Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
With the envelope in hand, I scan the address label that’s typed on the front:
Ms. Charlotte Barrow
Smith & Allen
584 Madison Avenue
New York, New York
I blow out a harsh breath as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My heart aches as I read the return address:
Mrs. James Bennett Sr.
12 Sutton Place
Penthouse
New York, New York
I drop the package to the floor, the smooth paper like acid on my skin. At least that’s what it feels like to me. Mrs. James Bennett Sr., also known as Jim’s mother, has a knack for the low blow covered in a superficial camouflage of tact. And she doesn’t disappoint today.
Tears fill my eyes as I search for anything to distract me, to make me not think about Jim. I look at my calendar and focus on the inspirational phrase below the picture, needing support, any support I can get. I read, digesting the quote word by word. When you have confidence, you can have a lot of fun, and when you have fun you can do amazing things – Joe Namath.
Okay, a sports personality giving me life advice might seem strange, but I can deal with that. I mean, he is an icon—even if I don’t know what for. I have confidence. I can do this. I take a deep breath, then slowly exhale. I am a strong, confident woman! I am a strong, confident woman!
I pick up the envelope and run my finger along the return address, touching the package and being careful not to be burned again—metaphorically. Turning it sideways, I open it as if it’s anything else that comes across my desk needing my attention. Some papers and a three-inch-square box spill out before me. Proper etiquette dictates opening the card before the present, so I reach for that first.
The card isn’t a card, though. It’s an invitation to his funeral. I can’t believe his mother is turning her own son’s funeral into a social event. One of the main reasons Jim and I were never meant to be—our upbringings were just too different.
I knew the funeral was coming, although I didn’t know if I’d be invited. My original plan was to crash . . . for Jim, in remembrance of the good times. As I turn the card over in my hand, I can’t stop the roil of my stomach seeing it in print. He’s gone, deceased, dead. Tears fill my eyes when I realize I’ll never see him again.
Can I do this right now? I drop my face into my hands, my elbows supporting its weight, and I stare at the box. Memories flood from the last time I saw him—saw him alive. Maybe if I’d taken him back, he’d still be alive now. Maybe if I had pushed the hurt, the pain away that day he came to my apartment, he’d still be here. I’m tired of wondering whether I could have saved him if I’d taken him back.
I’m just tired.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay my mother’s words, letting them in, and hope they give me the strength I need. “You didn’t cause his accident, just like you didn’t cause him to make the decisions he made. He alone chose those.”
He alone.
Alone.
Alone, like I am now.
Jim’s gone forever, and I’m alone.
I wipe away the tears before they fall. I’m at work, and though some of my coworkers are aware of his death, I try very hard to keep my personal life out of the workplace. I think I’m strong enough to be here today, to deal with this, but not if it comes with the added pressure of smiling to reassure sympathetic coworkers. I can’t do that.
But I can do this, I reason with myself. Not that I have much choice. I set the card down and pick up the box, hesitating as I lift the brown lid to peek inside. There in the fluffy white filler lies a simple white-gold ring with little diamonds sparkling like tiny stars randomly embedded in the band. I hold it between my index finger and thumb, remembering the life to which this ring once belonged.
I shake off those memories, not wanting to travel down that lane again, especially not at work.
The three days prior, I called in sick to mourn his loss, my loss, everyone’s loss. It wasn’t enough time to come to grips with his death. The sadness sits like a rock in the center of my chest. It was more like a small hole before I found out he died. My heart was healing, enough time had passed, and I was moving on. When his sister called me, the hole gaped open once again. Today, it’s more like a hard mass. Maybe that’s my heart. I can’t tell these days, so I try not to think about it.
I take care to put the ring back into the box and close the lid. I rummage through the papers included and find two letters and a poem that Jim wrote for me. I close my eyes, rubbing my temples, as my annoyance flares. It’s a photocopy of the poem, a private moment we once shared. I should have the original, but in my hurry to leave, it was left behind. Now that Jim’s gone, I assume the original remains in his mother’s tight grip.