Page 46 of The Cabin
But I know you, Nadia. I know you better than you know yourself.
Here is what I know. You will have spent the past year working yourself to the bone. Worse, I fear. I am afraid that you are not sleeping. That you are not eating. That you have thrown yourself into a killing number of hours at the hospital. I have nightmare visions of you collapsing from exhaustion, hunger, and sorrow. I lay awake at night, yes, in physical pain, but in metaphysical pain. In worry for you.
You will not do anything so rash as outright, direct self-harm. That is not your way. You will be indirect about it. You will attempt to work yourself to death.
I don’t know how else to put this, my love, except bluntly: I do not want to meet you in Heaven for many, many years yet. You are too beautiful, too wonderful, too mesmerizing and talented and funny and sexy to leave this world prematurely. While I live, I am selfish with you. I hoard you. I gather the glittering treasure that is you unto myself and I protect it greedily, refusing to share it, like a dragon. Do you know, when we go to the beach and you’re flaunting your body in that little blue bikini you wear so well, a part of me, a caveman part of me clamors to cover you, so no one else can even have the gift of seeing even that much of you? I never say anything, because I am not so boorish as all that. You would not tolerate such behavior from me. But it’s here, inside me.
I suppose I should apologize for the floridity of my writing, but delirium and exhaustion and pain and the narcotics conspire to make me verbose. You know how I am. I love the feel and the taste of my own writing. I have always been guilty of lapsing into purple prose, as my editor likes to say.
What was my point? Oh, yes. Now that I am going to die, I know I must let you go. I cannot hoard you to myself any longer. Beauty like yours, love like yours…it deserves to be shared. Someone out there needs you, and you need them.
You will sicken from an excess of grieving, Nadia. You will shut down and the processes that generate your energy and your love and your affection will atrophy, and all that makes you YOU will shrivel. And that is a tragedy I cannot countenance.
I Will Not Allow It.
So. I have given you a year. 365 days from the day of my death. A year in which to grieve. A year in which to mourn. To let yourself drown in your sorrow, however you see fit.
Now, though, my love, it is time to move on.
I am gone.
You must LIVE. You promised, remember? I say this proactively, because when I feel the end approaching, I will make you promise. I will exact an oath from you to Live. And you WILL promise, Nadia. I know you.
So. You promised, remember?
Live.
That means moving on.
You have not been living. You have been surviving, and probably barely even that. Now it is time to let go of my ghost, to resume breathing. To look ahead and see the coming march of years of your life, and see them not as decades in a gulag of despair, but as years which can and should and will be full of joy and happiness.
You have to let me go, Nadia.
Please.
But I know you cannot and will not do this—not on your own, so I am going to help you.
The second envelope, which I imagine you opened first, contains a key and an address. There is a lovely little cabin on a picturesque little lake, up in the mountains. I had a realtor take me on a virtual tour, as I could not travel to see it in person, but it is amazing. It’s a snug little place, cute and quaint. Rustic, perhaps, but there is electricity and plumbing.
I want you to listen to me now, Nadia, and do exactly as I tell you. You just have to trust me. Pack your things. Just clothes. Bathing suits, yoga pants, sweat pants, jeans, your favorite hoodies. Bring your whole closet, if you want. You will be staying there for some time.
Leave the house as it is. Just leave it. I have made arrangements through Tomas to have it taken care of in your absence. Bring only your personal effects, clothing, toiletries, etc.
Just go. Put the address into your nav, and go. Right now. The moment you finish this letter, go.
Tess: I know you’re sitting with her, and first, thank you, thank you a million times for the care and the love I know you will have shown my wife. See that she follows these instructions. Help her pack. Send her on her way.
