Until We Meet Again(88)
I know the words he’s going to say. “Goodbye, Cassandra.”
I can’t breathe. Part of me wants to collapse right here. Even
if we die here on this beach, it has to be better than watching
him disappear forever.
“Goodbye,
Lawrence.”
“Know this. We may never be together again, but I will love
you for the rest of my life.”
I hold him with all of my strength. I press my face into
his chest, willing him to stay a minute longer. Just a minute
more. But as he holds me, the pressure from his grip softens.
The colors of his body become muted. A glowing line of light
rises from the dark water.
It’s happening.
Lawrence pulls back from our embrace. He’s fading into the
sand around me, as I know I am for him. Our eyes meet—his
so beautiful and sad. As I stare back at him, an unexpected
wave of happiness rushes over me. I don’t know what I did
to deserve a love this beautiful, but for the rest of my life, I’ll
give everything I have to do it justice.
I set my hand to Lawrence’s vanishing face. With tears spilling from my eyes, I press my lips to his in a final kiss. We stay that way, locked in a kiss that will endure forever, even if
just in our memories. We stay together until Lawrence Foster
disappears back into 1925.
Chapter 4o
Cassandra
T
he next two days pass in utter blankness. I have no
memory of what I did, what I said, what I felt. There was
nothingness.
Then came the sorrow. In many ways, sadness that you knew was coming feels worse than the unexpected. I spend the first nights lying in bed, staring at the ring Lawrence gave me, and crying as I never had before.
Mom does her best to help. We talk a little about it, when I can manage. She knows that I’ve had to say good-bye to
Lawrence. Her encouragement that we can come back next
summer and see him again only sharpens the sorrow. But I
know she’s just trying to help.
And in many ways, it does help. Spending time with Mom and Eddie, even with Frank, reinforces something I knew all
along: That as much as I loved Lawrence, I couldn’t have left my family forever.
Little by little. Piece by piece. Hour by hour, the pain softens.
It’s still there, but more a dull, ever-present ache. Then, one morning I’m halfway through my first painting of the summer, and I know. I’ll be okay. I’ll make it through.
I’m finally ready to go back to the library. This time I don’t need to search through boxes and boxes of microfilm. Just one. The one that started this all. I know the date, of course, and I’m sure I have the exact box because it has the same red smudge on the left side.
August 1925. I know exactly where to look. I scroll to where I first read about Lawrence’s murder.
The article is gone.
It skips from the story above it neatly down to the next. It’s
done. Lawrence is truly safe. Now I’m ready to read the pages he gave me on our last day together.
I take them to the beach. It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot on the sand since the day Lawrence left. I honestly never thought I’d be able to come here again, but there’s no better place to feel close to his soul.
My fingers tremble as I untie the string. For the first few
moments, I can only stare at the vague shape of his words. The curve of the letters and gentle indentations on the page, these are his. Maybe I’m not ready for this. I’ve worked so hard to heal in the last few weeks. Do I really want this to tear open the wound again?
But then, the first line sharpens into focus.
We may never be together again, but I will love you for the rest of my life.
As clearly as if he were still beside me, I can hear Lawrence
speak those words, the final words before we parted. The sensation of hearing his voice radiates through me. Every inch of my body tingles with happiness.
Hungrily, I pore through the rest of the pages. I don’t cry
a single tear as I read. I can only soar with joy. I read every last word and then immediately read them again. I stay on the beach for hours, reading and watching the waves, reliving the time we shared. Sitting here in our spot, savoring his words, I can almost feel Lawrence beside me. I can almost feel his arms pulling me close, his fingers brushing my face. It hurts, but I feel happier than I’ve been in weeks. I feel close to Lawrence again, and that’s worth any amount of pain.
As the sun starts to shift to afternoon, I reread the pages
where Lawrence describes how important his writing is to him.
He’s writing fast. I can tell from the way the words slant and are pushed into the paper. He’s excited to share his longest held, deepest dreams. As I read one line in particular, however, I stop.
I reread the lines.
I plan to fully abandon the carefully constructed life my father has laid out for me. I’m even going to shed his name. I’ll
take on my mother’s name, Winthrop. I’ll
start my life fresh.
I ponder the passage. A memory blossoms deep in the recesses