This Is Not How It Ends(89)

Stretching across the bed, I opened the end-table drawer to see piles of paper lining the wood. Staring back were estate documents, financial statements, and information relating to safe-deposit boxes I never knew he had. The paper at the top was our marriage license. I studied his signature and touched the swirly letters with my finger. “Oh, Philip.”

I lay back on the bed, knowing this was a bad idea, but Sunny nudged me with his nose.

Returning to the drawer, I unloaded the documents and artifacts onto the bed. One by one, I began putting the papers in some sort of order. I divided them by banking information, deeds to properties, and the miscellaneous questions I needed to ask the attorney. There were envelopes with personal items I couldn’t get close to, though his watch remained beside my bed, the ticking sound putting me to sleep. I had spread the pages across the comforter, when Sunny’s foot landed on a smaller envelope. I bent over and kissed his paw, that strange scent of Fritos filling my nose. Philip and his trove of information had told me that endearing smell was actually yeast and bacteria, but I blocked it out while my eyes adjusted to seeing my name scrawled in the fine lettering of a man who was left-handed. It was Philip’s handwriting, and my fingers ripped the paper open.

It was dated weeks before he passed.

My darling Charley,

My dear sweet almost bride, I’m sorry to have caused you this pain. You’ve witnessed too much loss in your young life, suffered more than any of us ever should. You asked me once what I feared most in life. I said falling. What I should have said was falling in love. Falling. For you. For someone as genuine and passionate. For what I fear most is not being able to love you anymore—to fall away and apart from you. To be unable to take care of you and cherish you the way you most deserve.

When I met you, you were busy analyzing that silly movie—part of your infatuation with understanding human behavior. Do me a favor darling, don’t analyze this. This is a very simple story. It’s not about death. It’s about life. Although I’d say you got the dramatic ending you longed for.

If I know you as well as I think I do, you’ve thrown these important papers in a drawer and it could be weeks or months or years (I hope not years) before you get around to reading this. That’s fine. Because I knew you’d need some time to hear what I’m about to say. You may want to sit down.

My darling, you’re a very rich woman.

Okay, you’re probably not laughing, so here’s the truth. I’ve been sick for some time.

I learned that I was ill on a terribly boring trip back home in London. You remember the one? It was July, after Thailand, and my stomach had been acting up for days. Natasha and I were at dinner—you know Natasha, the biggest hypochondriac of all—and she was convinced I’d picked up some parasite. One phone call to Dr. Bruce, and I was on my way to the hospital for some tests. A special ultrasound of my abdomen. They asked me if I drink a lot. I chuckled. Seems the machine detected a small case of pancreatitis, which in itself wasn’t alarming, but then they spotted the small tumor tucked away on my pancreas.

Bruce said we had caught it early. With some chemotherapy and radiation, I’d be good as new. Why upset you? But Natasha wouldn’t let it go, the constant phone calls her incessant worry. We argued. Lord, we always argued. The two of them insisted I tell you, but with all the traveling, I didn’t think you’d notice. And you didn’t. Until you did. Now I may have fibbed a tad, parked myself at the hospital in Miami when I said I was in Boston or Chicago, and you questioned it. I apologize for the dishonesty, but it served a purpose. Boundaries were never our thing, dear Charley. That was part of the reason we first fell in love—the spontaneity, never knowing what was just around the corner. You said you rather liked the bald look. Remember?

Watching you care for your mother in her final days, I also feared you having to go through that suffering again. I wished to spare you the cold dread of cancer, of someone else you loved leaving, and by taking this on alone, I believed that I did.

Who bloody knew the small, encapsulated tumor wouldn’t respond to any form of treatment? That our beautiful life was coming to an end, the greatest test of its strength knocking at our door? Charley, it was the one promise I couldn’t keep, and I am sorry for that. If I was distracted, it was because I wanted to live for you. If I was distant, it was because I didn’t want to hurt you. And when I didn’t seem overjoyed when you told me about the baby, it was because I feared I wouldn’t be here to meet her.

It was shortly after that when you met Dr. Leeman. Surgery wasn’t an option; I made the decision to forgo further treatment. It was already making me sick, stealing from our time together. I am not sorry for that, so don’t you be sorry either. I know you, Charley, you’ll beat your bum up for years about this. It was my choice. My choice to spare you the hopefulness that would turn to grief. I knew how difficult it would be for you. Here’s the thing, darling, and you might want to sit down again if you’ve gone off and started pacing the floor. I also knew that you and my best friend were falling in love. I can’t lie—it stung at first, but after these diagnoses, I began to see things from a rather different perspective. I could be angry and cruel, or I could give the two people I love most in the world a chance to be happy.

Close your mouth, Charley. This can’t be a complete shock. From the start, I pushed the two of you together. At first it was genuine pleasure seeing you become friends. The cooking lessons (you were a dreadful cook, darling) and that horrid little storm? Of course, I insisted that Ben take care of you. And he did. I saw it turning into more than friendship, but then I also saw how happy you were. I watched you two, even when you thought I didn’t. He gave you something I never could. And it’s what you both needed.