Dear Miss Claire Bushey,
I understand that my only son intends to marry you next month. I cannot give my blessing to this union. I’m sure you know the reason why. I propose a simple yet effective solution to the problem on our hands, one that I hope will satisfy all parties. If you were to leave my son alone and undergo an abortion, I will gladly transfer ￡500,000 to your bank account the same day. The money should keep you in comfort for the rest of your life. I hope that you will accept my generous offer. It will do you—and us—a lot of good. Please give me an answer before 1 September 1995.
Yours sincerely,
Philip Edward Evans, Esq.
I take in a deep breath before looking up at Mark. My head is spinning. So Mark has known all along.
“You never replied to Dad’s letter, did you?” His voice is soft, gentle.
I shake my head.
“Why not?” he says.
I shrug. Our eyes meet. A tear wells up at the corner of his right eye; he tries, unsuccessfully, to blink it back.
“The sacrifice was mutual, then,” he continues, voice quavering ever so slightly. “We both gave up something in the first place. That’s what I really tell myself every day. Instead of what I promised Chaplain Walters—to mechanically remind myself each morning that I love my wife.”
“But all our sacrifice has only brought disaster.” I spread my hands, anguish stabbing my heart again. “First Cath. Then Sophia.”
“I’m sorry, Claire. I really am. I just got carried away with Soph—”
“You said so earlier today. But…”
Another question quivers on my lips; I know I have the option of swallowing it back. But it tumbles out anyway:
“Did you ever…love her?”
“I don’t think I ever wrote that in my diary.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Mark wrenches his shoulders back in a confident swoop and pulls out his iDiary from his pocket. He types something into it with brisk fingers and walks over to show me the result of his search:
Sophia + love = 0 HITS (0 LINKS)
I blink in surprise. I can barely believe what I am seeing. But the jolt of an unpleasant possibility punctures my heart.
“What if…you used a different name for Sophia in your diary?” I say. “A pet name or something like that. Could you just type in the word love? I want to know what shows up.”
“I don’t think I ever used a pet—”
“Do it.”
He exhales, shaking his head.
“Just do it, Mark.”
With a sigh, he reaches forward and types in the word love, albeit with reluctant fingers. I stumble forward to peer over his shoulder. The screen glimmers; a few words flash up on it:
love = 12 HITS (3 LINKS)
Mark’s eyes are round, even fearful.
“Click on the first link,” I say.
He hesitates for several moments before complying. Our eyes lap up the words simultaneously:
7 April 2013
I unlocked the front door and walked to the kitchen only to discover that Claire was standing at the sink, back turned toward me. A kitchen knife lay at her feet. I thought she had dropped it by mistake. But she turned around, eyes wild and unseeing, wrists held up to the ceiling as if in supplication. I gasped. Blood was trickling down her left arm, a gruesome red rivulet snaking down to her elbow. Both the suitcase and the large bouquet of roses in my hands fell to the floor with a thud; I gaped in disbelief for a couple of seconds before rushing forward.
—Oh, God, Claire. What have you done?
—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…I just felt awful this morning, this black thing pressing down on me, my chest hurt.…then I saw the knife…
Her words were interspersed with wretched dry sobs. I grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her to a stool before running over to the kitchen counter. I tore a long strip off a paper towel roll and pelted back in her direction to mop up the blood. The cuts across her wrists, I noticed to my relief, were superficial. But they were still self-inflicted.
My gaze fell on the gray medicine jar on the kitchen counter, the one containing Claire’s antidepressants.
—Did you take your pills last night?
Her eyes flickered in their direction. She shook her head, hanging it limply.
—I thought I could do without them.
—Oh, God, Claire. I should have phoned yesterday night to tell you to take them.
Tears began sliding down her face; I knew that I should take her to Helmut Jong at once. So I shepherded her in the direction of my Jaguar (she followed meekly) and drove to Addenbrooke’s. She remained silent during our journey there, holding the towel to her wrist. So did I. What more could I say?
Thankfully, Dr. Jong was in. I waited outside the consultation room for at least thirty minutes. As I paced the corridor, I realized that I shouldn’t go away on two-week-long writers’ conferences again, even if I’m paid a shitload of money to do so. I dare not imagine what might have come about if I’d returned a day or so later: if anything terrible happens to Claire when I’m away, I will never forgive myself. The pain of losing her to something awful would be beyond anything I could bear. (NTS: I should limit trips away from home to just one night and take them only when they are completely necessary.) Maybe that’s why I’ve willingly devoted my existence to pulling her back from the brink, to ensuring her eventual rehabilitation, to saving her from herself. Even though the journey is sorrowful and soul-damaging, corrosive to the core. Because it will cost us more if I don’t give her everything I possibly can, everything within the range of my ability. Because it will destroy us more if I don’t.
Dr. Jong eventually came out of the room.
—Two stitches. We’ll keep her here for a night, just in case. She’ll probably need a stronger dose of antidepressants from now on, but she’s going to be fine. Absolutely fine.
I exhaled in relief.
—You love her, don’t you?
His question took me by surprise. I nodded.
—I’ve seen many married couples over the years. Most of them think that love is either black or white. But you think about love differently, don’t you, Mr. Evans? What is the color of love?
The word escaped my mouth even before I could think about it:
—Gray.
—And if love had a taste, what would it be?
—Bittersweet.
He nodded; my answers clearly did not surprise him. He reached forward to pat my shoulder.
—This is why both of you are going to be fine. It may take a while, but you will get there someday. Eventually. Happiness may be elusive, but love might just bring you closer.