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“I’ve just come really far … at least I feel like I have.”
“You have,” she confirms.
“And I don’t want him to set me back. I don’t want to go back to that place.”
Dr. Perry cocks her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowing. “You won’t.” Her words are laced with so much conviction that I almost believe her.
“How do you know?”
“Trust yourself, Katie. You’re ready for this, and I think it’s the closure that you need.”
She’s right.
I’ve felt so good these past couple of days, but something is still off—something that feels unresolved. Maybe it’s this. “Okay,” I say, pushing up from the couch. “But I better go do it now before I talk myself out of it.”
“By all means”—Dr. Perry stands and motions toward the door—“go get your closure.”
I slip on my coat, grab my purse and pull open the door, and then I turn back to Dr. Perry. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Katie.” The look of pride on her face is unmistakable, and it gives me that extra push I need. “I’ll see you next week.”
No goodbye is needed. I simply give her a smile and step out of her office, determined to get home so I can read that letter.
My arms hang loosely at my sides before I shake them out as though I’m preparing to go for a run. Everything inside of me is screaming to do this, to get this over with, but the blood pumping in my ears is making it difficult to concentrate.
Closing my eyes, I count to ten while taking several slow, deep breaths. When I open my eyes, they instantly land on a photo of Devin and me that I found in a shoebox tucked away in my closet. We were probably about ten years old. His arm is draped around my shoulders, mine wrapped around his back. We both have mud caked to our faces and he’s holding up a catfish. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about that picture—that memory—that gives me courage.
Pulling open the top drawer of my dresser, I pull out the letter that my mom gave me several days ago. The envelope is star
k white but worn around the edges, a telltale sign that it’s been passed around and most likely opened numerous times.
Slipping my finger under the flap, I open the envelope and pull out the letter. My hands shake as I unfold it, and when I see handwriting scribbled across the paper, my heart nearly pounds out of my chest.
With the letter gripped in one hand, I situate myself on the bed, propping up on the pillows.
“Come on, Katie,” I whisper, giving myself one last pep talk. “You’ve got this.”
Dear Brenda,
I’m sorry doesn’t seem like enough, but I’ll say it anyway. I’ll repeat those words over and over again for as long as you need. I don’t expect your forgiveness, and it’s not something I’ll ever ask for, because I don’t deserve it. I hurt you in a way that no human being should ever hurt another human being, and for that I’m truly sorry.
There’s no excuse for my actions that night. I made a stupid decision and I got behind the wheel drunk. My lawyer tried to play it off that I’m scarred from my time served overseas, but I insisted that he stop. I didn’t allow him to play the same card that so many other soldiers use as an excuse. What I’ve witnessed and gone through while at war holds no bearing over my actions that night.
But I do want to tell you what happened because you deserve to hear. My buddy Tom and I went out for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since high school graduation and we were enjoying our time catching up. One beer led to another and then another, and before I knew it, I’d had close to seven beers. At the time, I thought I was good. Hell, I used to drink way more than that in college. But what I didn’t take into consideration was that I hadn’t had a lick of alcohol in over two years. Again, not an excuse, but I really want you to know what happened and why.
Anyway, I left the restaurant that evening knowing I shouldn’t drive, but I didn’t have anyone else to call. Tom had had more to drink than I did, so I decided to drive home. The house I was renting was only a mile down the road, so no big deal, right?
A half a mile from home I crossed the center line, and in the blink of an eye, I took someone’s life—someone who, from what I’ve been told, was a loving husband, devoted father, and one hell of a farmer. But I know I didn’t just take one life that night, I took four. I recognize that, in losing your husband, I managed to destroy not only your life but also the lives of your two daughters.
I hate that I survived. I would give anything to trade places with your husband, and I want you to know that I think about him—and about you and your daughters—every second of every day. I’ve prayed for your happiness and for comfort for your girls, and I hope that someday you’re able to find peace despite the disaster that I caused.
Sincerely,
Andrew Drexler
I read the letter three more times before dropping it at my side. My pulse is steady and calm, not rapid and uneven like I anticipated it would be. Tears are running down my face because I believe that Andrew Drexler is truly sorry for destroying our lives. I do think that he would move heaven and earth to trade places with my dad, and that belief releases a rope of tension that I didn’t realize was wrapped around my heart.
Something inside of me opens up, and as I swipe away the tears running down my face, I notice that I’m smiling. I’m actually smiling. I’m not sure what I was expecting from Andrew Drexler’s letter, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
