Your Perfect Year(64)

When he still didn’t answer, she stood and left the room as fast as the sheet would allow. She glanced impatiently into the living room. Everything was just as they had left it the previous evening, except there was no trace of Simon. It was just the same in the bathroom and the kitchen. It was as though the earth had opened up and swallowed him.

She calmed herself with the thought that he had probably gone to the bakery, and decided to wash away the brief night under the shower.

On the way to the bathroom, the front door caught her eye. And the folded piece of paper lying on top of an envelope in front of it. Together with Simon’s keys. She could see from where she stood that the note said more than simply I’ve gone to get some rolls.

She went up to it, bent down, and picked up the note. As she read it, her knees turned so weak that she leaned against the door before sliding down to the cold floor tiles.

My dearest Hannah,

I’m so very sorry to do this to you and cause you so much pain—but by the time you find this letter, I won’t be alive anymore.

I’m sure this will have shocked you. Maybe you’re angry; I even hope you are. But I can’t do anything else; I don’t have the courage to face up to this disease. My parents’ suffering lasted for far too many years, and I’m scared of sharing their fate. I’m even more scared of making you go through the very same things my mother had to. You don’t deserve that. No one deserves that!

Last night made it clear that you won’t leave me. And however lovely it is for me to be certain of your undying love, it’s also terrible. Because I can’t bear to leave you.

The gift you gave me is so wonderful, so incredibly magnificent, that I don’t have the words. But I can’t find it in me to keep my promise to accept it. I don’t have a year left.

Hannah, please believe me when I tell you I know it. I can sense the cancer, and I know that I can’t defeat it; it’s much too late for that. I don’t need a doctor to tell me.

To be honest—and if not now, when should I be honest?—I’ve realized for a long while that things haven’t quite been as they should. You were right when you told me I’d changed, that somehow I’d lost my vitality.

I’m afraid it was true. I don’t know if it began when Mama died or when I lost my job. Maybe a combination of the two, or maybe before that. The truth is, I didn’t send off any applications—not a single one. I lied when I claimed to be looking for a new job. I lied that I’d received nothing but rejections—it was all lies, all of it!

I believe it isn’t really the cancer that’s killing me. Something’s been dead inside me for a long time; it’s just that before now I didn’t dare to draw the logical conclusion. I once read a very comforting thought in a book: when you die, you return to the same state as you were in for millions of years before your birth—you’re physically absent. It’s not a bad thing at all that every one of us must leave this world sometime; we simply return to the universe where our souls have been and will be for the vast majority of time. This moment has now come for me. I can feel it so clearly.

Please, Hannah, forgive me and be happy without me. I know you can do it. I’m convinced you’ll have a wonderful life, one that’s much better without me than with me.

What is it you always say? Some good comes from everything? Believe me, there’s good in this. It’s the decision I’ve made for myself. It’s what I want for myself.

Please be kind enough to give my apartment keys to my landlord. You can simply have it cleared out, but there’s no rush. The balance in my account is enough to cover a few months’ rent, so don’t give up the apartment until you’re ready.

Please keep the car keys—the Mustang is yours now. You can drive it yourself or sell it. The documents are with the keys on the chest of drawers in the living room. The large envelope contains a full power of attorney, hopefully giving you all the rights you need to sort everything out. I’m afraid it isn’t an official form, but I’m sure it will be valid, as my signature’s on it.

If there’s any money left in my account by the end, it’s also yours. I’d like you to invest it in Little Rascals—use it to help your wonderful idea grow.

Hannah, I love you! And I’m so proud of you!

But however sorry I am, this love isn’t enough for me to carry on.

Simon

Hannah stared at Simon’s words, reading them over and over again. And as she became aware that the letters were blurring and dancing in front of her eyes, that she was on the verge of fainting, she bit her lower lip so hard that she gasped in pain and tasted blood.

This love isn’t enough . . .

She stood, allowed the letter to fall to the floor, went into Simon’s living room, and picked up the phone. She was calm—her fingers weren’t trembling in the slightest—as she dialed 110. It only rang once before a policewoman answered.

“Please come quickly,” she said slowly and clearly into the receiver. “My boyfriend’s about to commit suicide.”





29

Jonathan

Thursday, January 4, 10:07 a.m.

When Jonathan N. Grief didn’t wake until shortly after ten the following day, he felt no pangs of conscience. It had been a long evening, so it was hardly surprising that he didn’t jump out of bed as he usually did at six thirty. But he felt a slight malaise, a certain wistfulness, an indefinable . . . well, an indefinable feeling.