Every Breath(56)

She moved through the house, turning off lights. Some of the switches on the lamps were notoriously hard to turn, and it took longer than she expected.

Her suitcase stood near the front door, next to the wooden box she’d retrieved from the attic. The sight of them made her think about Tru, but then again, she’d never really stopped thinking about him. He would be sixty-six now. She wondered whether he’d retired from guiding, or still lived in Zimbabwe; perhaps he had moved to Europe or Australia or someplace even more exotic. She speculated about whether he lived near Andrew, and whether he’d become a grandfather in the years they’d been apart. She wondered if he’d married again, whom he had dated, or even if he remembered her at all. Then again, was he even still alive? She liked to think she would have instinctively known if he was gone from this world—that they were somehow linked—but she admitted that might be wishful thinking. Mostly though, she questioned whether the final words in his letter could possibly be true—whether, for them, anything would always be possible.

In the bedroom, she put on the pajamas that Rachel had bought for her last Christmas. They were cozy and warm, exactly what Hope wanted. She slipped into bed and adjusted the covers, hoping for the sleep that so often eluded her these days.

Last year at the beach, she’d lain awake thinking about Tru. She’d willed him to come back to her, reliving the days they’d spent together with vivid intensity. She remembered their encounter on the beach and the coffee they’d shared that very first morning; she replayed for the hundredth time their dinner at Clancy’s and their stroll back to the cottage. She felt his gaze on her as they sipped wine on the porch, and the sound of his voice as he read the letter on the bench at Kindred Spirit. More than anything, she recalled the tender and sensual way they’d made love; the intensity of his expression, the words he’d whispered to her.

She wondered at how immediate it all still felt—the tangible weight of his feelings for her; even the implacable guilt. Something had truly broken inside her that morning she left, but she wanted to believe that in the break, a stronger element had eventually taken root. In the aftermath, whenever life seemed unbearably difficult, she would think of Tru and remind herself that if she ever reached the point where she needed him, he would come. He’d told her as much on their last morning together, and that promise was enough for her to carry on.

That night at the beach, as sleep remained out of reach, she’d found herself attempting to rewrite history in a way that gave her peace. She imagined herself turning the car around at the corner and racing back to him; she imagined sitting across the table from Josh and telling him that she’d met someone else. Dreamy images of a later reunion at the airport, where she’d gone to pick up Tru after his flight back from Zimbabwe, played out in her mind; in this fantasy they embraced near the baggage claim and kissed amid throngs of people. He put his arm around her as they walked to her car, and she pictured the casual way he tossed his duffel bag into the trunk as though it had actually happened. She imagined them making love in the apartment she once called home, all those years ago.

But after that, her visions had become clouded. She couldn’t visualize the kind of house they would have chosen; when she pictured them in the kitchen, it was either at the cottage her parents had sold long ago or the home she owned with Josh. She couldn’t imagine what Tru would do for a living; when she tried, she saw him returning at the end of the day dressed in the same kind of clothing he’d worn the week she’d met him, as though coming in from a game drive. She knew he’d regularly return to Bulawayo to see Andrew, but she had no frame of reference to even conjure up how his home or neighborhood might appear. And always, Andrew remained a ten-year-old, his features forever frozen in time, just as Tru remained forever forty-two.

Strangely, when she fantasized about a life with Tru, Jacob and Rachel were always present. If she and Tru were eating at the table, Jacob was refusing to share his french fries with his sister; if Tru was drawing on the back porch of her parents’ cottage, Rachel was finger-painting at the picnic table. In the school auditorium, she sat beside Tru as Jacob and Rachel sang in the choir; on Halloween, she and Tru trailed behind her children, who were dressed as Woody and Jessie from Toy Story 2. Always, always, her children were in the life she imagined with Tru, and though she resented the intrusion, Josh was there as well. Jacob in particular bore a strong resemblance to his father, and Rachel had grown up thinking that one day she might become a doctor.

Hope had eventually gotten out of bed. It was chilly at the beach, and, putting on a jacket, she’d retrieved the letter Tru had written to her long ago and seated herself on the back porch. She’d wanted to read it, but couldn’t summon the will to do so. Instead, she’d stared at the darkness of the ocean, clutching the well-worn envelope, overwhelmed by a surge of loneliness.

She’d thought to herself that she was alone at the beach, far from anyone she knew. Only Tru was with her; except of course, he was never really there at all.



Hope had returned from her week at the beach the previous year with a mixture of hope and dread. This year, she told herself that things would be different. She had decided that this would be her last trip to the cottage, and in the morning, after placing the box on the back seat, Hope rolled her suitcase to the rear of the car with a determined step. Her neighbor Ben was raking his lawn and came over to put it in the trunk. She was thankful for his help. At her age injuries came more easily and were often slow to heal. Last year, she’d slipped in the kitchen, and though she hadn’t fallen, catching herself had left her with a sore shoulder for weeks.