The One Real Thing
Page 5
I walked out of his apartment, knowing he’d gotten the reminder.
We were just fuck buddies.
He had no right to answers about anything in my life.
THREE
Jessica
Despite the fact that I spent little time away from work, I stretched myself financially to rent my two-bedroom apartment downtown. I’d wanted the extra space so that my best friend, Matthew, his wife, Helena, and my goddaughter, Perry, could visit whenever they wanted.
It was a spacious and airy apartment with an open-plan kitchen and living room. It was stylish and comfortable, and my whole body seemed to sigh with relief every time I stepped inside it. I didn’t get much alone time here, but when I did, I savored it.
The first thing I did was shower, hurrying through the process and then speeding through blowing out my hair. It was still damp when I changed into my pajamas and wandered casually into the kitchen. The kitchen was the reason I chose the place. It was sleek, glossy, and white—white cabinets, white tile flooring, white sink, white stove: white, white, white. But the whiteness was broken up by the backsplash of leaf tiles—copper foil encased in glass. It was a glamorous touch of luxury, as was the huge picture window at the end of the kitchen that gave me a fantastic view of the city.
I grabbed a cold beer and stood at my kitchen counter, staring out the large window as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But trying to relax was impossible when my eyes kept drifting to my purse. I’d left it sitting on my favorite armchair.
Screw it.
I couldn’t wait anymore.
With cold beer in hand I curled up on the chair and pulled the envelopes out of my purse. Part of me wondered why whoever wrote them didn’t mail them, and why they stuck them inside of a book. Did they want them to be found eventually? Or was it wrong of me to read them?
I let my conscience decide it was the former. Putting my beer down, I opened all the envelopes. Inside were letters with lovely feminine handwriting. I checked each for a date.
They were written in 1976, forty years ago.
Wow.
I got little goose bumps just from touching the decades-old paper.
Putting them into chronological order, I picked up the first one, along with my beer, and settled in to read.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 14, 1976
My darling George,
What you must think of me. I dread it. In fact, I can barely breathe under the weight of my secrets, secrets that have kept me from you. Secrets that have destroyed all the good you ever thought of me.
Perhaps it’s too late to explain. It’s definitely too late to change my circumstances. But not too late to change yours. Not too late to change how you think of me. I think I’d be okay if I knew you could forgive me.
You need to know that I love you. I have loved you from the moment we collided on the boardwalk and you picked up my books and asked me if you could carry them for me. It was such an old-fashioned gesture, when all the other boys were too busy trying to be cool. You were always just you. And you were the kindest, most thoughtful boy I’d ever met. And you made me laugh. I never knew I could laugh like that until I met you.
Do you remember the day Kitty Green put my clothes down the toilet after gym class? I had to wear my gym clothes all day and everyone knew and laughed and teased me. Not only did you stand up for me, you took me to the boardwalk after school and you did all these funny impressions of Kitty and the mean girls. You turned my tears into laughter.
You have always turned my tears into laughter.
It was real between us. You have to know that. From that first smile, to our first kiss, to the first time you made love to me.
I never wanted those moments with anyone else.
If you believe anything in this world, believe that.
Believe that I love you more than any other person and that that love will never die. You’ll be the last image in my mind the day I leave this world, and I hope that image of your goodness, the love I feel for you, will be enough for God to recognize that I know of Heaven and I cherish its value. Perhaps in that knowledge He will forgive me and welcome me home.
Forever yours,
Sarah
It took me a moment to reach for the next letter. Already my chest ached. It was so desperately sad to read the woman’s profession of love without knowing why this stranger had been separated from someone she cared so deeply for. A small part of me envied her, her love. The larger part of me knew I shouldn’t. She had clearly suffered even though she had known love.
I picked up the next letter, desperate to know the reason for their separation and her incarceration.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 23, 1976
My darling George,
I am so sorry. I meant to explain everything in my first letter. I truly did. For a moment I lost courage. All that seemed important was telling you I loved you. But as important as that is, I realize it’s just as important for you to hear that I didn’t love Ron.
I pleaded guilty because it was the truth, George. I killed Ron. I killed my husband.
He didn’t deserve the title. He was cruel. Beyond cruel. There is no excuse good enough for taking a man’s life, I know that. But I was protecting myself. I’d taken so much for so long. He kept hurting me. From the night of our wedding until the day I shot him, Ron hurt me.
I didn’t want to marry him. He forced my hand. On the night of our wedding he took . . . I never wanted him. Not once throughout our marriage did I want him.
