Page 130 of The False Flat

I pushed the letter into my chest, where my own heart expanded and contracted wildly.

I didn’t have enough time with either of you. But my life ended at the time it was supposed to, when God intended. And I know you’re still shaky on the idea, but my peace is founded in this. I’m where I belong, and you and Gloria are where you belong. And though we’re not together in the way we were, we still are, my sweet Penelope. There’s a piece of me that lives on in you, and I know I took a piece of you with me when I left.

My breath caught in my throat, and I blinked several times to clear my eyes.

I have no right to tell you how to grieve, but don’t let the loss of me consume you. If the memory of me can’t lift you up, then I fear I have lived in vain. Breathe in the scent of wildflowers in the wind for me. Feel the wind on your face, in your hair, for me. Savor the banana pudding for me. Listen to the early morning’s bird call for me. Hold, hug, and kiss our daughter for me. And ride, Penelope, ride with abandon and joy, because I may not feel the burn in my thighs anymore, but I am there with you. I am now a part of the wildflower that touches your nose when you inhale its fragrance. My breath is in the wind that caresses your face. The memory of my spoon touches yours as you dip into that decadent pudding. My voice sings alongside the songbird, early in the morning when the earth is still. And my blood flows through the child just feet away from you now.

“Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking. When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.”

Life is for the living. Live, Penelope. You don’t need my permission, but you have my blessing. When you move past your grief, don’t feel guilt. You cannot erase me, but your happiness enhances my memory. Live again. Love again. And most of all . . . ride again.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Yours always,

Grant

P.S. Because I know you’ll want to count them, there are ten “I love you’s” because that’s how many times you said it to me the first time. I counted.

P.P.S. Don’t take Gloria when you use the key.

My heart was ripped from my chest and put back again. This letter, this letter, was Grant, a reminder that while he enhanced my happiness, he didn’t create it, and neither did our child. The rest was on me—what I allowed in, what I allowed out—the little things, because they add up.

It was ironic; I was only able to cope with his death because of him.

I palmed the key, turned it over in my hand, and lifted the small tag attached to it. The word CUBESMART, in a red, all-caps font, was written at the top of the rectangular attachment with an address underneath. That was it. No instruction or explanation. A key and an address.

Reaching for my phone, I pulled up the map. The place was a storage facility five minutes away, one I’d probably passed a hundred times but familiarity had made invisible. My finger hovered over the figure of a little guy on a bicycle.

Once, and only once, I’d thrown my leg over my bike, in an effort to dispel grief. But the picture of Grant riding beside me had stilled my feet, and in the end, I’d sat crying beside the wheel, my bicycle turned on its side, where I’d thrown it after leaping off. And I’d declined every invitation to join the group rides since, feeling like it would be a betrayal somehow.

His letter made me feel like I could again, like I would again, but not now. I wasn’t ready.

Spring was beginning to blossom, and I didn’t mind the extra minutes the trip would take on foot. I sent a quick babysitting text, put a leash on Bran, and hoisted Gloria on my hip, ready for the walk across the street.

“Pen!” Devina’s gravelly voice came from next door. “Grant’s tree came today.”

Before Grant died, he’d signed Devina up for a tree and/or flower of the month club to match the corresponding season, the gift that continued to give . . . for his chemo buddy.

I smiled and tamped down the swell of emotion that hovered just under the surface. She told me to bring Gloria over for cookies later as we hurried across the street, where my mother stood in her front yard. Yes, Aurora Auberge lived across the street.

A couple of months after the wedding, my mother had decided she wanted to be close, wanted to really work on our relationship, and had bought the house directly across from mine. She still struggled, fell back into her old ways at times, but she was trying. And to my surprise, I was happy to have her near.

“Morning Glory!” My mother lifted my daughter off the ground as we entered her yard. She was a grandmother, a real one, nothing like the mother I’d had. And she always called Gloria her little Morning Glory, from the earth, like her father.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said to my mother. Then I leaned over, kissed my daughter’s head, and told her to be good for Grammy.

Gloria kissed my cheek. “Love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too, Glory.”

Grant’s key burned in my hand, and I walked away, my mother holding my heart, a little girl in a pink tutu with a stuffed hammer in her hand, the one Grant had given to her right after she was born.

As soon as I saw the sign that matched the one in my hand, a giddy excitement flooded my abdomen.

I handed the key to the man behind the counter. “I need to find this unit.”

He typed something into the computer, then looked up, wide eyed.