The One Real Thing
Page 8
Thankfully, I was determined enough to get through the horror of the dustland.
Fourth drawer in, my heart leapt in my chest at the sight of Sarah’s name and inmate number. I almost dropped the damn folder in my hurry to get it out of the drawer. Clutching it tightly in hand, I took it over to a table that was set up in the back of the room and clicked on the library lamp that sat on it. To my surprise the bulb in the lamp still worked.
I didn’t completely understand my reaction to Sarah’s story. All I knew was that she’d gotten under my skin in a way that surprised the heck out of me. I felt like I knew her. Like I understood her in some way. And more than anything I wished for a happy ending for her.
I flipped open her records. The first thing I saw was a picture of a frail-looking woman. There were hints of her once-upon-a-time beauty, but it appeared as if life had battered most of the prettiness out of her.
And as I read on, all my hopes and wishes for her died there on the spot.
Inside the folder was a copy of her medical records and her date of death.
May 8, 1976.
The day she wrote her last letter to George.
That was why he’d never gotten them.
I read through the medical notes with a heavy heart. Sarah had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in January 1976. All the time she’d been writing to George she’d been undergoing radiation therapy. The treatment had been aggressive because her cancer was aggressive, and she died of heart failure.
I closed her records feeling impossibly sad. Now I knew why Sarah had wanted George’s forgiveness so quickly. She wanted it before she died, and he never got the chance to give it to her.
Wiping tears from my eyes, I quickly put her records back, wishing I could unsee them and frankly wishing I could unsee the letters. There were enough unhappy endings in this life. I didn’t need to know about a stranger’s.
However, as I worked that day, my mind kept drifting back to the man she had written to. I couldn’t help wondering if George might still be alive. I knew from Sarah’s records that she was twenty-six years old when she died. If she and George were the same age, then he would be only sixty-six years old.
How hard could it be to find a state senator’s son who lived in Hartwell, a city so small I hadn’t even heard of it until I Googled it? Turned out it had a pretty boardwalk and gorgeous beach so it was actually quite a popular vacation spot.
When I had another moment free I Googled “Anderson Beckwith.” Sure enough it pulled up articles on the state senator, and before I knew it I found a photo of George Beckwith. It was taken in 1982 with his father at a political rally at Princeton University. The college of George’s dreams. The college he never got to go to despite Sarah’s efforts.
I stared at his handsome face and knew he and Sarah must have been a fine-looking couple. I wanted desperately to see a photograph of them together, when they were both young and happy.
“God,” I muttered, clicking off the screen. Why was I so hung up on this? “You’re going crazy.”
“Why are you going crazy?”
I jumped, startled, as Fatima strode into my office with a cup of coffee for me. I took it gratefully but scowled at her. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”
“Why? So I don’t catch you talking to yourself like a crazy person?”
I sighed. “I think I might be a crazy person.”
Fatima frowned and sipped at her own coffee. “And why is that?”
“I did something.” I pulled my purse out from under the desk and searched through it for the envelopes. “That book you confiscated. Pride and Prejudice . . . I found something inside the binding . . .” I told her everything, including my discovery of what had happened to the inmate who’d written the hidden letters.
“Why didn’t you just say that was what you were looking for in the records room instead of lying?”
At her waspish tone I tried to appease her. “I didn’t want you to think I’d gone nuts.”
“I don’t think you’ve gone nuts.” Fatima looked over the letters and I saw my sadness reflected in her gaze. “This is heartbreaking shit.” She glanced up from them. “And I know why they get to you more than they probably would anyone else.”
For a moment I froze, wondering if she— Nah. She couldn’t.
“You can kid yourself all you want that you’re happy, but you and I both know there should be more to life than how you’re living.” Fatima handed the letters back to me, her eyes kind as she gave me some harsh truths. “You have no family, no boyfriend, and your oldest friend lives over a thousand miles away. Now, I’m glad you’re here working in this prison, but I have to ask myself what the hell made you want to work here when you clearly had so many other opportunities open to you. Can you honestly say that at thirty-three years old this is where you always hoped your life would lead you?”
For hours I sat in my empty apartment later that evening, Fatima’s words ringing in my ears. The woman had always known how to be blunt, but up until now I’d never felt the force of her words so much as I did today.
I didn’t want to believe that she was right or that the reason I felt so much for the woman I’d met through her letters was because I, too, felt as if life had slipped away from me somehow.
That there was no hope of a happy ending for me.
And maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I’d designed it that way.
