Remembering You

by Stella MacLean

  Stop being so cynical and enjoy the day, baby Graham's birth day.

  “I'm glad to hear your grandson's doing well.” I searched my mind for something else to say but came up empty. “I’ve got to get going and make a few phone calls, tell everyone about my new grandson.”

  He nodded. “You do that, and we’ll catch up later. I have some ideas I want to discuss with you about this hedge. It’s dying. I’m considering replacing it with a fence.”

  Sam Bannister may have some peculiar qualities, but he could make anything grow. “Well, if you can’t save the hedge, no one can. And a fence sounds like a good idea.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll have tea tomorrow afternoon to talk about it.”

  Tea? In the afternoon? When had Sam decided to be so friendly? And why did it matter? This was a day of new beginnings, and a cup of tea was a small price to pay to improve our adjoining properties. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  I turned away and made a beeline for the door, shoved the key in the lock and ducked inside. Fergus was waiting in the window of the breakfast nook when I got to the kitchen, his fur all plumped up and a look of complete disdain in his eyes. “Don’t give me any trouble,” I warned him. “Thanks to you and your bowels, I’m the laughingstock of the hospital,” I said, stroking his huge tail vigorously.

  Fergus is a Maine Coon cat who rules my life with an iron paw. But the unvarnished truth is that he'd always seemed to understand when I needed him to leap up on the bed in the middle of the night...when I couldn’t sleep because of all the thoughts crowding my mind. And the regrets tugging at my heart.

  “Fergus, I have to call Kate with my news. So no howling while I'm on the phone, promise?” Fergus had this really annoying habit of breaking into cat song at about the same time as Kate picked up the phone.

  I dialed Kate's number and she answered on the first ring.

  “You have a new grandchild right?” Kate said.

  “Yes, a grandson, and his name's Graham Ellison Cardwell”

  “After his grandfather. How wonderful. You must be delighted.” Kate’s voice was filled with warmth and caring that never failed to bring me to tears.

  “I...I am.” I wished Fergus would let out with a howl so Kate couldn’t hear my voice thicken.

  “This calls for a celebration. I have a caramel coffee cake in the oven and I'll be over as soon as it's ready. How’s that sound?”

  “Fantastic. I have a few other phone calls to make."

  I raced to finish my calls. So much more fun than the bathroom I'd planned to clean. Still, the all-seeing goddess of housecleaning would have her sacrifice this morning, because of what I'd promised my daughter. I imagined Graham’s office looming at the end of the hall, waiting for me to enter. I felt the old familiar pang of regret, this time over wondering what today would’ve been like if Graham had been here to share it.

  To ease these feelings, 1 told myself that if Sam Bannister could change his tune, I could clean a drawer in the few minutes before Kate came roaring into the driveway.

  Sitting bolt upright in Graham's office chain, I ignored Fergus’s entreaties for a place on my lap and opened the bottom right-hand drawer.

  I'd never in my life gone through anything in my husband’s office, so I didn’t know what to expect—except maybe a bunch of files and possibly some reference texts. Or maybe a dried-up box of chocolates. Graham bad been an incurable chocoholic all his life.

  No box of chocolates. Not even a crumpled candy bar wrapper.

  Instead, I found...letters? And beautiful vellum stationery?

  Never in his life had Graham ever written anything to me on paper like this. Pushing Fergus’s furry face away, I pulled out the drawer, releasing it from its track, and hefted it onto the top of the desk. Had I discovered his private letters...love letters? Oh no, this couldn’t be what I thought...but why else would he be using such beautiful paper?

  Unable to breathe past the lump pressing against my throat, I took out the first letter. The house seemed to be holding its breath as I stared at the envelope suspended between my fingers. A letter meant for someone else...

  Anxiety made my limbs go weak. No, it couldn’t be. Not here in this house, our home And what if I knew her? My fingers twitched to tear the beautiful envelopes into tiny fragments and hurl them into the fireplace.

  But if I didn’t open them, I'd never know what they contained, who they were meant for and why. Gingerly, I took the rest of the letters out of the drawer and spread them on the desk. There were eleven—I could still count over the pounding of my heart—and they all appeared the same.

  No name or address on any of them, simply a number printed in Graham’s narrow script on the upper right-hand corner of the envelope.

  I closed my eyes and tore open the first one.

  Chapter Two

  Dearest Susan,

  It’s November 20, and I’m writing this letter after seeing Dr. MacKinnon this morning. He told me I have a deadly form of lung cancer, and the prognosis is very poor. On the way home in the car, all I could think about was you.

  How can I tell you something like this, something that will change everything between us? I love you so much. You’ll never know how badly I wanted to bare my soul to you today, to tell you how terrified I was. I wanted to pour out everything the doctor said, have you comfort me, do all the nice things you always do whenever I am in any kind of trouble.

  But then I remembered our conversation over breakfast this morning and all your plans for Christmas. I wanted what was almost certainly our last Christmas together to be perfect, and I knew how much you were looking forward to the holidays. I wanted our time with the children to be one of happiness, not clouded by the ugliness of my disease.

