was talk about the man who bought it. He’s a writer, I heard. Is that you?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m a carpenter.”
“Oh, I see.” She’s clearly waiting for me to elaborate, but when I don’t, she clears her throat. “Well. What can I do for you, Nathan? Open an account?”
I set the key on the counter between us. “I’ve been told there’s a lockbox here in my name.”
She pushes away from the counter, stands up. “I’ll go look.”
She’s gone about five minutes or so, and returns with a lockbox. “Can I see your ID, please?” I show it to her, and she sets the box on the counter. “Would you like a private room?”
I shake my head. Unlock the lockbox. Within is a single paperback book.
The title is Redemption’s Song, by Adrian Bell.
Huh. That’s not a title I’ve ever seen. I pull out my phone and search; no book by that name by Adrian Bell exists.
I lift the book out—there’s nothing else. Just the book. Oh, wait…there’s another note on that legal pad paper, tucked into the first page.
I close the box, slide it toward the teller, smiling. “Thanks.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Fischer?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”
I tuck the book under my arm and head out to my truck.
Drive back to the cabin—back home.
Sit on the front porch with the book in hand.
Finally, I take out the note.
Nathan,
This is the last one. The last note you’ll get from me. No point dragging this out anymore.
This book is my final story. No one has ever read it. It will never be published. It will make zero dollars.
I wrote it for you.
And for Nadia.
It’s a story about moving on. About finding love after loss. It’s me asking the question, how do you move on when your heart’s true love has died? And then attempting to answer that question.
I’m no Great American Novelist—I just tell romance stories. But I think this is my best work. My opus.
Read it. Please read it, Nathan. Read it, and hear the song in it. Hear what I’m trying to say to you. To Nadia.
Don’t show it to her. Not yet. She’s not ready.
You’re here for her, Nathan. I’m sorry if this feels presumptuous of me. But it’s the only thing I can do.
These are my last words, the final words I shall ever write. This is where I write THE END on my life. I have a few more weeks yet, perhaps months, but I shall spend them with her.
I wish I had time to tell you about her, Nathan. How she has a dry, wry sense of humor. How she’s silly when she’s drunk. How she sleeps splayed out like a starfish. So many things. But there isn’t time. And, that’s what the story is for. What the cabins are for.
Redemption’s Song is for you, Nathan. Read it, and hear my final song.
The End,
Adrian
I open the book. No copyright page, no contents, no dedication. Just…chapter one, page one. He had this printed himself, just one copy.
I shut the book and hold it, stare at the cover.
I wonder what Adrian’s game was. A cabin in the woods, a book, and a few somewhat cryptic notes.
We were friends, yes. Even good friends.
But what any of it means, I don’t know.
I suppose I’ll find out.
Letters From the Dead, Part Two
“Nadia, can I see you in my office, please?” Dr. Wilson breezes past me as he speaks, white coat flapping behind him, green scrubs flashing under it, stethoscope and pens and pager and ID badge arranged on his person like armor.
“Uh, yes, sir. Right now?”
“Yeah.” His office is around the corner, and I follow him there. We enter, he takes his chair and I perch on the edge of one of the hard plastic ones stolen from the waiting room. “Would you like some coffee?” He gestures to a Keurig on a filing cabinet.
“No, thank you.”
“Sure? You look tired.”
I laugh. “I’m off soon. If I have coffee now, I won’t sleep.”
He snorts. “After enough years of pulling crazy hours, you get to the point where coffee stops affecting you that way.”
I
nod. “I know.” I pause. “So, what’s up, Doc?”
He rolls his eyes. “Didn’t take you for a Bugs Bunny fan.” He leans back in his chair, eyes on mine. “I’m worried about you, to be blunt.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t ‘sir’ me, Nadia. I’ve been your boss for how many years now? And, I hope, something like a friend. You’ve worked seven days a week for a year now. I’ve let it go, because your work speaks for itself. I can’t stop you from working too much. Hell, I work too much myself. But…I am growing concerned.”