We were just fuck buddies.
He had no right to answers about anything in my life.
THREE
Jessica
Despite the fact that I spent little time away from work, I stretched myself financially to rent my two-bedroom apartment downtown. I’d wanted the extra space so that my best friend, Matthew, his wife, Helena, and my goddaughter, Perry, could visit whenever they wanted.
It was a spacious and airy apartment with an open-plan kitchen and living room. It was stylish and comfortable, and my whole body seemed to sigh with relief every time I stepped inside it. I didn’t get much alone time here, but when I did, I savored it.
The first thing I did was shower, hurrying through the process and then speeding through blowing out my hair. It was still damp when I changed into my pajamas and wandered casually into the kitchen. The kitchen was the reason I chose the place. It was sleek, glossy, and white—white cabinets, white tile flooring, white sink, white stove: white, white, white. But the whiteness was broken up by the backsplash of leaf tiles—copper foil encased in glass. It was a glamorous touch of luxury, as was the huge picture window at the end of the kitchen that gave me a fantastic view of the city.
I grabbed a cold beer and stood at my kitchen counter, staring out the large window as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But trying to relax was impossible when my eyes kept drifting to my purse. I’d left it sitting on my favorite armchair.
Screw it.
I couldn’t wait anymore.
With cold beer in hand I curled up on the chair and pulled the envelopes out of my purse. Part of me wondered why whoever wrote them didn’t mail them, and why they stuck them inside of a book. Did they want them to be found eventually? Or was it wrong of me to read them?
I let my conscience decide it was the former. Putting my beer down, I opened all the envelopes. Inside were letters with lovely feminine handwriting. I checked each for a date.
They were written in 1976, forty years ago.
Wow.
I got little goose bumps just from touching the decades-old paper.
Putting them into chronological order, I picked up the first one, along with my beer, and settled in to read.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 14, 1976
My darling George,
What you must think of me. I dread it. In fact, I can barely breathe under the weight of my secrets, secrets that have kept me from you. Secrets that have destroyed all the good you ever thought of me.
Perhaps it’s too late to explain. It’s definitely too late to change my circumstances. But not too late to change yours. Not too late to change how you think of me. I think I’d be okay if I knew you could forgive me.
You need to know that I love you. I have loved you from the moment we collided on the boardwalk and you picked up my books and asked me if you could carry them for me. It was such an old-fashioned gesture, when all the other boys were too busy trying to be cool. You were always just you. And you were the kindest, most thoughtful boy I’d ever met. And you made me laugh. I never knew I could laugh like that until I met you.
Do you remember the day Kitty Green put my clothes down the toilet after gym class? I had to wear my gym clothes all day and everyone knew and laughed and teased me. Not only did you stand up for me, you took me to the boardwalk after school and you did all these funny impressions of Kitty and the mean girls. You turned my tears into laughter.
You have always turned my tears into laughter.
It was real between us. You have to know that. From that first smile, to our first kiss, to the first time you made love to me.
I never wanted those moments with anyone else.
If you believe anything in this world, believe that.
Believe that I love you more than any other person and that that love will never die. You’ll be the last image in my mind the day I leave this world, and I hope that image of your goodness, the love I feel for you, will be enough for God to recognize that I know of Heaven and I cherish its value. Perhaps in that knowledge He will forgive me and welcome me home.
Forever yours,
Sarah
It took me a moment to reach for the next letter. Already my chest ached. It was so desperately sad to read the woman’s profession of love without knowing why this stranger had been separated from someone she cared so deeply for. A small part of me envied her, her love. The larger part of me knew I shouldn’t. She had clearly suffered even though she had known love.
I picked up the next letter, desperate to know the reason for their separation and her incarceration.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 23, 1976
My darling George,
I am so sorry. I meant to explain everything in my first letter. I truly did. For a moment I lost courage. All that seemed important was telling you I loved you. But as important as that is, I realize it’s just as important for you to hear that I didn’t love Ron.
I pleaded guilty because it was the truth, George. I killed Ron. I killed my husband.
He didn’t deserve the title. He was cruel. Beyond cruel. There is no excuse good enough for taking a man’s life, I know that. But I was protecting myself. I’d taken so much for so long. He kept hurting me. From the night of our wedding until the day I shot him, Ron hurt me.
I didn’t want to marry him. He forced my hand. On the night of our wedding he took . . . I never wanted him. Not once throughout our marriage did I want him.