  As you are so fond of putting it, “God gave you a poker face and an ability to keep secrets that would've done the CIA proud.” I pray you're right. When I got home from the doctor's office a few hours ago, you were in the kitchen, flour and cookie sheets all over the counters. I needed to bury my face in your neck, feel you laugh against my chest and your arms around me!

  I decided then and there that I’d keep a diary of the months ahead, in the form of these letters. This dreaded disease has taken any pretense from my world. There's no time left for anything but complete honesty with myself...and thankfulness that I got to live the life 1 wanted with the woman who made me feel so special.

  When I look back on our life together, I realize that so much of how we loved each other came from our belief that our love could survive focusing on what was good in our marriage. We learned so much from each other about love and loving. I need to share what I remember best about our life together, about how you loved me, made me feel so positive about myself. But most of all, how lucky I was to have you in my life.

  The best place for me to begin is with the day I met you at the university bookstore. You were engrossed in reading a text on early childhood development. I remember watching you as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and rubbed the bridge of your nose, making your glasses slide sideways.

  Then I spoke to you and you raised your head. The slight frown and the way your eyes widened in surprise was so endearing. The way you looked at me, with your warm scrutiny and gentle smile, scrambled my thoughts to the point that I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. I had an overwhelming urge to touch you, feel the softness of your hair right there in the middle of the bookstore.

  I'd never been good at dating, but meeting you made me determined to try. Our first real date was at the campus café. When you walked in the door and smiled at me, my fate was sealed. We had coffee and chocolate doughnuts while we talked, You listened to every word I said and answered my ideas with your own. In fact, you seemed genuinely interested, I found out later that you were interested in just about everything, which is why so many people loved to talk to you.

  After that first date my days were measured in how many hours before I could see you again. Then I nearly blew it
a year later when I got cold feet about getting married. The day your father showed up at my dorm and ordered me out to his car, and we set out for the local pub—that was one scary ride. When he plunked a beer down in front of me and wanted to know why I wasn’t going to marry his daughter, I nearly flipped out. He told me no man, alive or dead, was going to hurt his daughter without offering an explanation.

  He talked and I listened. The more he talked, the more I realized that my fear of getting married had to do with my upbringing and not with you at all.

  When we’d first made our wedding plans, I was happy and looking forward to our future together. Then, the weekend I went home to tell Mom and Dad I began to wonder whether I was making the right decision. Back in the house where I grew up, I saw how cold and withdrawn my father was, and how he always equated any display of emotion with weakness.

  That's when I began to worry that I was just like my father—a heartless, self-absorbed man who couldn’t show love or affection. What if you ended up wishing you’d never married me? I couldn't tell you any of this because I was ashamed of how my father treated my mother.

  Thank God, I listened to your dad. I could have lost the love of my life and the man who turned out to be one of my best friends. Steve Madden was the father I wished I could have had. What I wouldn’t give to talk to him now.

  During our marriage I tended to keep my emotions to myself. I’ve come to understand how much you wished I would share more of my feelings with you.

  And so the letters that follow are my attempt to tell you how I felt about the things that really mattered in our lives. These letters are going to be about you and me, about what you've meant to me.

  Love always,

  Graham

  * * *

  Loneliness and need for the man I loved rushed through me, taking my breath. How well I remembered our first date. The way his eyes seemed bluer when he smiled. His laughter at my inept attempts to be funny. And those agonizing moments when we got back to my dorm and I was so sure he’d kiss me. He didn’t, and I was convinced I'd never see him again.

  To my surprise he asked me out the next weekend, and the weekend after that. I'd learned that Graham Ellison was very good at keeping his cards close to his chest.

  But how had he kept his cancer a secret all those horrible weeks? And at Christmastime with the children there...

  I read his letter again. I could see his face that day when he came into the kitchen—the open appreciation in his eyes. My man of few words gave me a hug that nearly crushed me.

  When he told me the doctor was running some tests, why didn’t I ask what kind? Why didn’t I sit him down right then and make him tell me everything that had happened during his doctor’s visit?

  That last Christmas with him was wonderful, one of the best. Jonathan and Linda came home with Megan, who was barely three. I remember Megan’s squeals of laughter when her grandfather tickled her.

  Because my dad cared enough to talk with Graham—and my husband was willing to listen—we went through with our marriage plans in the end. But I'll never forget the day Graham mentioned in his letter—the day he said he wasn't sure we should get married. I was devastated.

  I came home to my parents’ house and hid out in my room. When I told my parents what had happened, their sympathy only made me feel worse. My two younger brothers, who never tired of teasing me, stayed out of my way. But neither Fred nor Albert could stop staring at me across the dinner table making me feel like I had a giant Reject stamped on my forehead.

  Once, I caught a bit of conversation between my parents, in which my father threatened to “beat a little common sense into that head of his.” With my father, once the idea was put into words, the actions weren’t far behind.

  Almost two weeks later, my father came back to the house, a triumphant look on his face. He avoided answering me when I asked him if he'd talked to Graham, but I’d seen my father on the move before, when one of his children was unhappy.