I picked up my phone and called Matthew.
Fourth drawer in, my heart leapt in my chest at the sight of Sarah’s name and inmate number. I almost dropped the damn folder in my hurry to get it out of the drawer. Clutching it tightly in hand, I took it over to a table that was set up in the back of the room and clicked on the library lamp that sat on it. To my surprise the bulb in the lamp still worked.
I didn’t completely understand my reaction to Sarah’s story. All I knew was that she’d gotten under my skin in a way that surprised the heck out of me. I felt like I knew her. Like I understood her in some way. And more than anything I wished for a happy ending for her.
I flipped open her records. The first thing I saw was a picture of a frail-looking woman. There were hints of her once-upon-a-time beauty, but it appeared as if life had battered most of the prettiness out of her.
And as I read on, all my hopes and wishes for her died there on the spot.
Inside the folder was a copy of her medical records and her date of death.
May 8, 1976.
The day she wrote her last letter to George.
That was why he’d never gotten them.
I read through the medical notes with a heavy heart. Sarah had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in January 1976. All the time she’d been writing to George she’d been undergoing radiation therapy. The treatment had been aggressive because her cancer was aggressive, and she died of heart failure.
I closed her records feeling impossibly sad. Now I knew why Sarah had wanted George’s forgiveness so quickly. She wanted it before she died, and he never got the chance to give it to her.
Wiping tears from my eyes, I quickly put her records back, wishing I could unsee them and frankly wishing I could unsee the letters. There were enough unhappy endings in this life. I didn’t need to know about a stranger’s.
However, as I worked that day, my mind kept drifting back to the man she had written to. I couldn’t help wondering if George might still be alive. I knew from Sarah’s records that she was twenty-six years old when she died. If she and George were the same age, then he would be only sixty-six years old.
How hard could it be to find a state senator’s son who lived in Hartwell, a city so small I hadn’t even heard of it until I Googled it? Turned out it had a pretty boardwalk and gorgeous beach so it was actually quite a popular vacation spot.
When I had another moment free I Googled “Anderson Beckwith.” Sure enough it pulled up articles on the state senator, and before I knew it I found a photo of George Beckwith. It was taken in 1982 with his father at a political rally at Princeton University. The college of George’s dreams. The college he never got to go to despite Sarah’s efforts.
I stared at his handsome face and knew he and Sarah must have been a fine-looking couple. I wanted desperately to see a photograph of them together, when they were both young and happy.
“God,” I muttered, clicking off the screen. Why was I so hung up on this? “You’re going crazy.”
“Why are you going crazy?”
I jumped, startled, as Fatima strode into my office with a cup of coffee for me. I took it gratefully but scowled at her. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”
“Why? So I don’t catch you talking to yourself like a crazy person?”
I sighed. “I think I might be a crazy person.”
Fatima frowned and sipped at her own coffee. “And why is that?”
“I did something.” I pulled my purse out from under the desk and searched through it for the envelopes. “That book you confiscated. Pride and Prejudice . . . I found something inside the binding . . .” I told her everything, including my discovery of what had happened to the inmate who’d written the hidden letters.
“Why didn’t you just say that was what you were looking for in the records room instead of lying?”
At her waspish tone I tried to appease her. “I didn’t want you to think I’d gone nuts.”
“I don’t think you’ve gone nuts.” Fatima looked over the letters and I saw my sadness reflected in her gaze. “This is heartbreaking shit.” She glanced up from them. “And I know why they get to you more than they probably would anyone else.”
For a moment I froze, wondering if she— Nah. She couldn’t.
“You can kid yourself all you want that you’re happy, but you and I both know there should be more to life than how you’re living.” Fatima handed the letters back to me, her eyes kind as she gave me some harsh truths. “You have no family, no boyfriend, and your oldest friend lives over a thousand miles away. Now, I’m glad you’re here working in this prison, but I have to ask myself what the hell made you want to work here when you clearly had so many other opportunities open to you. Can you honestly say that at thirty-three years old this is where you always hoped your life would lead you?”
For hours I sat in my empty apartment later that evening, Fatima’s words ringing in my ears. The woman had always known how to be blunt, but up until now I’d never felt the force of her words so much as I did today.
I didn’t want to believe that she was right or that the reason I felt so much for the woman I’d met through her letters was because I, too, felt as if life had slipped away from me somehow.
That there was no hope of a happy ending for me.
And maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I’d designed it that way.
I picked up my phone and called Matthew.
