by AnonYMous
She held my hands and apologised again for having to tell me about Ezra’s death over the telephone and added, ‘I’m lucky in a way that I found your number, so I called you immediately before realising I was making the call from my dead husband’s phone. That call was the last time I used his phone. Actually, it was the second last time because I called you back to make sure you were okay, but when you didn’t answer, I thought it would be best to leave it until a little later. I’ve locked the phone away in a drawer until such a time that I can bear to look at it again.’
She released my hands and picked up an oblong box from the bed and handed it to me before continuing. ‘Two days ago I found this box among Ezra’s things. It’s locked and I don’t know where the key is. Your name is inscribed on it, and I think he did it himself. He must have saved some things to give you at some stage. I don’t think he knew he was going to die so soon. I also have this for you, as I thought you might like to see your son as a man.’
She pressed a photo into my hand, and moved to the bed and started to cry.
I lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head and held the photo at arm’s length to see the man who had once been my baby, Ezra.
A face stared through the camera lens and straight at me.
The dread started growing like a poison through my body and the words came stalking through a ghostly whisper, before I realised they were mine.
‘Oh my god, what have I done?’
The man in the photograph had green eyes and blond hair.
But it was the white scar above his right eyebrow that had a terrible familiarity.
Two years have passed since Ezra’s funeral and I have moved to a small fishing town in the Marlborough Sounds at the top of the South Island of New Zealand, partly to be able to visit my parents and Lori on a regular basis, but mostly because I have taken on a role as a theatre designer for the local drama club. The job pays a pittance but I invested the money from my divorce wisely and am able to live a simple life. I swim in the water every morning in summer and run the running tracks in the mountains around my home after work in the evenings.
No one asks me about my life, which is the beauty of this small sleepy town. I am thankful for their discretion.
Ben and Emma came to stay with me six months after the funeral and we spent two weeks sailing around the Sounds and sharing secrets. I finally admitted to them about Edward, and who he really was. They didn’t take the information well at first, but of course they realised that I hadn’t known from the start who Edward was either. It was a shocking revelation, but I knew I had to share the story with them, no matter how hard it was for them to hear the words, or how hard it was for me to voice my bitter truth.
I was busy working on a set design on my Mac one evening after my run when I received an email from Sophia. We had tried to keep in contact, but she had been getting on with her personal life while I had hit a full-stop on mine once again, and we had gradually lost regular contact.
She wrote that she had met someone and wanted to tell me about him. Her words were cautious but I read happiness and responded to her email with encouragement. I was pleased for her, but I wondered in my heart what Ezra would have done, if he had still been alive and they had not remained married.
The choker he had given to me as a token had sat on a windowsill in my bedroom since I first moved in. Every morning I looked at it with sadness, and shame. It signified a tomb to me and I knew I would never wear it again. I thought I should probably have the diamonds removed and styled into another piece of jewellery. As for the collar, I needed to surrender it to the water at the bottom of my garden so it could float and gradually break down in the drowned valleys beyond.
As a postscript Sophia had asked me in her email if I had been able to break into the box she had given me after the funeral service.
I didn’t answer that question, nor did I tell her that I didn’t have to break into the box because one morning, when I moved the choker to dust the windowsill, it had dropped to the floor and its key had fallen out.
That’s when it occurred to me for the first time that the key that had clasped the choker might fit the lock.
And it did.
I had resisted opening the lid for three days and took a deep breath when I saw what was inside.
You know that moment when you fall in love and you can’t fathom a basic thought because what’s happening seems too out of reach? I felt that moment when I lifted a letter out of the box.
The words were written in blue ink, on a piece of rice paper, with a picture of a butterfly as a watermark—slightly faded in the background.
And the last line read, ‘There is always something left to love.’