Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “Breanne, I was seconds away from attaching the oxygen mask to my face when you saw what was happening and stopped me. I would have died, from whatever was in the masks, and you,” he pauses. “You would have followed the pilot.”

  What he means is that, I too, would be dead and I know he’s right. Holding out the travel size Tylenol container and a water bottle, he encourages me to take both. Likewise, I hand him a cereal bar and we dine in silence sitting side-by-side with our backs against a wall.

  I look down and find that I am rubbing the gem of my necklace between my thumb and forefingers. I purse my lips together and close my eyes as I take a deep breath. I can’t believe almost a year has passed since I was given this necklace– almost two years since Mark died. Feeling Drew’s gaze, and anticipating his questions, I wonder if I should just tell him. I’ve only told two people and I’m not sure if he’d think I’m crazy. But after what we went through today, nothing seems too far-fetched.

  “About a year ago, I was in the front yard playing with the kids. It was a nice fall day – sunny, just warm enough to be comfortable without jackets, and the leaves covered the yard. It had been almost a year since Mark died and I was trying to keep myself, and the kids busy. In front of the kids I tried my best to be strong, you know. We always spoke about their father – what he liked doing at certain times of the year, we’d have his favorite meals, and we even celebrated his birthday. I wanted them to remember what a good father he was.”

  Maybe in some ways I was trying to remember myself about what a good husband and friend he was too.

  “Anyway, we were in the front yard when a delivery truck pulled up to the house. I hadn’t ordered anything so I assumed they had the wrong address. But a man got out of the truck and asked if I was Breanne. When I said yes he handed me a small package with my name written on the front but there was nothing to indicate who sent it, no return address on the box. I didn’t think much of it at the time and the kids wanted to know what it was so we all went inside and I opened the box.” I clear my throat and choke down my emotions.

  “Inside the box was a tin case,” I pause, lost in the memory.

  The case, which is on the floor in front of me, is beautiful. It’s about five inches wide and seven inches long, and about two inches thick. Around the top right and bottom left corner is a border of Calla Lilies, our wedding flower. And on the cover, in perfect detail, was an etched picture of the church we were married in.

  I hear Drew clear his throat and I return to the present. Our eyes meet and I can tell he’s waiting for me to continue. “A tin case,” he hints at where I left off and tilts his head.

  “Yeah, a tin case,” I repeat, picking up the case and hand it to Drew. “I opened the case and inside was this necklace. There was no note but I knew at once it was from him,” I say, drawing my knees to my chest and return my hand to stroking the jewel.

  “Who was it from?” he asks.

  “My husband.”

  Stealing a glance towards Drew I know that he is just as baffled as I was when I received the gift.

  Chapter Eight

  Confessions

  Drew

  Confused, I take the tin case and look it over slowly as Breanne’s words sink in. The detail of the engraved church is incredible. I turn the small case over in my hand, taking in the other details as well, but still not grasping how her dead husband sent her presents. Raising my gaze to meet hers, I shrug once to indicate I’m not following her logic.

  “Tin is the traditional material that gifts are made of for a tenth wedding anniversaries. If Mark had been alive, it would have been our tenth anniversary on the day it was delivered,” she explains.

  “But if it was sent a year after he died,” my voice trails off and I quirk my head to the side, bewildered.

  “I was confused at first, too,” she says in a hushed tone, and then focuses on the ground shaking her head. “I remember lying in bed that night, holding the case and trying to piece it together,” she pauses, chewing for a moment on her quivering bottom lip.

  I reposition myself so that I’m facing her, and watch her stare at nothing in particular as a tear rolls down her cheek. Before it reaches her jaw I wipe it away with my thumb and then give her hand a squeeze. I’m about to suggest another topic when she surprises me by continuing. Instead of dropping her hand like I should, I convince myself it’s helping her if I hold on.

  “Mark’s death was classified as a suicide,” she states, her voice breaking on the last word. “At first, I thought maybe he ordered this,” and she points to the tin case while she clears her throat. “And made arrangements for it to be delivered on our anniversary, knowing he was going to end his life; like a way for me to know that even though he took his own life, he loved me. It was the only thing that made sense at the time.”

  I mull this over in my mind. I try to put myself in her husband’s shoes, which is difficult because from what I can tell the guy had everything going for him. I’ve never understood how someone could take their own life, but sitting across from this beautiful woman it makes even less sense.

