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family—the kids were too young when she died—he found it easy
to imagine her being at the table.
Perhaps that was the reason he couldn’t sleep, long after Katie
went home and Kristen and Josh were asleep in their beds.
Tossing back the covers, he went to the closet and opened the safe
he’d installed a few years earlier. In it were important financial
and insurance documents, stacked beside treasures from his
marriage. They were items that Carly had collected: photos from
their honeymoon, a four-leaf clover they’d found while
vacationing in Vancouver, the bouquet of peonies and calla lilies
she’d carried on her wedding day, ultrasound images of Josh and
Kristen while each was still in her womb, along with the outfits
that each had worn on the way home from the hospital. Photo
negatives and camera disks, chronicling their years together.
The articles were heavy with meaning and memories, and since
Carly’s death, Alex had added nothing to the safe, except for the
letters that Carly had written. One had been addressed to him.
The second had no name on it, however, and it remained
unopened. He couldn’t open it—a promise, after all, was a
promise.
He pulled out the letter he’d read a hundred times, leaving the
other in the safe. He’d known nothing about the letters until she’d
handed the envelopes to him less than a week before she died. By
that point, she was bedridden and could only sip liquids. When he
carried her to the bathroom, she was light, as if somehow she’d
been hollowed out. He spent her few waking hours sitting quietly
beside her. Usually, she would fall asleep again within minutes,
and Alex would stare at her, afraid to leave in case she needed
him and afraid to stay in case he might rob her of rest. On the day
she gave him the envelopes, he saw that they had been tucked into
the blankets, appearing as if by magic. Only later would he learn
that she’d written them two months earlier and her mom had been
holding them.