“Did Tess put you up to this?”
“No, she didn’t. I am putting myself up to this.” He hesitates. “I can’t presume to know what you’ve gone through—”
“Then don’t,” I interrupt. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He sighs, leans forward. “You know, before I went into medicine, I almost became a psychiatrist. I’m also an astute judge of people. You have to be, running a department like this. I know you need a distraction. I know you need to keep busy. I know. I get it as well as anyone who hasn’t been through what you’ve been through can understand.”
I clench my jaw. I have to bite back words—all of them bitter, four-lettered. I’m short-tempered, bitter. I know it’s from working too much. But it’s not just that. It’s me, now.
“What are you saying, Alan?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, honestly. You need more than a day off. I could cut your hours, I could do a lot of things. I am your boss. But…I suppose I wanted to express my concern. You’re pushing yourself to exhaustion, Nadia. Beyond it.” He wipes his face. “You nearly overdosed a patient, Nadia. Lydia caught it. A couple milligrams too much, nothing fatal, but still.”
I feel the blood run out of my face. “I…what? Who?”
“Deckard, 217.”
I think back. I’d been in a hurry, rushing to get the medication dosed so I could get to 214—and then an alarm had gone off, someone had coded. I must have…
Shit.
And suddenly, I’m not angry.
I’m scared.
“Don’t come in tomorrow. Not this department, not any department.”
“Am I…are you firing me?”
“No. I’m not doing anything official. It was caught before the dose left the nursing station. It’s not going on your record, which is up until now, perfect. And it’s going to stay that way. You’re going home, now. And you’re going to think very hard about what’s best for your patients. Because what you’re doing is…deeply unhealthy. As your friend and coworker, I’m concerned, and as your boss, I’m concerned. Just on a human level. Everyone sees it. We’re all worried.”
I nod. Put my face in my hands. “I’m sorry.” I heave a sigh. Work to contain myself. “Tell…tell Lydia I’m sorry.”
He looks like he’s going to say something else, but his jaw clicks closed. Opens again. “Go home, Nadia. Rest. Do some soul searching.”
I nod again. Rise. Feeling like a zombie, I don’t even say goodbye. I shuffle to my locker, collect my purse and sweatshirt. I barely remember the walk to my car or the drive home. I remember stoplights, the half-moon peeking behind the high rises and then hovering over strip malls and then ducking behind suburban homes.
I don’t pause at the top of the driveway anymore. I open the garage door as soon as I hit the driveway and pull right in.
I toss my keys on the island. Did I even close the doors? I don’t know. Don’t care.
I almost OD’d a patient.
I flop onto the couch.
I haven’t slept in my bed in months. There’s a blanket here. It’s easier.
He was right, I now realize. He haunts that bed. I changed the sheets but I still smelled him. All the sheets smell like him. New sheets make no difference, I tried that. He’s in the shape of the bed, the way the mattress is molded to where he slept. He’s on the walls.
He haunts that room.
“Mrs. Bell.”
…
“Mrs. Bell.”
…
I blink. Sunlight. A face.
“Huh?”
“Mrs. Bell, are you all right?” It’s…Tomas Anton? I’m confused. “Your garage door and the door to your house were wide open. I saw you on the couch and I was concerned something had happened to you.”
I try to sit up—I’m on the floor. Drool is crusted to my cheek. I’m in my scrubs, hair braided. Shoes on. Sweatshirt on. Stethoscope around my neck. “I…I worked late.”
He backs away as I get upright, scoot up onto the couch. “I feared the worst when I saw you lying there, I do confess, what with your doors behind left open.”
I wipe my face, trying to scrub the sleep off. “I must’ve not closed them all the way last night. It was a long shift, I was delirious.” I groan. “I need coffee before I can even begin to wonder why you’re in my house.”
Adrian used to make the coffee. He bought special beans from obscure roasters, hand-ground them in this antique thing. He was a coffee snob. I miss his coffee. I make off-brand, bottom shelf garbage, and it tastes like shoe leather and cat shit.