  “Months passed and I was still struggling,” she continues. “I found myself getting angry at the thought of Mark. How could a man that loved his children and me more than anything, take his own life?” she questions aghast. “His job was going well. Our house was practically paid off, so financially we were in a good place. We have three amazing children and WE were happy,” she exclaims in disbelief. “After that, I stopped talking about him as much with the kids. I would hold it together in front of them, but every night for the longest time I would put them to bed, take a bag of chocolate covered pretzels and a glass of wine upstairs with me, turn on a fan for a sound buffer and hysterically cry in my walk-in closet.” I lower and shake my head. I was a mess. “I stopped wearing the necklace and hid the case in a box at the back of the closet one night. Nothing made sense and I was so mad. I didn’t want to risk damaging their memories of him so I decided silence was better.”

  “You said at first you thought you understood what the gift was for. Did something change?” I ask, handing her back the case. At this she gives a half-hearted laugh.

  “Did it ever,” she huffs in exasperation.

  For a long minute Breanne stares at me like she contemplating how much information to divulge. She twirls the pendant around her finger and turns her gaze away, looking lost in thought.

  “Shortly after that I got a call from a family friend…someone Mark had worked with for years. I think they even started on the same day. She was even in our wedding. Anyways, she asked me to go to dinner. I was shocked because I had done a pretty thorough job of shutting everyone out of my life. I hadn’t spoken to anyone really, except my friend Sarah occasionally, and my father even less. I didn’t want to go to dinner, but she insisted and then Colin heard one of her messages and basically pleaded with me, saying it would be good for me to get out of the house. So, I decided to go. Anyways, I needed a necklace to wear with the dress I wore so I put this on,” she says, giving the necklace a light tug. “We ate outside and when we first sat down it was still light out. My friend commented on the necklace and I politely thanked her. But as it got later the light of a candle that had been placed on our table caught the gem in just the right way, and she mentioned that she had thought the necklace was an emerald. She reached for the necklace, turning it over and over in her hand as her eyes lit up.”

  In the dim light filtering through the window I can’t really make out the color of her necklace but I do recall that it is green. Breanne takes my right hand and presses a button on my watch so it illuminates and then holds it under the gem as she slowly turns it. It’s amazing; like a chameleon, the gem changes to a purplish-red at the reflection of the light.

  “My friend asked if I knew how rare Alexandrite was, partially due to how expensive it was. I know little about jewelry and was surprised that she knew the stone’s name because I had no idea. I remember looking her
over, noticing that she had on several rings, bracelets, a watch and a necklace all with different jewels that perfectly coordinated. I recalled that she collected expensive things.”

  I can tell from her tone that material things must mean little to her. Yet another likeable quality.

  “She drank her wine and we returned to our conversation, but a few minutes later she interrupted me, exclaiming that she remembered what the stone symbolized. She said it was supposed to strengthen ones intuition.”

  Breanne continues with her story. There are several times where I’m tempted to interrupt her, to ask questions. But the fact that she’s trusting me with this information stops me each time. She tells me that following her dinner she did research on the internet for more information on Alexandrite. Several websites that she found had the same information; the stone was rare and it was believed that in critical situations it was supposed to strengthen the intuition of the person wearing it, therefore helping them to find a new way forward in a situation where logic couldn’t provide an answer. I watch her temperament shift from defeated to hopeful as she confides that she started thinking that maybe Mark hadn’t committed suicide, that maybe he was murdered.

  “But I couldn’t think of why someone would want to hurt him or why he wouldn’t just tell me what was going on. I called my friend that I’d been with at dinner that night and told her my theory. She said it was an interesting theory, and then paused before asking me if I was talking to anyone else about this, which was her way of suggesting I seek professional help,” Breanne explains.

  “I didn’t bring it up again, but it kept haunting me. I would stay up for hours thinking about it, looking online, looking through his office, but couldn’t find anything helpful. I couldn’t make a connection. I felt like I was grasping at straws, trying to find meaning in random things. I was about to give up hope and go back to trying to accept that he had his reasons. And then, a few weeks later I got a call from a detective in the investigations unit of the Boston PD. He was new to the unit and had come across my husband’s file. Upon reviewing it he noticed some things didn’t line up, and he was convinced there was foul play involved. He was going to unofficially re-open the case as he didn’t yet have his supervisor convinced. But he thought if we worked together we could get to the bottom of what really happened. I was so relieved that someone else felt the same way I did. I took his contact information and we began working together. It’s been a few months and there has been nothing definitive, but he called me a few days ago and said he had a lead he was checking on and to keep my fingers crossed.”

  Deep in thought she runs her fingers over the etching. “After that call I dug this out of the box in my closet. I put a few bracelets and things that the kids had made me inside for safekeeping, and unfortunately one of the pipe cleaner necklaces got stuck in the hinge. When I was trying to finagle it out I saw this.”

