by D. B. James
I’m met with nothing but blackness.
It greets me like a warm hug from a long-lost friend.
Waking with a start, I feel something cool and wet has been placed upon my forehead. I’m surrounded by blackness, but it feels like a familiar blackness. Taking another moment, I feel the bed beneath me and know I’m safe. Instantly, I know I’m in my own bedroom. Moving to sit up—I feel dizzy—and I swiftly lie back down.
“Don’t get up, baby girl. Whatever you need, I’ll get for you,” Mama says from where she’s sitting in the corner chair. If I wasn’t already lying back, her voice coming at me from the darkness would’ve made me fall backward from fright.
“What happened, Mama?” Obviously, I know I passed out. It’s what happened after that’s fuzzy in my head.
“Well, for starters Luellen brought you home. She had a gift for you from Michael. Surprising us all, mind you. It’s here whenever you’re ready to deal with it. She said when she gave you the news, you fainted. She had a heck of a time getting you in the car and bringing you home. Scared us all when she came speeding into the driveway, honking and hollering out the window for your daddy,” Mama informs me.
Sounds like quite the spectacle was made. The neighbors probably loved watching every second of it unfold. The gossips will be in heaven come dawn while sipping their morning coffee.
“I’m sorry. About all of it. It sure couldn’t have been easy for anyone. On the other hand, it’s not like I planned on fainting. It’s not every day a girl gets a gift from her dead husband,” I say.
“Baby girl, don’t you go apologizing for anything. You did nothing wrong. We’re all concerned because you gave us all a fright. We’re happy all you did was faint. You could’ve hit your head, or who knows what else? Thankfully, you didn’t. Now, what can your mama get for you?” she asks.
Reaching over, she turns on the bedside lamp, grabs the wet cloth from my forehead, and places a kiss upon my balmy cheek.
“What time is it?” I inquire.
“Shortly after eleven.”
My stomach chooses the moment to grumble. It’s been ignored practically all day.
“Could I have something to eat? It could be why I fainted as well as from the shock. I haven’t eaten anything since around lunchtime.”
“Sure, baby girl. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
What is in that box?
Reaching for it, I see in Michael's neat handwriting ‘Open on May 21’, well it’s almost midnight, technically it is practically his birthday. Besides, it’s not like he’s around to give me flack for opening it early. As I’m lifting up the card, mama walks back into my bedroom carrying a sandwich and a glass of water.
“I didn’t want to bring you anything heavy, hence the turkey sandwich and some water. I hope it’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone now. Open whatever it is Michael has left for me. It’s almost midnight and I’m curious to see what it is he’s gifted me. Where are the flowers? Did you see they’re made from books?” I ask.
“Um, the flowers are in the kitchen, sitting on the island. They’re beautiful. And they’re not made from any old books. They’re made from your books. There’s information about the woman who makes them; I left it on the cupboard as well. She may have some answers for you. I love you, Tenley. Holler if you need me.” She presses another quick kiss to my cheek and briskly leaves my bedroom.
Quickly eating the sandwich and draining the glass of water, I open the bottle of wine and pour myself a glass. Downing it in two quick gulps, I pour myself another, knowing whatever he’s left is going to take this bottle of wine as courage for me to open. I’m deep into my third glass before I reach for the box. Lifting the lid, I take a deep breath.
You can do this, Tenley.
Gasping, I drop the box and pull the letter from inside.
He’s left me a letter and books. From the looks of it, a lengthy letter and several books he must’ve thought I’d enjoy. Taking a deep breath, I begin to read.
My Dearest Tenley,
Today would’ve been my 37th birthday. We should be well on our way to the south of France to start celebrating. I’m deeply sorry we’re not. So fucking sorry. I do hope you’re smiling. Fuck, baby, I miss your beaming smile. You may be asking why I waited this long to give you this letter, and well there’s a few reasons.
