Regrets
The reading of the will had been a formality. They'd had months to prepare for her death and everybody knew exactly what they were getting. The only surprise was the letter and, if he was honest, that hadn't surprised him at all. It was typical of her to think of everything and to try to look after him, even after she was gone. And to make sure that she got the last word.
He hadn't read it straight away but had waited until evening. He'd wanted to prolong the excitement he felt, knowing that he hadn't yet heard the last of her. It was almost with regret that he had opened the envelope because, after this, there really would be no more.
He'd been right. With that one letter, she destroyed everything they'd ever had.
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He punched the ground in frustration. How had he ended up here? A few months ago, he'd had it all: the perfect wife; the perfect life. Now, she was gone and he'd discovered that his life was a lie. Rage burned inside him. How could she have done this to him? He'd never suspected that she was capable of anything so cruel, so deceitful and so, so destructive. God! He wanted to kill her! At least he wanted to let her know what an evil, calculating bitch she was. Tell her he hated her and couldn't believe he'd wasted so many years of his life on such a malicious, devious, conniving, poisonous….
But she'd robbed him of the chance, hadn't she? That was the worst thing. Perhaps, he could have forgiven her the rest, but this? Never. He'd never forgive her.
He punched the ground again and again, pulling up great fists full of grass. He let out a moan, which turned into a howl. "How could you?" he screamed. He barely noticed that people were looking at him. Anyway, he was incapable of controlling the fierce, animal noises that were coming out of him.
At some point the screams turned into sobs, which wracked his whole body, and he lay, face down in the dirt, wailing.
Much, much later, the sobbing subsided. He did not have the strength to move. He had never felt so alone, so hopeless. It was ironic really; many of his happiest memories were of lying next to her and now here he was, lying beside her again, in these macabre circumstances, feeling totally despondent.
How much time passed, he could not say, but when the old man approached and asked if he was OK, he noticed that the light was dimming.
"Son, are you OK?" the man asked again.
He felt the words forming on his lips, but somehow, the "I'm fine" just wouldn't come out. There had been too many lies already. He just shook his head, slowly.
"Somebody close?" asked the man, pointing to the gravestone, beside which the younger man was sitting.
He nodded.
"Your wife?"
Another nod and he was surprised to find new tears forming in his eyes. He hadn't known it was possible to cry this much – you had to run out of tears eventually, didn't you?
The man looked kindly at him. "How long has it been?"
"Two weeks."
"I lost my wife 17 years ago and I'm still grieving. There are some losses you just can't get over."
He felt like a complete hypocrite. This man thought he was crying because his wife had died. How could he explain that he was crying because…
It was so awful that he couldn't even put it into words. Basically he was crying because she'd taken everything he thought was true, everything he'd believed in and based his life upon and, in her final words to him, revealed it all to be a façade.
"Allow yourself to grieve," the man continued, when he did not answer, "but don't lose yourself in your grief, or in your anger. Don't let it destroy you."
"I can't lose myself. I don't even know who I am." he thought. He couldn't bring himself to speak to this good man, so they remained there, in silence. Eventually, the man patted him on the shoulder and left without another word.
He watched him leave and then turned his gaze back to the grave. He had loved her so very, very dearly. She'd been the rock on which he'd built his life; the one person he'd thought would never let him down. That was why he'd chosen her after all. For fourteen years, he'd felt safe in the knowledge that he'd chosen wisely and had done the right thing. He couldn't turn off his feelings for her, much as he'd like to. However, with the realisation that his security had never been real, and that what he had done was anything but the right thing, the feeling he was left with was one of overwhelming regret. Regret for what might have been, if only his choice had been different.
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When he returned from the graveyard, he realised that he had a decision to make.
He'd thought he'd grown up years ago. He'd left the boy "Spike" behind him and had become the man "James". He'd changed jobs and moved continents to start a new, better life. Now he realised that he hadn't grown up at all: he'd simply run away. He was ashamed to admit it, but part of him wanted to run away again. He could pretend he hadn't read her letter, that he didn't know anything about it, the same way that she'd pretended all these years.
"Well, what d'you know? I'm as big a coward as she was!" He almost laughed at the irony, except it wasn't funny at all.
It was the most difficult decision of his life. It was also the easiest. He knew what he had to do and, even though he felt sick at the thought of what was to come, he was going to make things right. He was going to have to grow up now, in the scariest possible way, and he was going to do it by returning to that old life.
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He had never been a nervous flier, but as the plane began its descent into Heathrow, Spike's whole body began to shake. He hadn't told anyone he was coming. He was fairly certain that, after all this time, he would not be welcome. What he was doing? Surely, they were better off without him?
He took the letter out of his jacket pocket and read it for the thousandth time.
Dearest James,
This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write. I know how hard it will be for you to hear and I'm sorry that I'm not brave enough to say this to your face. I could write pages, trying to justify what I've done, but I don't think there'd be any point. I'm tempted to remain silent but you deserve to know. You should have known years ago.
Do you remember that just after we moved in together, you got a letter addressed to Spike Thomson? You told me it was from an old girlfriend and you wrote "Return to Sender". I was relieved that you'd done that, but something about the look on your face troubled me. Then another one came and you asked me to return it too.
I've wished a thousand times that I'd done what you said, but I was eaten up with jealousy and I wanted to know who this girl was and what she wanted with you.
When I read it, I freaked out. I burned the letter and tried never to think about it again. I knew that if I told you what it said, I'd lose you, so I said nothing. The letters continued to come but I returned them all, unopened, and I tried to forget about the one I'd read. It became easier over time: we got married and they became less frequent. Now, you receive about one a year. I've almost managed to convince myself that they're nothing but junk mail.
Please forgive me. The letter was from Lynda Day and she was writing to tell you she was pregnant.
When he had finished, the shaking had lessened. Spike squared his shoulders in his seat and fixed his gaze resolutely on the runway ahead of him. He didn't know what the future might hold, but he was about to find out. The time for regrets was over: now it was time for action.