  She hands me back the case, fully opened, which exposes a lightly engraved phrase inside the roof of the container. I have to squint in the twilight to make out the words so I say them out loud to be sure I’ve got it right.

  “Beyond logic lies the truth,” I read and my eyebrows knit together trying to understand the meaning.

  “I have this never ending feeling that there is unfinished business between Mark and me. And to me, this is confirmation that he knew he was in danger and maybe he kept it from me to protect us,” she says.

  I think about this for a minute. “If he didn’t want to endanger you, why would he tip you off at all?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs, looking defeated. “You must think I’m crazy,” she assumes, self-consciously knotting her hands again and again.

  “What’s happened is crazy, but I don’t think you’re crazy. Life’s just thrown you a curveball,” I try to reassure her, looking at the necklace and then up at her. Her theory doesn’t strike me as plausible, but I can’t say that to her. “I think your husband was fortunate to have someone who asks the questions you’re asking. What does your family think?”

  “I don’t have much family. Both Mark and I are only children. His parents are alive but I couldn’t talk to them about it. They were completely crushed when he died. They rarely call and haven’t visited since his funeral. I thought I’d tell them once I had more facts but until then I felt I’d only be hurting them more,” she explains.

  “What about your parents?”

  “My mother passed away from cancer when I was young. Our trip to the Caribbean was actually the last family trip we took. And for the same reasons I didn’t tell Mark’s parents, I never told my father. He and Mark were very close. Plus, he moved to England a few years ago for a consulting job so we don’t see each other that often, and it’s not really the kind of thing you tell someone over the phone,” she says and then poses a question, reversing the situation. “Would you have told your parents?”

  I consider her question carefully. Would I have told my parents? “No,” I confidently reply. “I would have told my sister.”

  Breanne starts to talk, but stops herself twice.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I’ve noticed that every time your sister comes up in conversation, you shut down,” Breanne says softly.

  Her statement is just that, a statement; but I know she’s looking for an explanation. Reflecting, I know it’s true. I do shut down. My sister’s death is too raw a topic and after today’s events I don’t have the emotional energy to have an in depth discussion about it. But given everything she has just shared about her situation it only seems right to confide a little in her as well.

  “A few months ago my sister was killed in a car accident. That’s actually one of the reasons I was going to California. I have a commercial to film for an endorsement deal, and while I was out there I was going to pack up her house and meet with a relator. My parents refuse to travel, no matter what the situation, so taking care of her estate has really fallen on me,” I explain with an edge of bitterness. “It used to upset me, especially when I went pro, that they didn’t travel to watch me play. During college they came to one game and it was the only one our team lost that year. After that my dad used it as an excuse not to travel to any again. That’s why it didn’t faze me that they asked me to fly out to identify the body when Alexis didn’t survive the crash.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I was pissed.

  “That was hands down the worst experience I’ve ever had. To see someone who has always been so full of life, lying cold on a table; it was sobering. I flew her home after that and we laid her to rest in the town we grew up in. Anyway, if I were in your situation, now with her gone, I’m not sure what I would do. I haven’t alienated people the way you think you have, but most of my friendships are more like acquaintances. I have a lot of them but they are pretty superficial relationships,” I admit.

  “I guess you’ve had a few curveballs of your own. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she whispers and pulls me into an embrace.

  “I know,” I reply somberly under my breath, because I know she understands what I’m going through.

  I wrap my arms around her and pull her tighter. Man, it feels good to hold her. I wonder what the odds are, not only that we survived a planned plane crash, but that the person I survived with would be experiencing grief as well. We sit like this for what seems like forever, and at the same time not long enough. But my elbow has started to ache and my body is craving more of her than I can have. I’m not even sure it has anything to do with sex. Regardless, I need to move.

  “It’s getting late, we should get some rest and take off when the sun comes up,” I whisper into her ear.

  Breanne releases me first and starts packing the food and other items back into her purse. I grab my jersey and fold it into a pillow and watch her remove her jacket to do the same. Noticing the drop in temperature coming in through the window, I rise and close it tightly to shut out the cool air. At least we have the blanket, I think. One blanket. One blanket for the
two of us to share.

  The thought sends my heart rate spiking and I have the odd sensation of anxiety. Using the light on my watch I find the blanket and untie the ribbon around it. Once it’s free, I whip it into the air like a laundry commercial so the blanket extends, revealing its true size. The sparse light of my watch provides enough brightness for me to observe disappointment instantaneously sweeps across her face.