Mainly, I wanted you to have at least started to move on. By now, I figure you’ve fully grieved me. Or at the very least, are nearly done.
Go ahead, call me a selfish prick, I know you want to. I’ll give you a few minutes…
Feel better? All right.
Now let’s move forward. If you don’t already hate me, you will by the time you finish reading this letter. It’s okay though, I’m planning on you hating me. In fact, you may want some wine to finish reading this. Lu should’ve given you a bottle with the gifts. Knowing you like I do, you’ve probably already opened it and drank a glass or two before starting my letter. Which is fantastic because like I said, you’re going to need it. If you haven’t, pour some now and use a heavy hand.
My death wasn’t an accident.
It was suicide.
But before you go blaming yourself or thinking the worst, let me explain. I had a valid reason.
I was sick, baby.
Remember how I started getting those horrible migraines? Well, they weren’t ordinary migraines. When I went to have the MRI test done our doctor ordered, I lied to you about the results when they came in.
The doctor found a tumor on my brain.
Not wanting to scare you, I kept it from you until I could find out more information. No matter what I found out, the news was never any better. Every single thing I found out made things worse and worse. My future grimmer. The week before my suicide, the doctors told me there was no cure. The cancer had spread throughout my whole body. It wasn’t only about a brain tumor anymore. The tumor was inoperable to begin with.
I had a Secondary Astrocytoma Stage 4 Cerebral tumor. Fancy name, huh? Leave it to me to get something this...fucked up.
When I said goodbye to you the last morning, I truly was saying goodbye. If you wondered why I insisted on making love before leaving, now you know. I knew it was the last time I’d ever see your beautiful face. The last time I’d ever gaze into your aqua blue eyes. Or run my fingers through your whiskey colored tresses. Smell your unique scent of ocean and lemons.
I’m leaving several gifts with Luellen.
The flowers were made from the pages of your books, Tenley. An artist I’d met in the online book community designed them and made them for you. Her name is Gloria. She owns a business named Blooming Books. Look her up, she’ll be waiting to hear from you. I’ve left her information with the flowers.
The books are some I picked out for you. A few you may have read by now, maybe not. But I know how much you love words and wanted you to have several books to enjoy throughout the rest of the year.
Please forgive Lu for keeping this a secret. She doesn’t know I was sick. She was sworn to secrecy without knowing why.
Please don’t hate me for leaving you, Tenley.
I have loved you since the moment you plowed me over in the airport. And I have loved you every day since I left you. I’ll love you forever.
Please find happiness again. Don’t hide your beautiful smile from the world.
I’ll be loving you forever.
Michael
Oh.
Shit.
Oh.
God.
What in the hell did I read?
Michael committed suicide?
My Michael killed himself?
Because he was dying?
My Michael was sick?
He had an incurable cancer?
Basically, the doctors gave him a death sentence and he never fucking told me.
Me. His own damn wife. Supposedly, the other half of his soul.
How could he have done this to me?
Why would he have done this to me? There’s a river of tears streaming down my face and I’m helpless to stop them. They’re staining the pages of Michael’s confession to me.
Screaming out in frustration, I throw his letter across the bed, whip the covers from my body, and throw my glass against the wall, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces.
Now at least my heart isn’t the only thing that’s broken.
Grabbing the bottle of wine, I down the rest of the contents straight from the bottle. “Fucking coward. He was a stupid fucking coward.” I’m repeating it over and over again when my mother knocks on my door.
“Tenley, are you all right? We heard screaming. And a glass breaking?” she questions.
Am I all right? Hell, no, I’m not. My husband committed damn suicide. He took the easy way out. He lied to me for months before he crashed his brother’s plane into the stupid ocean. I’m fucking dandy, life’s a giant fat fun parade. I’m happier than a pig in a huge pile of shit. Why don’t you come on in and join the party?
But I don’t say any of it. Instead, I slump down against my closed bedroom door and cry. Deep, painful sobs rack through my body. The knob turns and I feel the door getting pushed from the other side, but it doesn’t give; she’s trying to force her way in but can’t get to me.
