The Last of the Stanfields(45)

“Only you, my boy. Now, don’t you forget our little deal . . .”





19

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, en route to Baltimore

As the plane glided over Scotland, I gazed out of the window to where the coastline met the rolling waves, the rest of the land still hidden under the wing. I had kept the leather pouch in my lap since takeoff, clutching it tensely as though it were some sort of precious relic. The leather was cracked, and the cord slack and worn with age. I had explored every last inch of the pouch, putting off the most important part. I was terrified to actually read the letter.

I thought about Michel writing that note and slipping the pouch into my jacket, all in secret. It must have weighed very heavily on him. Strangely enough, it actually gave me hope to know that my brother had strayed—even the tiniest bit—from the straight and narrow. It was crazy to think that lying and sneaking around had actually brought him one step closer to “normal.”

As I finally took the letter from the pouch, I was struck by the scent of my mother’s unique perfume on the envelope. I had to wonder: Just how long did she hold on to this mysterious letter? Closing my eyes, I pictured my mother opening the envelope and reading the message within, just as I was doing now . . .

My darling Sally-Anne,

First, I must tell you that this will be my final letter, even if it’s the last thing I want. This annual tradition has been so important to me—a much-needed escape from the crushing loneliness of my daily life. But you don’t need me to tell you about loneliness.

I often ask myself: How could two people’s lives be so utterly destroyed by one single, tragic mistake? Do you believe that kind of rotten luck is passed down from one generation to the next, like a curse?

I can just hear you teasing me for rambling, going on one of my tangents. How very clever of you. Well, it’s true. I’m losing my mind, darling. The guillotine dropped yesterday at the doctor’s office. I watched as that stuffed shirt studied my brain scan, his doughy face all soft with compassion, desperately trying to avoid looking me in the eye. That bastard doctor couldn’t even tell me how long it’ll be before I forget who he is! The most absurd part is that the disease won’t claim my life, just eat away at my memory. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’m keeping my chin up, as always. But I am terrified, darling. I want you to remember me as the woman I was, no matter what happens, not a decrepit old loon rambling away in a total fog. And that, my love, is why this will be my final letter.

So many memories that will be wiped away in time, yet they are still crystal clear in my mind. I see us riding through the wind on your motorcycle. I see those wild days and nights. I see our newspaper and the loft where I spent some of the happiest days of my youth . . . God knows I loved you. So much. I have loved you every day since and will keep on loving you until my dying day. Who knows? Had we stayed together, maybe that love would have eventually turned to hate, as it happens with so many couples left to weather the storm of time . . . Maybe that’s the one silver lining to our story.

You resolved to put the past behind you, my darling. I have always respected that choice. But we’ve all got to go sometime, even you. And I can’t help but think back to what we stole. So, I am begging you, my love. Do not let such a precious treasure dwell in darkness and fade from memory. Bring it back into the light where it rightly belongs, no matter the cost. You know that Sam would have wanted it that way.

It’s time to forgive the dead, my love. Bitterness left to fester doesn’t help anyone, and clinging to vengeance comes at such a heavy cost.

Tomorrow, I will set foot in my new home, one which I’ll never leave. Maybe I could have enjoyed my freedom a bit longer, but the burden would be too great on my son. So, I’ve decided to pretend—if I act crazier than I am, he’ll be free of that burden and free of any guilt. It’s the least I can do in light of the sacrifices he’s made for me.

To think of all the suffering we’ve caused. I would have never thought that love could take such cruel turns. And yet, I do still love you. I have always loved you.

Think of me from time to time—not the person writing these words today, but the fiery young woman with whom you shared so many dreams. All those dreams, my love . . . when the impossible was within our grasp, close enough to touch . . .

Still Independent, and your most faithful accomplice,

May

I read the letter over again, start to finish. The first pieces of a cryptic puzzle were falling into place right before my eyes. Mum did launch a weekly paper, it seemed—but not in England.

Who in the world was this woman calling her “my love”? Why did Mum never mention her, not even once? The loneliness part escaped me completely. What act could Mum have committed to ruin the rest of her life? So many unanswered questions. The treasure. Sam. The suffering she mentioned. The talk of tragedy and vengeance that was completely shrouded in mystery. What did she mean, “forgive the dead”? Forgive whom, for what?

I resolved to find this mysterious May, wherever she was. I hoped—albeit selfishly—that her condition had not worsened too much in the years since she wrote the letter. Then it hit me. I flipped over the envelope in a frenzy, cursing myself for not thinking of it sooner. The stamp. It was the same as the one from the anonymous letter. Could May have written it during a momentary lapse of reason? No, she couldn’t be the poison-pen. The handwriting didn’t match at all.