The Marriage Lie(47)

In the bathroom, the envelope sits like a hunk of kryptonite on my vanity. I inch my way across the tile and slide my shaking fingers into the padded paper, feeling around until they make contact with a cool slip of metal.

I know it’s Will’s ring before I pull it out. I know it by the hammered finish, by the weight and the thickness of the metal, the way it slides up my thumb and hugs just the right spot between the joint and the base. My breath catches when I read the inscription, the tiny letters a jeweler in Buckhead overcharged me to hand engrave: My very favorite person. xo, Iris.

A new wave of grief sucker punches me in the heart, a direct hit, and I settle the ring on my thumb, turn on the shower and stumble in fully clothed. I think about the day I pushed it up Will’s knobby finger, the ball of emotion that clogged my throat when we exchanged our vows, the way he twirled me around after until my heart felt like it would burst with joy. It was the perfect day, the first in the rest of our perfect lives together. How lucky was I to have found this man, my other half, my very favorite person on a planet crammed with strangers? I knew then our love would last a lifetime.

The lifetime lasted seven years and a day.

I tell myself I should be grateful, that I should cherish every second we had together, but as scalding water batters the top of my head, all I can think is, more.

Dammit, I wanted more.

*

By the time I strip off my clothes and turn off the water, my skin has bloomed pink, my fingertips have shriveled white and wrinkly, and I’ve missed breakfast by a good half hour. I picture Mom downstairs in the kitchen, holding a plate of pancakes a foot thick and staring with longing up at the ceiling. I know I should go down there, but I can’t. The inertia is as thick and sticky as flypaper. I leave my clothes in a wet heap on the shower floor, wrap my dripping body in a towel and sink onto the vanity stool instead, inspecting my face in the mirror.

Puffy eyes. Dark circles. Fish-belly complexion and sunken cheeks. It seems unfair that losing your husband means also losing your beauty. Haven’t I lost enough? Haven’t I been given enough shit to deal with? At the very least, widows should get rosy cheeks and glowing skin as a compensation prize.

I’m reaching for my jar of moisturizer when my elbow jostles the Liberty Airlines envelope, revealing another one, a smaller one, lying beneath it. A plain number ten envelope with a bluish tinge, generic and cheap. My name and address are typed in all caps across the front, under the words Personal and Confidential. I flip it over, poke a finger under the seal and rip it open.

The sheet of paper inside could have come from a million different notebooks, purchased at a million different stores. But it’s the three little words, scrawled in a script as familiar to me as my own, that suck the air from my lungs.

I’m so sorry.

A burst of heat spreads across my chest. I snatch the envelope from the counter and check the postmark. The letter was sent two days ago, on April 8. The crash happened on April 3. That’s five days after the crash.

After the crash. After it.

And yet this note was written by my husband’s hand. I’m positive of it. The angular cursive, the lazy transitions, the too-long tail on the last letter. Even the blots of ink are consistent with Will’s favorite pen.

There are a couple of hard knocks on the door, and Dave’s voice carries around the corner. “Iris, are you decent?”

It takes me a couple of tries to find my voice. “Come in.”

My brother’s face appears above me in the mirror, his concerned gaze lasering in on mine. “Was it his?”

At first I think he means the note, even though I just opened it, and there’s no possible way he could know. “Huh?”

“The ring. I take it was Will’s?”

Oh, right. The ring. I wiggle my thumb, feel the hard metal pushing against my skin. “Yes. It’s his.”

“Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry, Iris. I was hoping...” Dave steps closer, resting a supportive hand on my still damp shoulder. “I know you were hoping, too.”

It’s all I can do to nod. He gives me a funny look, and I pass him the paper over my shoulder.

“What’s this?”

“A note.” My voice is shaky, and so is my body, the emotions coursing through me so fast, my muscles vibrate with it. “I think Will wrote it.”

“Okay...” Dave dips his head, his eyes scanning the paper. “Sorry about what?”

“I don’t know.” I hand him the envelope, let him do the math for himself.

It doesn’t take him long. He spots the postmark, and his head whips up, his eyes blowing wide. “Who sent you this?”

I shrug. “It’s postmarked Fulton County, which means it’s local.”

Dave sputters for a few seconds before his anger catches wind. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” He shakes the paper above my head, his face turning purple with fury. “This is psychotic. Whoever sent you a note from your dead husband is a psychopath, you know that, right?”

I nod. “But it’s definitely Will’s handwriting.”

“It’s postmarked two days ago!” he roars, scowling at my reflection as if I’m the one who dropped it in an Atlanta mailbox. “How could Will have written it?”

“He must have done it before he died.”

“Then who sent it?”