  Soon after, Graham arrived at the door, to tell me how sorry he was for doubting our love, and I was ecstatic. We decided on a small church ceremony as soon as possible. I'd put my wedding dress away and canceled the caterers, but with the help of Uncle Max... But that’s a whole other story.

  “Where are you Susan?” Kate's voice rang through the house.

  "In Graham's office." I folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into its envelope seconds before Kate appeared at the office door. “I'm so glad you've decided to clean out his desk...”

  I glanced at Kate and she got this really worried expression on her face.

  “What is it, Susan? Why are you crying?”

  “Graham wrote me eleven letters. I found them when I started cleaning out his desk.”

  “Oh, that must've upset you. Want to talk about it?”

  “No, not right now.” I put the letters in the drawer and followed Kate to the kitchen. Kate’s stick-with-it quality was part of the reason I loved her so dearly. Led by Kate Morrison, the home owners in our enclave of houses on Postmaster Lane—a quiet street in a suburb of Portland, Maine—never lacked for ideas on how to landscape the green space in the center of the street, never had to find someone to head up neighborhood watch or go before city council to argue against zoning changes.

  Kate was an activist in the nicest sense of the word, and she'd spent the past months trying to activate me—so far, without results.

  In the kitchen, Kate had the kettle singing. “Thanks for being so kind to me,” I said, and meant it.

  “You'd do the same for me,” Kate replied as she poured boiling water into the teapot.

  I would, in a heartbeat. There's nothing I wouldn't do for Kate. “Well, it's been quite a day so far,” I said, opening the glassware cupboard and taking out china tea cups.

  “I'd say so. How's the baby? And how's Amy?”

  “They're both fine, and Amy's going to make a wonderful mother.”

  “She takes after you, so that's not a surprise.”

  “I don't know about that, but she managed to convince Thomas to turn down another promotion, because it meant they'd have to move to Atlanta.”

  “He's lucky his company let him stay. And now you'll have little Graham to spoil.”

  "I hope Amy's reasons for encouraging Thomas to not accept that promotion didn't have anything to do with her concern for me."

  "I hope so, too. But it's their decision," Kate said as they sipped their tea.

  Impulsively, I reached across the table, taking Kate's hand in mine. "You are the best friend I've ever had in my whole life."

  "Me too." Kate's eyes moistened.

  After Kate left, I wanted to go back to Graham's office, but I wasn't ready to read another of his letters. That could wait for tomorrow. Instead, I got busy and made cookies for Thomas and Amy. Thomas loved my huge sugar cookies, and Amy loved chocolate chip. I'd drop them off at the house tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  Memories of all the fear and anxiety we'd experienced in those months after Graham finally did tell me he'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer kept me awake last night. Alone in the darkness I remembered trying to be upbeat and positive when all I wanted to was cry.

  The day we told the children took every ounce of courage and determination we could find within ourselves. What frightening days those were!

  Yet this morning, sitting as his desk with the morning light warming the room, I feel blessed. My husband, who so often guarded his words, had felt the need to put his thoughts on paper for me. And after a sleepless night, I needed to read them.

  Dearest Susan,

  Christmas is only a week away and I'm so afraid. I’ve always been able to keep a secret, but the stakes were never this high or this personal.

  I feel as if the world has abandoned me. I feel trapped inside my head, the same thoughts playing over and over: the sense that this is so unfair, that I may die before I can tell you all the things I need to say.

  Somet
imes when I’m here in my office with the door closed, I imagine what it would be like to go back in time, back when hope and faith in the future were our biggest assets.

  Thinking about you reminds me of how much you loved to dance—yet you spent the best years of your life with a man who had neither rhythm nor coordination. If I could change anything, it would be that I wish I’d been the ballroom dancer you so deserved. Sounds silly under the circumstances, doesn’t it?

  Remember our first apartment? That third-floor walk-up with heating pipes that clanged all winter. But its biggest attraction was that it came fully furnished. Which meant that we got thrift-store rejects and an old four-poster bed that sagged so badly we ended up sleeping almost on top of each other. But I loved that bed with you so close to me, and the two of us wrapped around each other during those cold nights.

  And when the morning light slipped past the wooden slats of the blind and lit the dust suspended in the air, I wanted to snuggle even closer. 1 loved the warmth of you, the instant you'd open your eyes, your sleepy gaze drawing me to you.

  And the desire in your eyes when I kissed you. The feel of your arms entwining around my neck as my eager fingers caressed you, making you groan with pleasure as you moved against me...

  What wonderful memories! And how self-assured we were back then, before life tested our abilities to cope.

  I remember, too, how strong you were when your parents died. I watched you mourn while I couldn't dredge up the words to console you.

  You must have wondered what kind of man you married. What loving husband would go to work and leave you? The truth is, I didn't know what else to do, and realizing I could busy my mind and quiet my heart through work made those weeks bearable for me.

  It's only now, with fear and loneliness dogging every thought, I realize how utterly lost and alone you must have felt when I went into work, leaving you to face your grief alone.