To Catch a Falling Star (44 page)

Tarry and Antoine are visiting Portia for the weekend, so I came to the lake shack so I wouldn’t have to face Tarry. Since the desire to go home and see Tarry was on the verge of winning my internal battle, I decided to distract myself by walking through the streets of Green Hill. I lick my strawberry-flavored ice cream. Memories. My life is filled with memories.

Browsing pictures of Tarry and Antoine, I barely noticed winter following its course. I miss Tarry more than I need air.

Ella calls Tarry frequently. But I refuse to speak to him. I can’t bear to hear his voice. The delivery of chamomiles has become less frequent, almost nonexistent. I assume Tarry’s craving is diminishing as well. He continues to send pictures of him with Antoine. I saved the most recent and my favorite to my home screen. Father and son are wearing matching beanies that Portia knitted. Seeing the pictures he continues to send me is the only contact I have with him.

Portia tries to talk about Tarry, but I have vehemently prohibited her from mentioning him in my presence. It hurts too much as it is. I don’t want my pain advertised to my family or Tarry. The last thing I need is their pity.

Whenever I try to focus on something, I catch myself daydreaming about the time I spent with him. At night, I dream of him. During the day, I’m irritable and easily distracted.

It feels like a toothache that it’s always there, throbbing and getting in the way of everything. I wish I had something similar to dental forceps that would allow me to extract the pain away.

I’ve caught myself on the verge of calling him multiple times. But I never do. Today I do know I was more than just a notch on his bedpost. My role in his life was special. I helped him through a tough period in his life, which has granted me a special place in his memories. I’ll always value the moments we had. I’m sure he will treasure the memories of me. However, I also think that, as I once predicted, he has moved on now that his broken soul has healed.

It’s already April, over a year since Tarry left. Yeah, I still love him terribly. I’ll never overcome my loss of him. For this reason, I have chosen to walk away when he comes to visit. Even though, consequently, I’ll have to spend my birthday alone at the shack.

The day I came to Green Hill with Tarry seems so distant. Riding the back of the motorcycle was exhilarating. At the time, I was still mourning Tim’s death, but had found a beam of hope in Tarry. Today, I have a void in my soul the size and complexity of a black hole.

Immersed in my sorrow, I startle when someone calls to me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” says a petite Asian woman pleasantly.

“No, it’s not your fault. I was distracted.”

“Yeah, a broken heart can be very distracting,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. But a glance at you tells me you are very sad. I’m quite good at reading people, y’know. Either you broke up with the love of your life, or he has died.”

Surprise seizes me. She must know because she adds.

“Oh, or perhaps both?”

“Excuse me? “

“Or a broken wing? Those can be very painful!”

I’m in shock for a moment. Then realization runs through me. Most likely, she’s a reporter.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to go.” I take a step to walk away, but the little woman blocks my way.

“Yeah, of course, I don’t mean to be a bother, but before you go, can I ask a small favor?”

I clear my throat. I really ought to work on the skill of saying “no.” This woman is trying to ask me about my former relationship with Tarry.

“I, um, I’ve got to go.” I mumble. She raises an expectant brow. There is no accusation in her eyes. Disappointment maybe? Don’t ask me why, but something in the depth of her eyes convinces me to assist her.

“All right, I suppose I have a minute. But you’re not a reporter right?”

“No, no. See, these glasses are so thick they won’t allow me to read. Would you be a dear and tell the price tag on that lamp?”

Feeling like an imbecile, I smile at her. From the sidewalk, I search inside the antique store’s front window. I gasp. It can’t be. Stunned, I blink repeatedly.

“Are you okay? Do you recognize something from your past?” she inquires pleasantly.

“Huh?”

“You look a little flustered. An antique store can resurrect so many memories. That’s what I like the most about them.”

“No, I mean, yes. I’m sorry. I, um, the price is ninety-eight dollars and ninety-seven cents.” I shake my head. My eyes zoom to the item beside the lamp, a shiny golden coin. Its wings invitingly flutter my way.

“Go ahead, dear. I won’t hold you up. Life is too short.”