“I-I-I’m okay.” It’s all I can manage through my tears.
Nearly an hour later, after all my tears have dried, I remember seeing he left a second letter. Pulling myself up off the floor, I reach for the box containing his letter, ripping open the envelope, I quickly scan the contents.
My Dearest Tenley,
This one isn’t much of a letter, it’s more a note.
After the bombshell I left you with in the first one, I wanted to leave you with something a little less…heavy.
You’re…
SEXY
EXQUISITE
GORGEOUS
SEDUCTIVE
STUNNING
BEAUTIFUL
PROVOCATIVE
STRIKING
FUCKABLE
And anything else you can think of I’ve ever called you since the day I first laid my eyes on you.
All my love,
Michael
Well, at least this one leaves me with the hint of a grin and not tears of anger.
I’ll also never let anyone read this one...ever. It’s way too personal. If he didn’t call me ‘fuckable’ maybe, but it’s a big maybe. Michael always was a tad dirty. It’s one of the details I loved most about him. He looked like the most respectable man, but had a mouth made for sin.
Glancing at my bedside clock, I see it’s nearly 2 a.m. If I’m going to keep my plans with my parents in the morning, I better try to get some sleep. The last thoughts I can remember thinking before drifting off to sleep on the floor are, “Happy Birthday, my love.”
Waking around 10 a.m. the morning of Michael’s birthday, I don’t bother taking a shower before venturing out to find my parents to explain what all happened the night before.
Armed with Michael’s letter, I find daddy sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book in the living room.
“Morning, Daddy, where’s mama?” I ask.
He glances up from his book, slides his bookmark into place, and turns to take in my appearance before replying. “She ran to the store quickly to grab a few picnic items before we leave for our drive. We’re all still going, true?” he asks.
“Oh, yes, of course. I wanted to tell you both what happened last night; it’s why I asked where she was. It can wait until she’s back though. I’ll go shower and make myself presentable enough to leave while we wait for her. I’m sorry about everything that ended up happening last night. About scaring you by fainting. And again, later with my screaming swear words and the shattering glass. It’ll be explained once mama is back, I promise.”
“No worries, Tenley. We both completely understand. No apology is needed for fainting; it was to be expected. Hell, if I were in your shoes and your mother was gone and I’d gotten a gift from beyond, fainting may not be all I’d do. My ticker may have given out,” he jests.
Taking a moment to truly look at my daddy, I see what I’ve been blind to for a while now. The crinkles near his eyes, the graying hair where it used to be a deep dark brown, the bright aqua eyes losing their once vibrant luster. My daddy isn’t as young as he used to be. I’ve not only lost these last two years of my life, but I’ve lost these last two years with my parents. Daddy and I may not always see eye-to-eye, but he’s my daddy. The only one I’ll ever have. And this depression has made me a selfish bitch.
“I love you, Daddy.” I lean down to press a kiss to his forehead and leave to go take a shower before he can reply. Not wanting him to see the tears forming in my eyes and mistake them as tears of sadness for Michael. No, these tears are tears of sadness for losing this time with the people still alive, closest to me. Not anymore. Today, I vow to not waste one more second of the life given to me. Live the rest of my life to the fullest. For me.
Depression can kiss my lily-white ass.
Nearly two hours later, we find ourselves sitting on the sand in Navarre Beach, Florida.
This place was always a favorite of mine and Michael’s. It’s the sole reason I decided a nice picnic lunch overlooking the ocean would be a great way to celebrate him today. With people who loved him and not alone in my bed with a bottle of wine.
I’ve always loved this beach because it’s pet friendly. Michael loved it because the locals knew about it more than the tourists. He claims the pesky tourists stuck to Pensacola Beach a couple miles down the road. For the most part, he was correct.
