by Carol Mason
Sincerely,
Mark Chapman
‘What?’ I sit up properly now, tugging the white summer quilt around me.
‘You hated this place from day one. I think I knew that but I conveniently thought you’d change your mind, and that was wrong and selfish of me. I’m sorry for that. I should have listened to you. The more I’ve thought about it you were right in what you said – if we’d never moved here none of this would have happened.’
I try to process this, in my state of surprise. My brows pull together like a reflex that occurs every time I think of Jessica. ‘Moving back to our old house won’t bring her back.’
He hesitates for a second before replying. ‘I know that.’ He stares distantly across the room with a certain dismay alighting on his back. Perhaps illusions can happen to the least susceptible; for a moment he’s fancied that it might.
There is a silence that becomes so filled with her absence – negating that small spell of promise and peace that came before – but I push it away. I think of Ned’s mantra: Choose to walk forward. I want to walk forwards. ‘You love it here,’ I tell him. ‘You adored this house the minute you set eyes on it.’
‘But you mean more to me than a house.’
‘I know. But we don’t have to sell it to prove that.’ I reach a hand to his sad face, drawing it so his eyes meet mine.
For the first time, I am the one who sees things quite clearly. Mark wants to move back because our old house is so full of memories of Jessica everywhere we look. Mark, in his kindly deluded way, thinks that this would be what I need. I think it would be terrible for us. How would we ever see anything else?
‘But if they respond and say they’re interested maybe we should at least give it some serious consideration,’ he says, scooching around so he can better see me. ‘More than this, anyway.’
‘I’ve already given it serious consideration,’ I say, and hand him back his phone. ‘Besides, they’ve probably done so much to the place we’d barely recognise it now. It was crying out for a good reno.’
‘They haven’t.’
I frown. ‘How do you know?’
‘I drove over there and peeped in all the windows when nobody was home.’ He throws himself back against the headboard.
‘You didn’t?’ I don’t know why but this makes me smile.
‘No one saw. And even if they did, who gives a shit?’
I shake my head, turning over the picture of Mark pressed up against walls and poking his head around window frames. ‘Good God,’ I say. I take the idea on board again, to make sure I’m convinced of my opinion. ‘Well, my guess is, if they haven’t responded in three days, they’re thinking about it or they’d have said no immediately. I have a feeling they’re going to write and say they want to talk . . .’ I sit up taller now, to make my point. ‘But if they do, I definitely want you to tell them your wife has changed her mind.’
He appears helpless for a moment – like he can’t do right for doing wrong. I reach up and kiss him on his cheek, hoping to purge that thought. ‘I’m saying we should stay here, for now. Then let’s think this travel plan through a bit more, see if it has legs. If we did go off for a year, and then we ended up feeling like we did want to come back to Seattle, then maybe that would be the time to think about selling this place. Maybe it would be good to downsize and buy a gorgeous water-view condo right in the heart of downtown . . .’ Then I will never have to drive down that road again. I will no longer see Jess in every room that I look in. It will be as fresh a start as could ever be possible for us.
‘I never thought of that, but it’s actually not a bad idea . . . A nice condo near everything, so we can go out for an evening, get drunk and just walk home . . .’ We have often said that living in the burbs has made us less spontaneous, imposed practical limits on what we do, quelling some of our spirit. He looks at me with a sudden earnest, imperative energy about him. ‘I just wanted to give you something you really want. To make you happy. Just one thing that’ll be good for you, that’s all . . . You’re not upset I went behind your back with the email, are you?’
‘No.’ I shrug. ‘Not at all. It was very initiative-taking . . . But the thing is, you’re wrong about something.’ His hand is resting on his ribcage. I gaze at it, at the wedding band that I’m sure he never once thought to take off. I reach out my own, slide my fingers so they lock with his.
My husband’s hand.
‘You don’t have to give me anything. I have what’s good for me already. And I’ve always had it.’ I look up and meet his eyes, hoping I can transmit, through mine, how much I dearly mean this.
‘I have you,’ I say.
EPILOGUE
I haven’t been on Facebook in a while but when I do log on, the night before we leave for our month-long trip to Australia, I see I have two new messages.
The first is from Beth.
Dear Olivia,
It might surprise you that an old fossil like me is now on Facebook. (I am just getting the hang of this but please see you have a friend request from me which I am hoping you will accept.) The reason I am on here is that Thomas suggested it would be a good idea.
Thanks to you I did send that letter, though not the one to my sister. A week later, he replied.
