He waits until late morning, after the sun has finished its climb over the oak tree, the home warming, the heater switching off, light flooding through the front windows, before he goes to her. Her bed is empty, and he returns to the child’s room at the end of the hall, rapping gently on the door before pushing it open.
The sleeping bag he overlooked the first time is in use, her thin body on its side, her jet black hair splayed over the pillow, eyes closed, both hands tucked under her pillow. She looks so peaceful that he steps back, not wanting to wake her. Reaching for the door, he sees the envelope, propped up on a stack of pages, his name written on its front. He glances at Helena and steps forward, crouching and lifting up the thin envelope, turning it over, the seal undone, the hand-written page sliding easily out. He reads the first sentence and falls to his knees, crawling forward across the floor, pulling at the blanket, his breath coming out in gasps. The fleece pulls away from her, revealing her striped pajamas, her body not reacting to the exposure, nothing moving in her face, in her chest, everything too peaceful, too still. He slides his hands underneath her and lifts her into his chest, burying his face into her, choking out her name as she falls, limp, against him.
Closing his eyes, he grips her tightly, her skin cool and unresponsive, and sobs.
Dear Mark,
I’m sorry you had to be the one to find me. I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you. Please don’t mourn my death. Please celebrate my life, the tiny stretch of happiness that you brought to it. You made my final months mean something. You gave me the greatest gift anyone could give to another person: peace. I am the happiest I’ve been since she died. I’m finally ready to forgive myself. There has never been a better time for me to leave.
The drug I took is a heavy sedative, one prescribed to me by two Vermont doctors who specialize in assisted deaths. I will die in my sleep, and won’t feel a thing. When you read this, my pain and grief will be over, and I will be with Bethany. I can’t wait to touch her face. I can’t wait to hug her to me and tell her all about you, and Mater’s baby, and that night you kidnapped me and forced me to watch Matthew McConaughey and eat contraband candy.
I can’t bear to see Charlotte Blanton’s face; I’m too selfish to hear her story. I assume she is looking for closure, and wanting to better understand the man who took her innocence. I don’t know that man. I know my husband. I know the things that I loved about him. I know the things I hated. Neither of them gave me any hint to his secrets. In the media room is a duffel bag with all of the tapes. Please give them to her, along with the letter I’ve placed on top of it, and a copy of the manuscript.
I could not have picked a better writer to tell my story. You are truly talented, one of the best I have ever read. In all of your novels, I found inspiration. In our novel, I found truth and self-forgiveness.
Underneath this letter are the final scenes of our story. Aside from proofs, I’d like you to keep it as original as possible. In my desk, you’ll find a few more chapters, random memories that I’ve written down and held back until now. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier about Simon. It was important to me that you wrote my impressions of him in a naive way. I didn’t want those memories tainted by what I later discovered. I wanted the reader to understand how I was so stupid. I wanted them to understand why I did and reacted and failed—the way I did.
Please don’t be sad for me. Please don’t, for one moment, mourn. We all knew it was coming. I just needed to hurry it along. I needed to go out on my terms. I needed to find peace with myself, and then not lose that feeling.
In this moment, I can feel her smile. In this moment, I can almost remember her hugs. I want to go to her. I want to be done with whatever this life is. If there is a heaven, I am ready for it. If there is a hell, I believe that I am not destined for it. And if there is nothing but oblivion, I am ready to close my eyes and sink into that emptiness. I am ready for nothing. I am ready to say goodbye to this world and die.
You are a good man. I wish I’d had a father like you. I wish I’d married a man like you. I wish, all of those years ago, we had become friends and not enemies. I wish Bethany could have met and known you. I wish I could have known you for longer than I did.
Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your words. Thank you for helping me with the most important task of my life. And thank you for picking up the pieces, once I am gone. I look forward to reading your next book in heaven.
Your friend,
Helena
KATE
Kate shifts into park and slowly opens the door, stepping from the car and meeting the eyes of the man who stands at the end of the driveway, his hands in his pockets. She steps toward him and Mark opens his arms, crushing her against his chest. She grips him around the waist, her face turned against his shirt, and breaks, her chest heaving with the sobs, the tears flooding her eyes, dampening the flannel of his shirt. He squeezes her tightly, his cheek against the top of her head, the warmth of his embrace the only thing keeping her together.
“She didn’t have any pain,” he said gruffly. “I asked the EMTs about it. She just went to sleep last night and didn’t wake up.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “Can I see her?”
“If you’d like.” He nods toward the ambulance. “She’s in there.”
Until she sees her, she almost doesn’t believe it. Death had seemed too weak of a path for Helena. The thought of a world without her, without more Helena Ross stories, without her weekly emails and rules, and opinions… in one quick moment, it is as if Kate has lost her entire reason for existing. Helena, simply put, can’t be dead. She can’t be gone. She can’t.
Yet there she is, her pale face slack against a cheap hospital cot.
Kate blinks quickly, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, her fingers reaching forward and gripping the rails of the gurney. Too much emotion pushes forward, her heart not prepared for it. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. She is supposed to have more time to prepare, she is supposed to be calm and cool and able to handle this. She isn’t supposed to break in half. Her mouth trembles, and she presses her lips tightly together.
“She left you a letter,” Mark says, from outside the ambulance. “Reading it might help. It did for me.”
“A letter?” Kate turns to look at him, surprised. “For me?”
He reaches back, pulling an envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. “Here.” He steps back. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re done.
She carefully takes the envelope, moving out of the way as the EMTs crowd the space, Helena’s gurney locked into place as they prepare to leave. Walking down the driveway a bit, she sits down on the concrete drive and works the page out of the envelope.
Dear Kate,
I gave you rules because I was afraid. Don’t ever second-guess your ability. Don’t ever think of me in any way except as a pain. I have been terrible to you. Please forgive me. It came from a place of guilt and self-hatred. Please, in this final letter, allow me a few more moments of bossiness.