I’m proof.
It’s made me realize how selfish we are with our emotions. How we blame other people for the decisions we make or the lack of opportunities we have and how stupid that is. Cord had an excuse to get out of anything; he had the hardest life of anyone I know. Yet he never used it as a crutch, and he didn’t let it keep him from choosing love. Even if he didn’t realize it.
“Hey,” Elin says from behind me.
I turn to see her. Her eyes are puffy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching out and cupping her cheek.
She sighs. “I felt like I should go through that envelope from the hospital,” she says. “And I found this.”
She holds up a piece of paper that stills me. It’s white notebook paper with smears of black.
“Cord wrote this while you were underground. And it has my name on it,” she whispers.
I fold her into my arms and rest my chin on her head as I remember us writing them. I had no idea he was writing to her, but I can’t say I’m surprised. “Does it say anything important?”
She pulls away. “I’ll read it to you:
“Well, this sucks.”
She laughs at the little stick person in a state of obvious frustration that was clearly drawn for her amusement.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think down here. I’ve thought about a lot of things, but I keep coming back to what you said about everyone’s life having a purpose. I’m sitting here in this hole the size of a small room with water freezing my toes off and your husband and brother making me crazy with their bickering and I’m wondering—how in the hell did I get here? Maybe my purpose in life is to be tormented by them assholes. Both of them.”
Another stick person makes her giggle and she looks up at me, then clears her throat before continuing.
“In all of my life, you made the biggest difference.” She looks at me, needing a second to gather herself before continuing. “Even growing up, as kids, you showed me how to fight for people, how to stand up for what’s right. You never knew it, but a lot of who I learned to be was by watching you and the empathy you had for people, even in times that were hard. You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
Her voice cracks and I grab her hand and squeeze it.
“I want you to know that I’m going to do everything I can to deliver your family back to you. And if I don’t make it out of here, I don’t want you to be upset. I mean, cry, because that feeds my ego a bit, but realize that maybe this was my purpose in life, like you said. And if that’s the case, I’m okay with that. I really am. Remember that story I told you once about “insane decisions”? This one was premediated. Remember that. Always.
Life’s not for the faint of heart, that’s for damn sure. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and this, my friend, won’t kill you. But I don’t know how much stronger you can get.
“There’s a winky face,” she says, sniffling back tears.
“Thank you for taking an interest in the kid from foster care that pulled an attitude on you in the cafeteria line in junior high. I don’t know why you did, but it proved to be the luckiest day of my life. It was the start of a family I never had.
“Thanks, Pit Bull. I’ve never really said this to anyone, but I love you guys.
“Cord.”
She breaks into tears and I hug her tight. “I had no idea he thought of me like that,” she sniffles. “No clue.”
My tongue is tied, the idea of my friend being gone too fresh to discuss. Hearing his last words, the words I watched him write on that piece of paper read out loud, is haunting.
“We need to go,” she says, reaching for my tie. “We can’t be late for his funeral.”
She works getting my jacket situated when I look at her. “He knew you were pregnant, didn’t he?”
Her hand stills. “Yes.”
“And I didn’t know?”
She looks into my eyes, tears filling them. “It was Cord that told me I was pregnant.” She goes back to work on the tie, clearing her throat. “He would’ve been a great husband and a great father someday.”
I force a swallow and look away, blowing out a breath. “Did you read the letter I wrote you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I couldn’t. I mean, I tried. But it started with ‘I guess I didn’t make it’ and I couldn’t read on.” She finishes working my tie, pats my chest and steps back. “There you go, handsome.”
I nod, thankful she didn’t read the letter. Maybe we’ll read it together at some point and maybe we’ll let it sit in a drawer. I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m grateful she didn’t have to read it.
ELIN
I swore I’d never set foot in here again. After the funeral service for my parents, I could barely drive by the little building on Main Street without breaking down. Yet, just a few years later, I stand in the very same place, giving another eulogy for someone I love.