Page 84 of Come Back To Me

My hands are fisted on the tabletop, knuckles white. He reaches out a finger and touches each of my knuckles with his fingertip until I stop squeezing and relax my hands.

“I found a website,” he tells me, looking into my eyes. He hesitates for a moment. “The website was called Dear Yara.”

I blink at him, confused.

“There were letters, written to you. Dozens of them. The posts dated back three years. They were written by your mother.”

There are cliché things one can say about moments like these, things I would never think to say out loud, but in this moment I feel them all.

“She was trying to find you. As a last resort, she started a website and wrote letters to you on it.”

He waits for me to say something, but I have nothing. I stare at my hands, my mind blank.

“Yara, your mother was trying to find you. I thought you would want to know.”

“What was she like?” I ask.

“Soft-spoken…contrite. When she spoke about you, she cried…”

“What did she want from me?” I can’t look at him. I look at my coffee instead.

“Forgiveness. To know you.”

I shake my head. I’m trembling.

“English…” he says, softly…pleadingly. He reaches for me and touches my cheek with only his fingertips, running them to my lips then chin, his tanned fingers against my pale skin.

“I told her that I forgive her,” I say. “Before she died.”

“That’s good. You don’t forgive because they deserve it. Most of the time they don’t. You forgive to keep your heart soft. To move forward without bitterness. Forgiveness is for you.”

“What the fuck?” I say. “Why are my eyes burning?” I shake my head and David laughs at me.

“Tears are this thing,” he says. “Saltwater eyes.” Something on his face changes. I know that look.

“Oh my God,” I say. “You’re writing a song about it.”

“Shit,” he says. “Yeah…”

“Saltwater eyes,” I mouth while I watch his face. For a moment I forget my mother and the pressure on my heart, and I try to be in his head, listening to the song he’s writing.

His eyes are closed. I reach out and touch his hand.

“David,” I plead. “Tell me some of the words…”

His eyes open suddenly and I regret my request. Soft eyes on fire. It’s a combination I’d rather not stare directly into.

“She won’t let go,” he says softly. “She’s been here before. Folded, worn, drowning in the saltwater. Someone grab her before she’s gone. All she wants is forgiveness, all she wants is to forgive. She’s gone. In the saltwater. It’s in her eyes. She’s died alone without you by her side. Somebody grab her. She’s gone.”

I let go of his hand.

“I have to go,” I say.

I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know that I’m on the verge of tears. He doesn’t try to stop me. He knows what I need and in this moment it’s aloneness. I walk back to the hotel, stopping at the off license for a bottle of wine. I wander around the lobby until I find a small business center near the vending machines. There are five computers set up in upholstered grey cubicles; two of them are occupied by men wearing seriously large headphones. I choose the cubicle furthest away from them and settle into the stiff-backed chair.

I type my name into the search bar just as David said, and wait. I have no nails left to bite, my fingers are swollen and tender. The site is third down on the list. I click on it and then press my fingers to my eyes. Do I really want to do this? No. But I am curious and I need it more than I want it. If someone wanted to apologize, it was only fair to hear them out. I screw the cap off my wine bottle and take a swig.

Dear Yara,

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