This Is Not How It Ends(46)

He reached for his back pocket and pulled out a ragged envelope. It was folded and stained. Our eyes met, and the wall began to vanish. “There is something you can do for me . . .”

“Anything,” I said.

He handed me the envelope. “It’s from him . . . the man . . . the one who did this.”

He’d been sitting on it for weeks. The agony it must have caused to receive that letter. The range of emotions that meant many things but could never bring his wife back.

“Ben, I’m not the person who should be doing this.”

“Who else is there?”

It sounded a lot like a compliment, but it wasn’t.

I was staring deep into his eyes. “I’m not sure I can . . .” I tried to break free, but his gaze held me.

“Please, Charlotte, do this for me.”

I fingered the envelope, careful not to damage its contents. The paper was lined, like the kind Jimmy used for his homework. The handwriting was messy and hard to read.

“Go on,” he said.

I cleared my throat and read aloud.

Mr. Ben,

My heart is empty but for the pain I hold for you. I was driving along Amsterdam like I do every evening. The same route, the same customers. I always look out for pedestrians and other cars. Baby strollers. Joggers. Bicyclists. There’s so much action in the city it’s tough to keep up. But I’ve done it. For years I’ve managed to squeak by without incident. Until that night.

Mr. Ben, I have a wife, and I have two daughters. I have disappointed them in the worst way you can let loved ones down. I was supposed to be their beacon, the one who could guide them through the dark. I have become the darkness. I have shown them a life without light. I will live with that for the rest of my days.

More than that, Mr. Ben, I will live with what I have done to you and your son. I have a picture of the three of you in my bedroom. I took it from the newspaper. Every single day I speak to your faces. I say, I’m sorry, but I say other things, too. I tell Sari (I hope you don’t mind that I call her by name), I tell her how handsome her boy is. I talk to you. I tell you my thoughts about life. About redemption. I pray every single day that you will not find someone to replace Sari, but that you will find someone to help ease the burden and pain of her loss. You can never replace her. I took her from you. I will live with that the rest of my life.

The boy, James. Do you call him Jim or Jimmy? I watched you together one morning at the cemetery. You didn’t know I was there. I thought I heard you call him Jimmy. It suited him. He was a grown man in a boy’s body. I inflicted the pain and suffering that made him grow up too quickly. It’s because of me. As soon as you left, I dropped flowers on Sari’s grave. I have done that every Sunday since. I will do it for the rest of my life.

I’m not asking for your forgiveness or pity. I have enough of my own.

I was on my way home to my wife and two girls.

I wasn’t in a rush.

I was admiring the towering buildings with their glowing lights, how the city, despite its oppressive heat, was calm and sedate.

In a million years, I could’ve never predicted what would happen next.

She stepped out into the street. I looked up. The light was green. Why was she walking? I slammed on the brakes. It was too late. Do you know how I wish every single day I had better reflexes? That I saw her in time to stop? That I was just a few more inches back? Anything to have changed the cruel twist of fate.

Mr. Ben, I see Sari every single night I lay my head to sleep. It haunts me to know that I could’ve done something to stop this tragedy. Again, I am not asking for your pity. Not at all. I am telling you, from my heart, if I could have changed anything, I would have. She was the beautiful girl with the smile. The one who took that fateful step with love in her eyes. For she was looking back at you when our paths crossed.

She was looking at you.

With my deepest sympathy,

Aashish Kamlani



Ben had sunk into his hands, and I dropped the letter on the chair.

“I hate that man,” Ben said, burying his face deeper into his palms. My hand found his shoulder, and I soothed him with the gentle strokes of my fingers. His body was rigid and taut, there was no sign of softening. Aashish meant blessing. I knew this because of the book we’d read in class about an Indian family struggling with tragedy. By the novel’s end, the parents welcomed a son. Aashish, they’d called him. Ben would never consider Aashish a blessing of any kind, though perhaps his words could help Ben forgive and heal.

“I know,” I said.

He raised his head. “Thank you for doing this for me, Charlotte. You’re a good friend.”

We were facing each other, close. The only sounds were the trees rustling in the wind and the pool pump turning on and off. The gurgling noise permeated the air in successive waves. Ben was watching me. His eyes latched on to mine, and he didn’t let go.

In that moment, in Ben’s nearness, I felt the loneliness dwindling, ebbing away. A spooling tide tripping back to sea. It confused me, it was wrong, but I patiently waited, because I knew I was on the verge of something I couldn’t understand. Not yet.

“You’re pretty, Charlotte.”

I blushed, feeling everything except that word. His eyes were sad and imploring. “I don’t know what I’m saying. But that part, that part is real. You look so beautiful.”