It’s still covered in sand the color of sugar the way the beaches are in Alabama, but this beach is less...touristy. It’s exactly what I need to get through the day. Some privacy to tell them about Michael’s letter and the gifts. Most importantly about his sickness. His death.
Everything.
Spreading out the blanket, I place a few heavier sandstones on each corner to help keep it in place from the wind. Normally, I would’ve packed a few beach chairs, but sitting on a blanket, eating a picnic lunch, talking about the subjects we need to discuss seemed more intimate, therefore I opted to leave the chairs back home in the garage.
“Mama, did you remember to grab another bottle of wine?” I drank the one Lu gave me from Michael. Yes, all by myself. For the last bit of it, I didn’t use a glass. Mama would be shocked if she knew. Shit, I felt like lapping up the spilt wine from the carpet after I broke the glass. If I could’ve guaranteed my tongue wouldn’t have been cut on the shards of glass, I just may have.
Don’t judge.
It was a fantastic French wine.
“Yes, I did. There should be three bottles in the cooler. Your daddy is grabbing it from the car now. Why don’t you cop-a-squat? There’s nothing left for you to do anyway but relax. The blanket is laid out; the basket is ready. Rest a bit, baby girl.” Sounds like heaven to me, it would only be better if the wine was already here and uncorked.
“Only if you stop your nervous pacing and sit down with me. There’s nothing left for you to do either. I know you’re anxious to learn about what everything was from Michael. Once daddy gets back down here and we have a glass of wine poured, I’ll let you in on everything. Trust me, we’ll need a glass of wine. Heck, we’ll need a bottle. Each. It’s not an easy thing to hear. I’m still reeling from everything myself.”
Truth of it is, if I hadn’t already made these plans, I wouldn’t have kept them. And up until the moment I took a minute to truly see my daddy, I wasn’t going to go through with these plans. Nope. Not for one second. I was going to read them the letter, grab a new glass, another bottle or two of wine from the pantry, and waste the day away getting drunk in my bed. Alone. Exactly like I’ve done for the past two years. Maybe I’d have surfaced around dinner, if my stomach was angry enough with me.
Mama doesn’t answer but she does take a seat next to me, flipping of
f her sandals and leaving them in the sand. Sighing, I lean back and glance up at the sky. It’s a beautiful, perfect spring day here in the south. The sound of the waves rolling in brings me peace. The smell of the salt in the air, comfort. The children playing in the sand and surf, happiness. Sliding my sunglasses off my face and up into my hair, I take in a deep breath, close my eyes, and let all my surroundings sink in. For one brief second, I feel...alive.
“Here comes your daddy with the cooler. I’ll pour us all some wine, and you can fill us both in on what Michael left you. If you feel like eating after, I packed us a nice lunch including all his favorite finger foods to celebrate his life. If you don’t want to eat, we can wait till later and drive around some more. Whatever you wish, Tenley.”
A few minutes later we’re all seated back on the blanket, staring out at the gulf, watching the waves meet the shore. Exactly like I did on my birthday mere months ago.
“Michael didn’t die in a plane crash,” I blurt out, while deep into my second glass of wine.
Might as well start off with the huge one, right? He did die in the crash but he didn’t, true? Since he saw his life as a death sentence, he was dead when he stepped into the plane to leave.
Mama hasn’t said one word, she’s only let out a startled gasp and grabbed the wine bottle to pour more into her nearly empty glass.
“What do you mean he didn’t die in the crash? He is dead, correct?” Daddy asks.
“Yes, he’s dead. He did technically die in the crash. But it wasn’t a normal crash. It was a suicide mission. He took off in the plane that morning intending to die and never to see me or any of us again. He’s left me a letter. I brought it along, you both may read it, he’ll explain it to you. He was dying. He never told me. I’m not sure what hurts me more, his not trusting me to take care of him once he was sick, or how he thought I’d be okay with him taking the coward's way out. The glass you heard breaking last night was me whipping my glass against the wall and shattering it.”