Letters to Lincoln

by Tracie Podger

  The day Patricia had to leave, to return to the U.S., was a day I felt I lost more of Trey. Her voice, although feminine, reminded me of him. The accent, her mannerisms, kept that connection. With her gone, that last thread to my husband was severed.

  Time had no meaning. I got up, showered and dressed, and I walked. For all the years I’d lived in that house, I’d never walked the many miles I had the past few weeks. I wasn’t sure why I walked; I didn’t want the exercise. I didn’t need the fresh air. It did nothing to clear the confusion, the anger, the hatred, the sadness, and the mass of emotion that bubbled away inside me. All it achieved was time alone.

  Being alone was what I desired but was too afraid to ask for. I found it frustrating not to be able to speak. Doctors had said it was a shock thing, I shouldn’t push it; my voice would come back when ready. It was psychological, of course; there was nothing physically wrong with me. No one seemed to understand though. I didn’t want my voice back. I didn’t want the ability to speak, because I was unsure I’d be able to contain the spew of hatred that would pour out in the form of words.

  In the meantime, I went back to relying on pieces of paper and a pen. I left notes; I answered questions by writing them down.

  It was early hours one morning, and I’d been sitting in the chair by the bay window with the blasted pad and pen by my side when a thought hit me.

  I wanted to tell Trey I was sorry. I was sorry for badgering him to drive that day. I wanted to tell Hannah that I was sorry. I was sorry for not being the mummy she deserved.

  I picked up the pad and flicked to a clean page. Dawn broke, and I wrote. My scrawling handwriting covered each small page and I poured my thoughts onto it. Tears dripped, smudging the ink. Blue colouring spread out, obliterating the words. I pulled my sleeve down over my hand and dabbed at it.

  When I’d written enough, I tore the pages from the pad. Not that I thought anyone would read it. I was a grown woman; I didn’t think I needed to hide a diary.

  I needed air; I needed to clear my head. I pulled on my Converse sneakers and snuck from my bedroom. I could hear the gentle snores from my dad’s room. I knew he didn’t sleep well. I knew he’d creep along the corridor to listen outside my door, hoping to hear if I spoke in my sleep, if I was unsettled. Each day, I saw the stress and upset age him more. He’d lost his wife, my mum, many years ago to cancer. He’d raised two children as a single father and done an amazing job of it. Despite my grief, I felt guilty that he had to deal with me in his old age. He should be out playing boules, or cards at the local pub. He should be walking his aged Labrador along the coastal paths. He should be able to take a leisurely stroll to the local shop for his morning paper. All the things he did on a daily basis had been put on hold, for me.

  I opened the back door in the kitchen and stepped out into the morning. I pulled the zipper higher on my jacket and the hood up to keep out the biting chill. I stuffed the letter in my pocket with no clear idea what I was going to do with it. I walked along the cliff until I came to the stone steps that led to the small beach.

  I sat on the damp sand, watching the waves break: white foam, flotsam, rolled closer and closer as the tide came in. An old fishing net wrapped about a buoy bobbed until the sand anchored it. As children, Christian and I would walk the beach collecting the rubbish that the sea gave up to us. We’d bag it up, keeping our beach clean. I rose and made my way to where the buoy lay. As I reached down for it, I spotted a bottle. An old wine bottle, I imagined, with a screw top. The label had long since disintegrated; the constant grinding against sand had almost polished the green glass so that it was see-through. I picked it up. A memory punched me in the gut.

  Trey, as a child, had often placed a letter in a bottle and thrown it overboard when he’d been sailing with his father. He had been desperate to see how far that bottle travelled and whether anyone would reply to him. He’d told me, he’d spent weeks scouring the shore of Lake Erie when the family had visited their holiday home. He had taken me there one time, when we’d spent a couple of weeks with his mum. We’d written a note, a love note, and threw it from the small sailing dingy we’d taken out.

  I reread what I wrote.

