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.
Three years had passed since May’s letter. Even if her mind had deteriorated, the son she mentioned might be able to provide some answers. I thought of the sacrifice she had alluded to. Did he grow up knowing his mother’s mysterious past, or was it kept secret from him as it was from us? I wondered what he looked like and tried to figure out how old he must be.
I glanced at my watch, anxious for the plane to arrive in Baltimore at last. I had to be patient. Still six hours to go.
When we finally landed, I was questioned by an immigration officer about the purpose of my visit. I flashed my press card, explaining to the man that I worked for a prestigious publication, and had come to give his fair city its moment in the sun. No reaction. The officer had been stationed in Baltimore for only two years. He was a Charleston native, and didn’t think much of his adopted city. Nevertheless, he stamped my passport and wished me well.
An hour later, I checked into a cheap little hotel two blocks from Sailor’s Hideaway and settled into my room. I thought of those other letters Michel had mentioned. It was already too late in the UK for me to call him, eager as I was to learn more. I longed to find answers to all the questions that were still haunting me and had kept me awake throughout the entire flight. In the meantime, I decided to go wandering along the pier.