“Yes, thank you. Thank you so much,” I say.

“You’re thanking me? I’m the one on the receiving end, dear. I should thank you.”

“Thank you, I just found something a friend lost,” I say with my hand on the doorknob.

“You found so much more, dear.”

But I’m already inside the store and don’t reply.

“Excuse me, I need to see the golden coin at display on the window,” I say in rushed words.

“Just a moment,” the shopkeeper peers over his glasses and smiles. He unhurriedly circles the counter, walks to the window, and retrieves the coin.

With eager and trembling fingers, I open my hand and he deposits the coin in the center of my palm. My eyes water. I can’t believe I found it.

“How much?”

“That beauty. I almost kept it to myself. But I have a rule of not keeping anything until the end of the year when I do inventory. Then, I allow myself a few items I had my eye on. I hoped the coin would still be here by then.” He sighs. “Anyway, it was hard putting a price on it. None of my fellow collectors have ever seen it. But it’s gold. That much we know. It is estimated at nine hundred and thirty-five dollars for its gold value.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Okay. That was an easy sell.” He places the coin in a small jewelry box and inside a paper bag. I hand him my credit card and wait for the transaction. My hands clutch the small brown bag and my heart pounds inside my ribcage. My eyes sweep the room filled with antiques. Sitting on the counter, a small square glass display holding a solitary wooden box attracts my attention. It appears to be a beautiful handmade jewelry box. I squint. The top of the box has a picture of a
Lignum vitae
tree; it’s the same tree I have tattooed on my hip. It’s the same tree under which Tim proposed. I examine the box further and my drumming heart comes to a halt.

“Beautiful piece of work, huh? Unfortunately that piece is not for sale.” He hands me my credit card and the receipt.

I take a step and notice a newspaper article attached to the glass entitled “Soldier’s Mystery Box.”

My head spins, a thousand thoughts race on my mind. It can’t be. The floor beneath my feet disappears. The last thing I hear is the sales clerk saying, “Miss, you look pale, are yo—?” My mind goes blank and my body goes limp.

From the distance, I hear a worried voice, “Miss, please, wake up.” I open my eyes and see the concern on the man’s face.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“Do you need medical attention? Do you want me to dial nine-one-one?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” I sit up. My dazed mind recalls the reason for my blackout.

“The box,” I say.

“Yes, the box. Is it the reason you passed out? Do you recognize it?”

“Yes, I mean no. I’ve never seen the box before, but I recognize the tree on it. It’s the place my late husband proposed.”

“Was your husband in the army?”

“Yes, he died six years ago in Afghanistan.”

“I’ll be darned.” He assists me up and guides me to an antique chair. “Please, sit down or you will fall again.”

He pulls a key chain from his pocket and opens the glass display.

“Well, it looks you may have helped solve the mystery.” He collects the box, pulls a chair next to mine, and hands me the box.

“Seven years ago, my father made this box. Dad lived in South Carolina and had a carpentry store near an army base. One day, a soldier walked in with an unusual order. He handed Dad a model of this box with the strict directions that it had to be built in
Lignum vitae
, the strongest wood we have. He explained to Dad how he had proposed to his wife under the tree.”

Tears roll down my cheek and drip on the box clutched to my chest. I don’t move a muscle. I listen to every word as if it is drips of honey.

The salesman, whose name I still don’t know, stands and grabs a box of tissues. He places it on the table next to me. My hands have a tight grip on the wooden box.

“Are you okay, honey? Do you want to call someone?”

I shake my head and plea with my eyes for him to continue.

“Where was I? Yeah, the order. Well, Dad didn’t want to take the project. Dad was old, his fingers weak, and he feared he could not do it. But the soldier was relentless. He claimed he wanted his wife—you—to receive the box and the letter inside should anything happen to him.”