  I miss you, so so much, Trey. I can’t breathe through the pain anymore. I can’t accept that you’re gone. And I can’t accept that our baby is gone, too. I feel so much guilt and I don’t know how to deal with that. I made us take that drive, if I’d only listened to you, we’d be planning the birth of our daughter any day now. I’d be excited; you’d be panicking. We’d be the parents we were so desperate to be. I saw you; I came to see you and I laid Hannah down beside you. I died inside that day, Trey, and I continue to shrivel up with no purpose in life. I’m waiting for the day I'll be back with you. Do you believe that? I have to. I have to force myself that all those things we laughed at are true. We’ll be together one day. The vicar said, at your funeral, that the angels had come for Hannah. I don’t believe that, I don’t want to believe something thought that was the right thing to do.

  You were stolen from me, Trey. Hannah was wrenched from my body without my permission.

  I want you back; I need you back. I love you, and you left me, you promised me that you’d never do that.

  We were supposed to grow old together. We were supposed to be parents, grandparents. We were supposed to fight and love. We only had five years together, that’s all. It’s not enough, Trey, for me to hold on to. It wasn’t enough time to have created memories to last me my lifetime. I can’t do this without you.

  Dani

  Before I realised, I’d rolled my letter and pushed it into the bottle. There seemed to be some poetic justice in what I was doing. I screwed the cap back on and threw it as far as I could. I had no idea on the tides; I had no idea what would happen to the bottle.

  I sat and watched the bottle bob about until the sun rose high enough to hide it within the shimmers. I stood and dusted the damp sand from my jeans. I walked back to the cottage and paused halfway. My mind felt a little clearer, just a tiny bit, but I didn’t feel the hit to my chest that had my heart miss a beat when I pictured Trey or Hannah.

  “Hey, baby, been for a walk?” Dad said, when I entered the kitchen. I nodded as I kicked off my Converse.

  “I was about to do some breakfast, sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  I removed my jacket and pointed that I was going to the hallway to hang it up.

  “You go ahead, and you might want to change your jeans, your backside is a little wet. Oh, and put a sweater on, the heating went out again, I need to call an engineer.”

  I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and changed. My cheeks had reddened with the cold; the top of my nose was numb. I grabbed a sweatshirt from a drawer and pulled it over my head, then headed back downstairs.

  A steaming cup of tea was set on the table and I wrapped my hands around it. Dad was cooking bacon, feeding Lucy, the dog, pieces straight from the pan. She was too old to do the length of walks I’d been doing, but I missed taking her out to run on the beach. I grabbed one of the many pads and pens lying around the house.

  How old is Lucy now? I wrote. I tapped the table to gain Dad’s attention. He read.

  “Oh, must be nearly eight now. Her poor hips aren’t doing so well anymore.” He smiled at her as he spoke.

  He sat opposite and pushed a plate with a bacon sandwich towards me. I took a bite, not tasting it. Bacon sandwiches had been one of my favourite things, along with a large mug of tea; it made for a perfect breakfast.

  “I’m going to pop up to the shop in a bit, is there anything you need?”

  I shook my head. “I think you’re low on that shampoo stuff you like, I’ll see if they have any.”

  I wrote. Any shampoo will be fine, thank you.

  He nodded as he ate. He then went on to tell me the local gossip. Sometimes I wondered if he struggled for things to say. It couldn’t have been easy on him to have this one-sided conversation with me. I wanted to smile, nod,
or shake my head. I wanted to laugh; knowing I’d open my mouth and no sound would emerge, but at least he’d understand, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I looked at him, I heard some of what he’d said, but the voices in my head often overrode what my ears heard.

  I only got part of his sentences. And it scared me. I hadn’t told anyone for fear that I’d be put on a higher dosage of the anti-depressants, that I’d be classed as mad. The voices were mine, multiple mes trying to be heard. Whatever emotion I was suppressing the most, shouted the loudest. The consequence was that I didn’t really hear what was being said to me, only snippets.