Once the coffeemaker has brewed enough for me to steal a cup, I pour some and bring it back to the couch. I’m sipping it, eyes closed. “I know this is where I’m supposed to offer you some, Mr. Anton, but I—”
“No, please. I require nothing.” He clears his throat. “Take your time, please.”
I take him at his word. Sip, breathe, and try to gather the strength to deal with my dead husband’s estate executor.
Finally, I meet his gaze. “I’m not sure why you’re here. His will was executed a year ago.”
“Well, a portion of it was, yes.”
“A…a portion?”
“He made rather extensive arrangements, you see.”
“Extensive arrangements.”
“I’m making rather a muddle of this, I’m afraid.” He inhales softly through his nose, lets it out. “He gave me instructions to come to you, here, on the one year anniversary of his passing.”
I don’t have to consult a phone or calendar. I know. My heart knows.
“Come here today, why?”
He opens a briefcase. Removes a pair of envelopes. Both have my name written on them in Adrian’s handwriting—in the deep black ink of that fancy fountain pen I bought him for our seventh anniversary.
One seems to contain only paper, but the other is heavier, as if it contains something metal. I feel it—a key?
“What is this, Mr. Anton?”
“His final wishes, Mrs. Bell.”
Something about the way he says that seems funny.
“You remind me of the Hollywood stereotype of an English butler.”
“Most people say Nosferatu. A vampire.”
I snort. “That too.”
“It’s the boarding school education and the elocution lessons. And the hunch.”
“His final wishes,” I say, gripping the envelopes. “You mean, the insurance and the other money weren’t his final wishes?”
“No. Those were his…affairs, you might say.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like me to stay, while you read the letter? In case you have questions?”
“I have a million questions. But…just…just summarize. What is this?”
“It is a letter from him, to you, to be delivered in person on the one year anniversary of his passing. The other envelope contains an address and a key.”
“Address and key? For what?”
“He left you property, Mrs. Bell. Anything else I could say, I think, would detract from the message.”
“Why…” I feel the tears. Fight them tooth and nail. “Why now? Why a year later? What property?”
He shakes his head. “I think the letter will say more, and say it better, than any meager words of mine, Mrs. Bell. I think you would like to be alone, now.”
“Yes, I think I would.”
“You have my card?” he asks, r
ising, briefcase in hand.
“Yes.”
“I shall see myself out, so please do not disturb yourself on my account.” His smile is somber. “Be well, Mrs. Bell.”
“Th-thank you, Mr. Anton.”
I am trembling. Quivering all over. My breath shakes in my lungs. My hands flutter like papery orange maple leaves in a stiff autumn wind. My eyes burn, sting with hot salt tears. You think you’ve wept all the tears a human could contain, wept enough for a lifetime, and yet there you go, weeping even more. Apparently, sorrow is an endless wellspring.
Easy one first. I open the second envelope. It contains, as Tomas indicated, a notecard, five-by-eight, white with blue lines—I recognize it as being from a stack he kept in a desk drawer, for scribbling ideas and research notes and plot points. There is an address in his handwriting on the card—a Georgia address, which I do not otherwise recognize. There is a key, as well. It is not new, the key. Old, tarnished brass. Taped to the notecard underneath is the address.
Hands trembling, I work with ginger delicacy to open the flap of the last envelope. Within are several pages, folded thrice into a compact, flat bundle. The pages are ripped from his legal pad, the one he used for outlining and plotting and researching his stories. He would go through several of them for each book.
Immediately, I recognize the shakiness of his handwriting. He wrote this toward the end. When he could barely sit upright on his own, when he couldn’t keep food or water down, when his hands shook like mine do now, but all the time, sometimes even in sleep. When he should have been in a hospital, on an IV pushing fluids and painkillers. Instead, he was at home, making “extensive arrangements.” Whatever the fuck that means.
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