“Dad said he wrote the letter while sitting at a wooden desk where I used to do my homework as a boy. Sorry, I’m digressing. Anyway, he wrote the letter and told Dad to place it inside, lock it, and send it to his father’s house. He paid for the box and the postage and left. Well, Dad got to work on the darn thing, but it took longer than Dad anticipated. But once he started a project, he wanted to finish it. On a Friday evening, Dad took the almost-finished project home because there was a storm headed his way. That same night, Dad’s store burned down and all the records of the soldier were destroyed. Except for the letter, which Dad had brought home with him. Why he did don’t ask me.

“Dad mourned the loss of the store and within the year he died too. Before Dad died, he realized he still had the box in the garage and handed it to me. He asked me to find the owner. I opened the letter—sorry—trying to find names or any indication of where I could find the person. I went to the army base and placed an ad in the newspaper, but nothing. No one had any idea of who T. was. At that point, I even questioned if Dad hadn’t mixed up his customers. Dad had been getting forgetful. So, I decided to leave it to fate and place it in my store. I’ll be darned if someone tells me miracles don’t exist.”

A quiet moment follows his story. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your name? I always wondered who had stolen the heart of that poor soldier.”

“Melody.”

“Well, Melody, I hope this letter gives closure. Though I didn’t mean to pry, it sure brought tears to my eyes.”

“Thank you, it already has.” I stand and my legs feel like noodles.

“Well, fate took care of it all in the end.”

“I gotta go. I can never thank you enough.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. We appreciate your husband’s sacrifice.”

On autopilot, I enter the car and drive back to the shack. I sit by the lake and stare at the water. A flock of birds crosses the sky. They are migrating back from south. Life and its cycles.

I open the jewelry box. There is a letter inside. I hold the envelope with the same care one handles a newborn.

For some reason, I know that deep inside my heart I’ve been waiting for something from Tim. The deeper, raw side of my soul that was left bereft has been waiting for this connection with him. Until now it was waiting for the unknown. An unknown with the power to explain everything.

Like a photographic slide, I see images of us reeling on sepia with the lake as a backdrop. I want to cry, but tears desert me. I fear what’s inside the letter. I fear the effect it’ll leave in me. I think of how painful it’ll be to read this letter, even though it’ll be priceless.

With trembling fingers, I unfold the paper.

My beloved wife,

Writing this letter sucks ass. Well, if it reaches your hands it means I’ll never again feel your soft body against mine. It means I’m gone.

How to put into coherent words all mixed feelings stirring inside my chest?

Spending these past days with you made me ponder life and the eminence of death. I wondered a thousand times if it is worth to lose my life and lose our future. Honestly, I haven’t found an answer.

What I did realize, my darling, is that it was worth living my life with you.

Every moment we have spent together, every argument we had, every kiss we exchanged, every touch, every time we made love. These moments, sweetheart, have made my life worth a thousand lives. If I die a thousand deaths, each time I’ll die a happy and fulfilled man.

And that’s the reason I’m writing you, my dear. Having been with you has made me the happiest of men.

Sweetheart, I know the connection we have is deep and rare. We are a special couple and soul mates. I know you won’t want to let go. A small part of me is happy that you love me so. But I’m not as selfish as to want you lonely after I’m gone. I want you to be as happy as you have made me.

Writing this hurts me more than anything else I’ve ever told you, but you must let go of me. You need to let me go. Know that the love I have for you won’t die with my departure from this earth. It’ll live on in your memories.

Remember the coin I gave you? It has eagles wings imprinted on them. Do you know bald eagles mate for life? They do. However, it’s common for them to find a new mate with the death of the partner.

The wings on the coin will help you to fly, darling. With those wings, I want you to fly. To fly free of pain. To soar high and bold into a life of happiness.

It’s hard for me to predict how you are now. My death is probably still recent and therefore too painful.

My hope is you don’t keep the coin for too long. I hope that your mourning is short-lived and you find a new soul mate, who will love and cherish you as much as I did.

When you give the coin away, it will be a sign that you are ready to move on. The healing will have begun.

The man to mate with you, dear, is a lucky one. Take good care of him, as you did me.

I can’t tell you how I die—it hasn’t happen yet as I write this, but I can tell you that the last thought I’ll have before my heart stops beating and my eyes stop seeing is the image of you.