  Shall I make a list? I wrote. Not sure if he had just asked me what I wanted for dinner.

  He smiled and nodded. Perhaps he thought this was a breakthrough, I was participating in life.

  I tore a piece of paper from the pad and wrote down some basic items I thought we might be low on. In truth, I hadn’t looked in a cupboard or the fridge, since I’d arrived some…I had no idea how long I’d actually been there. I didn’t know the date even. I knew it was September, but that was all.

  I waited until Dad had shrugged on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck. I felt that pang of guilt hit me that I’d sit in the house, while he struggled down the lane with his shopping bags. I couldn’t face people trying to talk to me. When I heard the doors close, I let the tears fall. I hated crying in front of Dad, I hated to see the pain cross his face when he realised he couldn’t take mine away. It wasn’t a scraped knee that he would kiss and make better. It wasn’t a bump on the head from a fall off a bike that he could place an ice pack to and soothe me with his words.

  I was so broken inside that it would be impossible for him to put me back together.

  Chapter Three

  I’d gotten into the habit of waking early hours and walking. I liked the solitude of that time in the morning. I liked that there was no one on the beach that would bid me a good morning and scowl at my lack of response.

  It had rained during the night, the grass, as I crossed the garden, soaked into my Converse. It was probably time to dig out some boots. I walked along the beach until I came to an outcrop of rocks. I sat and breathed in deep, inhaling the salty air. As I placed my hands behind me, I felt a crack in the rock. I felt something metal.

  I looked to see a bottle, my bottle, wedged in there.

  At times the sea would cover the rocks, and I assumed the bottle had been washed back up to the place I’d thrown it, getting stuck in the rock as the tide receded. I pulled it out, unscrewed the cap and upended the bottle to retrieve the page I’d wedged in there. The piece of paper that fell out wasn’t the page I’d initially put in there.

  I held the rolled up paper in my hand, unsure what to do at first. After a minute or so, I unrolled it and read.

  I found your letter and my heart breaks for you, Dani. I can’t imagine the pain you must be feeling, and I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe the ‘angels’ needed your daughter, but I do believe that Trey and Hannah are together; they’re not alone. I think we have to believe that, don’t we?

  I don’t know if you’ll even find this response. I walk this beach a lot. I like to think and be alone. I hope you do. I hope you get to see that someone understands just a little of what you’re going through.

  I won’t tell you it gets better in time, it doesn’t. It becomes different, bearable. But a part of us died, and that part will never come back to life. It doesn’t work that way. You will heal, and it will be a new you that emerges on the other side. You won’t forget, but you’ll remember how to live again.

  You have to, to keep them alive as well.

  It wasn’t signed. I turned the piece of paper over to see if the letter continued on the back. It didn’t. I studied the handwriting. It was italic and as if written with a fountain pen. A small splodge of ink had dripped on the edge of the page. It was the type of handwriting I’d expect to see from an elderly person. I read it again. Whoever it was talked as if they understood loss, as if they’d experienced it themselves. Maybe it was a partner that had died. They’d been through tragedy and they’d survived.

  I grabbed the small pad from the inside pocket of the jacket I wore. Dad had the foresight to add pads and pens, not only in every room of the house, but in every jacket and handbag I owned. I balanced the pad on my knee and I wrote.

  I don’t know who you are, but thank you. I feel your pain, too. I never expected anyone to pick up this bottle, I never expected anyone to take the time to read my letter and to reply. I’m actually at a loss as to what to say now.

  You say it doesn’t get better; it just gets different. Please, tell me what that means? Will I hurt this much for the rest of my life? I can’t bear the thought of that. My mum died when I was a child, my dad brought my brother and me up on his own. He understands; I know he does, but it’s not the same. I don’t want him to feel my pain, to be reminded of his own. I don’t want him to look at me with sadness in his eyes, because for the first time in my life; he can’t make it all better. There are no words of comfort; there are no plasters or bandages big enough to piece me back together.