Thomas lives in Scottsdale. He is a firefighter and has two sons – Donald, who is seven, and Christopher, eleven. His wife, Patti, is originally from Santa Barbara and they regularly go there to visit her family. Thomas said that when they are next there, likely over Thanksgiving, he would like it very much if they could make a side trip up to PT so that we could meet. He said my letter had given him a lot to think about and that he had wondered about me for years. So I have agreed. And because he encouraged me to get on to social media I have seen all kinds of photos of my son and his family in their day-to-day lives, and the faces of my grandchildren. It’s quite an amazing thing . . . I attach a small picture of him here – his profile picture – for you to see. While I never would have especially wanted another person to look anything like me, I am quite pleased to see that he doesn’t resemble what little memory I have of his father.
I hope you are settled back in your home with your husband. I am most grateful for the letter you sent me a couple of weeks ago, explaining everything. I realised that day you reamed me out (deservedly so) that something awful had happened to you. Being so mindful of my own privacy, I thought it best to respect yours and not ask until you gave me an ‘in’, which you never really did. I was so thrilled to hear how the Correspondents’ Club helped you! And of course it now makes a degree of sense to me why you were so keen that I find my child – because you had lost yours. There is so much I would like to say to you on this subject, but I feel it would be more appropriate face to face, perhaps over one of our wine nights, if that can stand being repeated. I hope it won’t be too long before you will pay PT a visit. My spare room is always there for you. At the very least I would like to pour you a coffee and offer you one of my muffins. I am determined that one day you will eventually eat one.
Beth
Attached is a small headshot of Thomas in his fireman’s uniform. She’s right. The same small features and kind green eyes.
The second message catches me completely off guard.
Sarah.
I find myself staring at the tiny little profile picture of her: the close-up of her playfully pulling a face. I am deaf to everything except the whoosh of blood in my ears, the sudden slamming of my heart.
Dear Olivia, it begins.
Thank you for your very kind message. This is Sarah’s husband, Glen. Sorry it has taken me such a long time to reply. Your words truly moved me. I had been meaning to deactivate Sarah’s page and didn’t really understand why I wasn’t getting around to it – this turned out to be a positive thing.
I have actually given a lot of thought to what it must have been like to be the driver, to be you. You must try and let go of the tremendous guilt you speak of. It was a cruel accident
that probably could have been avoided, as so many of them can – but not by you. Sarah would have hated you to believe it was your fault, and to let it ruin your life. Live your life, Olivia. My advice is live it proudly and profoundly – for yourself and for my wife.
Cheers,
Glen
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once in a while, when I have been trying to come up with story ideas, I have asked myself, If I only had one book in me, what would it be? Every time I’ve done this, I’ve come up with the same thing – writing about one of my biggest fears or dreads coming true. I have felt the theme and the mood of the novel, imagined its various dimensions. Then, for some reason, I’ve convinced myself that the topic is too tragic, too big for me, too different from the other books I’ve written, and I’ve run, scared, on to a new idea, with this other lingering like a pilot light in my mind.
Then, several years ago, I wrote twenty thousand words of a book about a letter-writing circle; in the group was an ex-Navy SEAL and a woman whose teenage daughter had caused a terrible accident and was having a hard time getting over it. I couldn’t make all the storylines come together, so I set it aside. Last year, when I asked myself the question about what would be that one book I would write, it dawned on me that I had already begun it. The idea was there, only it was buried – I had made it the daughter’s story so I could write about it with a degree of remove. What I had to do suddenly became so very clear. I would tell one woman’s story – a mother’s. I would dig deep into my own fears on the subject, and give it my all.
Once I decided this, the story I’d wanted to write for eons finally had lift-off and it almost wrote itself. Along the way, a very different ending from the one I’d anticipated suddenly came to me. Pulling that off required a significant rewrite. I owe huge thanks – as always – to my tremendous editor and champion, Victoria Pepe, and to the patient and invaluable Arzu Tahsin, for how they guided me so deftly through that process. A novel before it’s edited, and after, are two very different beasts. I am eternally grateful for all the creative thinking, and the constant pushing, that helped this book be the best it could be. Indeed, I owe sincere thanks to Sammia Hamer and to everyone at Lake Union who is involved in bringing my books to you, my wonderful readers. It truly is a team effort and a strong team means the world. Thank you.
Huge thanks are also due to my terrific, tenacious literary agent, Lorella Belli, to my mother, Mary, who gets as excited about my books as I do, and who actually came up with my title this time, and to my husband, Tony, for always giving me the space and encouragement to pursue my dreams. If you have read my novels, reviewed them, recommended then – thank you! I am eternally grateful to my readers. I love hearing from you so do please be in touch either through my website, www.carolmasonbooks.com, where you can give me your email so that I can let you know when I have a new book out, or be my friend on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/carol.mason.1297.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018, Tony Capuccinello
Carol Mason was born and grew up in the north-east of England. As a teenager she was crowned Britain’s National Smile Princess and subsequently became a model, diplomat-in-training, hotel receptionist and advertising copywriter. She currently lives in British Columbia, Canada, with her Canadian husband. To learn more about Carol and her novels, visit https://www.carolmasonbooks.com.