I read the letter through again. I paused over one part of a sentence…we’d drop a few coins in the box as payment. Had he meant we as in him and me? Or we as in the general public? I remembered the table with the apples, and especially liked to visit in October when the table would be filled with homemade toffee apples for Halloween.
His use of an expletive surprised me; maybe he wasn’t the elderly man with the scratched writing desk, beside an open fire, that I imagined. I tried to remember the children in the small primary school I’d attended, the name Lincoln didn’t ring any bells there. Not that I could remember that many names. Maybe Christian or Dad might know. But that would mean confessing to opening up to a complete stranger. Telling this Lincoln things they had been trying to get me to say to them. Would that hurt them?
I picked up my pad and pen.
Lincoln,
I’m pleased to know your name. I wondered if part of what you wrote was to yourself, as well as me.
I can’t speak, physically there is nothing wrong with me, but I open my mouth and no words come out. I’m glad. I don’t want to speak, so writing to you is the only conversation I’ve had since… You know, I can’t remember the date it happened. It was early in the year, that’s all I know. A truck drove into our car, it forced us off the road. Trey unclipped himself to protect Hannah and me; I was seven months pregnant at the time. If he’d stayed in his seat, he might not be dead. We all might have survived. At first, I was angry with him. Not now, now I know he sacrificed himself for Hannah and me, she just didn’t make it. I don’t actually know why. I never read any medical reports; I didn’t want to know.
They’re buried in the cemetery and I’ve never visited them. Other than to walk the beach, when I know it will be empty; I don’t leave the house. I can’t face meeting someone and them wanting to talk. Perhaps that gives you some idea why, for the first time in however many months, receiving your letter has lifted me a little.
You know, don’t you? You know exactly how I feel. Who did you lose, Lincoln?
How long does it take? How long before I’ll be able to feel something again?
Dani.
I folded the letter and placed in the same envelope he had left through the letterbox. I wrote his name next to mine. I wasn’t sure whether I’d make that short walk to the honesty box, but it felt cathartic to reply. I wanted to know his story; I wanted to know who he had lost and how he had survived. A small part of me felt selfish for asking him to relive that time. But then, I guessed, he wouldn’t have written back in the first place if he hadn’t wanted to share his story. It would have been inevitable that I’d ask, wouldn’t it?
Dad had prepared dinner for us, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cooked a meal. I sat at the table with him and he chatted. Every now and again he’d reach across and place his hand on mine, giving it a squeeze. I looked at his hand, calloused from many hours of manual labour. My dad had been a carpenter before he’d retired. Most of the furnishings in the house were the product of his labour. But now the hand that held mine was riddled with arthritis, his fingers had started to curl and were bony. Soon it would be October, and although September hadn’t been the late Indian summer we’d been promised, the cold winds that battered the cottage in winter would play havoc with his hands.
I studied his face as he spoke, while he ate. When did he get this old? What I remembered as fine lines around his eyes that got deeper with the laughter he always had for me, were more profound. His sparkling blue eyes were duller, filled with unshed tears. The tanned skin from days outside his workshop was paler. I should be caring for him, not the other way round.
I pushed my plate to one side.
How long has it been, Dad? I slid the pad over to him.
“Two hundred and fifty days, Dani,” he said, without hesitation and completely understanding what I’d asked. “Not long enough, so don’t you worry about a thing.”
Two hundred and fifty days. I tried to calculate, eight months, or thereabouts. Somehow it seemed longer.
“You need to stop rushing it, baby. You know, when your mum died, I thought I’d die with her. I wanted to. I can’t tell you how many times I picked up bottle after bottle of medication she’d been given. I emptied one in my hand one time. I wanted to take the lot. But I didn’t. The thought of you and Chris wasn’t the reason I didn’t. Grief makes us selfish, although I hate to use that word. I didn’t take them because I knew your mum would be furious at me. She would be so angry that she had no choice in living but I did. I had the choice to live; I had a choice that had been denied to her. You have a choice, Dani. You can live, or you can continue with this existence. And you know what, whatever your choice, it’s okay.”
For the first time in a while, I heard every word he’d said. Tears formed in my eyes. He reached over and wiped his thumb under one eye.
“Every day it kills me to see you in such pain. But I can tell you this. One day you’ll wake up and the sun will shine, the birds will sing, and it will lift your heart a little. One day you’ll speak, when you have something to say. Right now, you have nothing to give, so sit back and be looked after. I’m your dad, this is what I needed to live for.”
He stood and cleared away the plates, not that I think he’d finished his meal; it was more so I didn’t see his tears fall.
Chapter Four
“Going for a walk? Watch those steps, Dani, they’re getting slippery now.”
Dad had seen me walk out the back door. I turned to him and nodded, I managed a small smile. He beamed back at me.
Since our chat at dinnertime, something had changed. I saw him through different eyes. And that tonne of weight that weighed heavily on my shoulders was lighter by an ounce or two.
I placed my hand in my pocket, wrapping it around the envelope, and I skirted the side of the house. I wasn’t going to the beach; I was taking a walk up the lane to the honesty box. I paused halfway. Honesty Box. What I wrote, what Lincoln wrote, was about the most honest we’d been, I believed.
I stood by the newly painted metal gate and searched. Wedged into the hedge was the wooden box. I lifted the lid and looked inside. It was empty. I placed the envelope in and closed it, and then I walked back down to the cottage.
I didn’t go in straight away, I passed the side window and saw the back of Dad’s head as he sat on the sofa watching the TV. I pulled out the garden chair from under the table and sat.
How angry would you be at me for giving up, Trey? I thought. I knew the answer.
I wasn’t ready to face life; I didn’t know when I’d be. But I knew there were some things I needed to confront. I walked in to the living room with my pad and pen.
I can’t remember what she looked like, and that hurts me.
“She was beautiful. She looked like you, the day you were born. Wait here,” Dad said once he’d read my note.
I sat on the sofa and waited. A couple of minutes later, he returned. He held in his hand a photo frame. I took it from him and through the blur of my tears I looked at my daughter. Her eyes were open, big blue eyes stared up at a camera and her forehead was frowned, as if in indignation. She was wrapped in a blanket. Carved into the frame were her name, the date, and her weight.
Hannah Carlton – 03/02/16 – 3lbs2oz
How did they know her name? I wrote.
“They didn’t, you told me. When you woke up, you told me her name.”
I ran my finger over her face.
“That was taken by a nurse immediately after she was born.”
I nodded, understanding why she looked so cross and why she was wrapped in a white blanket.
Did you see her?
“I sat with her day and night, Dani. I held her little hand. She was in an incubator thing and I watched her every second of the time she…”
Were you with her when…?
“Yes. They took her out of the incubator and I held her to my chest. Like they show on the telly. I opened my shirt and I placed her next to my heart. If she couldn’t feel yours, she at least had a part of you through me. I wanted to bring her to you, even though you were unconscious; I wanted to lay her on your chest. But it wasn’t to be.”