  I lost my husband; we’d only been married for a short while. I lost my daughter; she hadn’t even been born before she was pulled from my body. They told me she’d survived a few hours, but I never got to meet her then. I never got to feel her take breaths while lying in my arms. I never got to hold her skin on skin or kiss her forehead.

  She died before I had the courage to wake up. And that’s the part that kills me more each day.

  I was a coward; I hid in sleep. She struggled to live, and I hid in sleep.

  I can’t…I don’t know the words to convey how that makes me feel right now.

  I have to go. I don’t know if you’ll get this, if you do, I’m sorry for your loss, too.

  Dani.

  I placed the letter in the bottle, screwed the cap tight and wedged it back in between the rocks. I had no idea if it would be found. I’d thrown mine out to sea. I didn’t know where that bottle had washed up. Had he replied and then thrown the bottle back? Or had he wedged it between the rocks?

  I paused. Why had I thought ‘he?’ There was nothing in that note to determine, yet somehow, I guessed the words to be from a man. Maybe it was the fountain pen, I didn’t know anyone who used one anymore.

  I stood and walked back, all the while thinking. That was the most I’d ‘spoken’ in ages. It felt like I’d just had a ‘conversation’ with someone without the use of the spoken word. I hadn’t just written a few words in answer to a question. Why could I do that with a complete stranger and not my dad?

  My head began to pound; I rubbed at my temples, hoping it was the biting cold and not a migraine. Or the fact I hadn’t taken my medication in a couple of days. I’d been warned of going ‘cold turkey’ but I just wanted to see if the screaming in my head returned. If it did, I’d get back on them. I’d rather the numbness than the noise.

  I itched to return to the beach. I made tea and sat outside, knowing I couldn’t see from where I was, but just being outdoors made me feel closer to whoever it was. His words offered me comfort because they were honest. Time and time again I’d been told, ‘things will improve,’ ‘one day you’ll smile and laugh again.’ I didn’t want improvement, I didn’t want laughter; I wanted understanding. I wanted forgiveness.

  I needed forgiveness for not waking up and holding my daughter to my breast. I needed forgiveness for not letting my heartbeat be felt by her. I needed forgiveness for not kissing her goodbye.

  I needed forgiveness for the feeling I felt when I’d picked her up in the hospital, the feeling of detachment. She hadn’t felt like my baby, which was why I’d laid her straight back down. I needed forgiveness for not loving her enough in those moments.

  The realisation that I finally understood the feelings coursing through me had me double over in pain. I wasn’t just grieving the loss of my husband, of my daughter, I w
as grieving the loss of birthing a child, of bonding with that child.

  It was conflicting. I loved Hannah, yet I hadn’t wanted to spend time with her. I’d picked her up and laid her with her father, after holding her for the briefest of moments.

  I angrily wiped tears from my cheeks when I heard the back door slide open.

  “Dani, it’s freezing out here, come on in,” Dad said, as he came to stand beside me.

  I reached for my pad.

  I’m wrapped up warm. I was getting a headache. I thought this would help.

  “Okay, baby, but at least let me make you a fresh tea.”

  I held up the cold mug for him to take. I heard the door slide open then close again. The sun was low on the horizon, and even though I dreaded to think about the temperature of the water, I could see the silhouette of a surfer standing on the sand, watching the waves with his board beside him. The summer would see surfers from around the country, the world. That beach was home to some of the best waves in the U.K., not that I’d ever mastered surfing.

  “Patricia rang after you’d gone to bed, I guess she forgot about the time difference. She asked after you,” Dad said, when I’d joined him in the kitchen. All I could do was nod.

  “She said the weather was getting bad out there, they have a lot of snow predicted.”

  He poured hot water into mugs.

  “Can you imagine having to shovel that amount of snow from your drive every year. Three, four feet deep, she said.”

  He rambled on as he poured the milk and stirred sugar into his mug.

  “Anyway, I said I’d pass her message on. She’s hoping to come over for a few days. I told her, she’s more than welcome to come and stay here with us.”