Page 45 of The Cabin
She sighs, smiles, nods. “I really am, aren’t I? Honestly, Clint divorcing me is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m a new woman.” She grins lasciviously. “I’m getting so much good dick, Nads, you don’t even know.”
I snort. “I don’t need or want to know, Tess-icles. But good for you. I’m glad you’re happy. I mean that, hon. I really, really am.”
“I know,” she says, setting her purse on the island next to mine.
She shucks her power suit jacket, wearing the matching maroon pencil skirt and white silk blouse, unbuttoned to reveal a provocative but not totally immodest amount of cleavage. Kicks off her nude pumps—Louboutin, judging by the signature red bottoms.
She then comes to sit beside me, sees the envelopes. “What are those?”
“Letters. From Adrian.”
She blinks. “Um…come again?”
“Tomas Anton came to visit just now. He delivered these. They’re from Adrian. He gave Tomas instructions to deliver them today.”
“Today?”
I nod. “He died one year ago today. At three thirty-three.” I glance at the clock—it’s 9:15. “Five hours and forty-two minutes ago.”
“Today is the one year anniversary.” She glances at the ceiling. Blinks. “I should have been here sooner, Nadia. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You have your life to live.”
She shakes her head. “It’s a major milestone.”
I heave a shaky sigh. “I haven’t read it yet. I don’t want to. I’m scared.”
“I can only imagine.” She touches my forearm. “Want me to read it to you?”
I shake my head. “I just…I need you here with me when I do.” I sniffle. “I’m…I’m not fine, Tess. I say I am, but I’m not.”
“I know. No one expects to you to be.”
“I almost dosed a patient with too much medication yesterday. Not a lot. The patient likely wouldn’t have even noticed. But my coworker did, and told Dr. Wilson.”
“Nadia, god.”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I think…I think I have to resign. I’m clearly losing my competency.”
She side-hugs me. “Nadia, the problem is you’re not taking care of yourself. You’re so skinny now I could put you in my purse. You look like you’re not sleeping.”
I lift my scrub top to show her my torso. She inhales sharply. “Yeah, that might be part of the issue.”
“Nadia…” she breathes. “You’re a skeleton.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“When was the last time you ate anything?”
“I…” I try to think. “I don’t know. Before work yesterday, I think? I had half a bagel.”
“Jesus, Nads. You’re the nurse here, not me, but I almost think you might need hospitalization.”
“Possibly.”
“This is officially an intervention,” she says. “From now on, I’m not leaving you alone until I know you’re healthy enough to be left alone.”
I want to deny the need. But I can’t. “Okay,” I whisper. “I think that might be a good idea.”
She flicks a finger at the envelopes on the coffee table. “So…what’s the deal with the key?”
The notecard with the key sits on top of the envelope.
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t read the letter, which I’m guessing explains it. There’s an address, but I don’t recognize it.”
Tess plugs the address into her phone. “It’s…several hours north of here. Near the border, in the mountains. Looks like it’s on a lake.”
I lift the letter and unfold the pages onto my lap. “Okay. Here we go.”
I begin reading.Dearest, beloved, darling Nadia,I have put off the writing of this for too long, I fear. Everything else has been arranged. It’s all ready. I know without a shadow of doubt that I’m nearing the end of my time on this planet. I want to deny it, I want to pretend otherwise—continue to pretend otherwise, I mean. But I can’t. I have waited too long and now my hands shake so badly I can barely make this legible. I’m sorry if it is not.
Ye gods, what a morbid opening to this letter those words are. I do not have either strength or courage to begin again, however, so…onward.
Firstly, and most important: I love you. You know this. I hope I have—and believe I have—shown you with my life and my actions in our marriage how deeply and truly I love you. I know you are likely still struggling with anger toward me over having hidden my illness. But I also think you probably understand, because you know me. Better than I know myself, I think.
It bears repeating, in writing: I love you, Nadia Bell.
All I have done, I have done because I love you. Because love is not a feeling, but an action. My life is ending, but yours is not. That’s the most salient fact, for me. I am going to die, and you will remain living after I am gone.
By the time you read this, I will have been a year in my grave. I hope, I pray—and I am not a religious man, as well you know—that you are healing. That you have grieved, and mourned, and found strength to…be okay.
