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Having to justify myself to her, of all people, makes me furious. Not once did she come to see me, or call, or email a single word in support. Not once did she apologize for the hell her son put me through. Somehow, in her twisted mind, he remains the white knight wrongfully accused of a felony. And now I’m the harlot he married? No. No way.
“Matthew’s been dead for three years, Barbara. Did you think I was going to throw myself onto his funeral pyre? Would a blood sacrifice make you happy? Or maybe I should’ve gone to jail for the crime Matt committed.”
“He was wrongfully accused.”
“Not according to the U.S. federal government.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came here to give you this.” She holds out the manila envelope, and I take it gingerly, as if it came right out of the bowls of hell. “I thought to spare you the pain, but you might as well know the truth.”
The impact of what she’s insinuating knocks the wind out of me. The Range Rover pulls up right in front of us and Calvin steps out, his concerned gaze roams over me. When I make no effort to move, he walks up to us and wraps his big heavy arm around my shoulders, his comfort jolting me out of my catatonic state.
“We’re leaving,” he announces and follows that up with a pointed glare at Barbara. Neither she nor I say our goodbyes.
Chapter Twenty
The atmosphere in the car ride home is as thick as mud, and the mood just as dark. No one says a word. I’m so lost in my panic attack inducing thoughts that I don’t notice that Calvin has taken my hand, placed it on his thigh and covered it with his own––that’s how anxiety stricken I am. I only realize it when he parks the car and can’t jump out because he has a hold of it. My vacant gaze meets his, which seems to be alternating between concern, affection, and anger. How did I ever think he was cold? At the moment, his eyes are two smoldering blue flames.
“You okay?”
“No…can you help Sam get ready for bed?” I murmur. “I just…” I can’t even finish the sentence I’m so tired, so bloody tired I just want to crawl under the covers and sleep for a hundred years.
“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
I take my hand back and get out of the Range Rover. As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I lock the door, move to the far side of the bed, and sink to the carpeted floor clutching the manila envelope close to my heart. With my back resting against the side of the bed for support, I slowly peel it open.
For months after Matt’s death, I had a sneaking suspicion that at some point I would receive a letter…a suicide letter. The feeling only grew stronger when the investigation into his business affairs started. The idea just kept festering inside of me like an absence I couldn’t cut out. Only, I never did.
During the year I was being investigated, I thought more than once about how Matt would’ve handled it. I was never formerly charged, but Matt definitely would have been––had he lived. With his volatile moods, I just don’t see how he would’ve survived an extended prison sentence. Emotionally fragile is what Barbara called it. I called it insecure. To myself, never to him.
I slide another envelope out of the manila one, my name scribbled across it in Matt’s chicken scratch. Immediately, tears begin to gush out of my eyes. In spite of it all, I loved him. With all his faults…I really loved him. Then again, I loved the man I thought he was. I never expected my marriage to be perfect. I never aspired to perfection. I’ve always been too aware of my own shortcomings to expect it others. But I did expect honesty. I don’t think that was too much to ask for.
The envelope is sealed. Gingerly, I peel it open and wipe the tears running down my cheeks away with the back of my hand. Not fast enough, though, as some splash onto the letter, blurring the word ‘love’. I lick the salt off my lips, which seem to have blown up to the size of pontoons, and begin reading.
Babe,
If you’re reading this then I’m no longer here. I gave this letter to my mother’s lawyer because you were always too nosy for your own good and it wouldn’t have done anyone any good for you to find it until after my passing. I’m twenty-eight now so you could be thirty or eighty. God, I hope you’re not twenty-four that would mean I don’t live much longer. A little gallows humor there.
You’re probably wondering what this letter is about. So here goes. I need you to hear it from me. I owe you the truth.
