As Abby reached her front door, she was already starting to pull out
her keys and the envelope, the corners of which were now curled and
battered from the tense journey home which consisted of Abby constantly
gripping the envelope to make sure it was still there. She turned it over
and began to pull out the letter with one hand, whilst the other hand tried
to blindly fit the key in the lock. So absorbed in this once forlorn and
forgotten letter, she almost tripped and slid on the small pile of other
unimportant post that lay on her doormat. She kicked them away absent-
mindedly and felt for the light switch so she could read the letter.
Standing under the light, her purse hanging limply and unimportant from her elbow, she unfolded the letter with hands that shook slightly. For a while, she stood still, just staring blurrily at his handwriting before she cursed herself for letting herself fall in love this badly and forced herself to read. What began as an eagerness to hear from him, gradually grew heavy and dragged like a dead weight in her heart. She slowly sat down on the edge of the sofa as she read the last line:
"I guess the obvious thing is to end this – I know you'd think it pointless, carrying on with something that's already reached a dead end. It probably never would've worked and maybe we both already knew that. I'll see you soon. John."
She didn't expect to feel this disappointed, this upset. She stared ahead of her at nothingness while she distractedly folded the letter up again. He said it all like it was so obvious and simple, yet it hadn't been like that when he came back. He had tried to make amends and she had sent him off again. It was like everything felt was mutual, but she realised now that it wasn't. Even if he felt all these things, she didn't – she wasn't ready to let go of him yet. And he was. So that was it then. As easy as that.
Abby stood up and looked around her. The air in her flat felt heavy with sighs that had been there for weeks, ever since he first left. She walked over to shut the front door that had been left open in her eagerness to read the letter. She felt so stupid now, for getting so excited; judging from the date at the top, it had been written even before he had returned from the Congo. She sighed again, adding to the atmosphere. Did she really expect the letter to hold good news, considering the note they left on? Well, actually, yes. She did, with all the hope in her, expect good news.
As she shut the front door, she picked up the mail she had kicked aside and leafed through it half-heartedly. Her eyes watched her hands flick through leaflets, bills and free magazines advertising everything on the earth until she saw something that made her drop all the others. After staring wistfully at it just moments before she was let down, she would remember his handwriting forever. Here it was now, scribbled on the back of a standard airline postcard – a quick explanation that could never really be long enough unless he was actually there in person. She read it quickly and found herself standing very still. Suddenly, she wasn't sure of anything anymore. She looked at the postcard, then at the folded up square of the previous letter. Then she grabbed her coat, locked up the flat and left.
* * *
The moment Susan answered the impatient knocking on her front door, Abby walked straight in; postcard in one hand, letter flapping in the other. She handed them both to Susan, who was fleetingly stunned by the sudden entrance but recovered and read them both obediently.
"Abby – "she began, seeing her friend's strained and distressed expression.
"It doesn't make sense, Susan." Abby interjected, in a higher voice then usual. "I don't know what I've done." This is exactly how he must've felt all along, she thought.
"Abby, please, calm down just for a second. There's going to be a reason why he didn't send this letter." Susan spoke rationally.
"Yeah," Abby muttered, bitterly. "Kind of hard to find a mail office in the Congo, I guess." Susan hugged her and then held her at arms length, both hands on her shoulders
"Listen to me, Abby, if this was really what he felt, he would have sent it by any way he could – it would've reached you." Susan told her, gently. "But he didn't send it, we found it. It makes it so much more different. He loves you. That was what he said."
"So what? Did you even read the whole thing? I've said all this stupid crap that has made him think god knows what and run off back to the Congo," she ran her hands through her hair in frustration and worry. "What if something happens to him? Or if he just never comes back because I've told him to go and do all this stuff that I don't even understand myself? Why the hell did I need to say anything at all?"
"Abby –"Susan tried to stop her friend getting increasingly wound up, but Abby waved her words away and carried on.
"Susan, I've done something really wrong. I've ruined everything." Abby looked at her with tears starting to gloss over her eyes; she was worried, over-worked, lonely and tired. She took back the letter and the postcard still in Susan's hands and then turned to leave.
"Where are you going," Susan asked, suspiciously.
"To my apartment," Abby answered. "To sit and wait." Susan shut the door and turned Abby around.
"You'll never get any sleep. I want you to stay here, okay?" Susan led her to the sofa bed in her front room and sat Abby down on it. She hugged her. "Please, just try to calm down, Abby. This all will work itself out." Abby looked into Susan's deep, caring eyes and nodded.
"Thanks." She mumbled and lay down on the bed, still in her coat and all her day clothes – too tired to change. "Thanks, Susan." Susan pulled a blanket over her and stroked her hair, softly.
"No problem, hun," she murmured. "Goodnight." Then she pried the letter and postcard from Abby's hands and went to put them on the table, re- reading the postcard as she walked. She sighed and glanced at her sleeping friend before going off to bed herself.
"I'm sorry, Abby.
I guess you're right: I really don't know anything about fixing things, but I'm going back now – to the Congo. I don't know - maybe I'll realise something there that I didn't get before and maybe I'll come back to you and make everything up to you. I'm sorry for not yet knowing entirely what I'm sorry for. Maybe I'll come back and I'll know. And though I know that three words won't make any difference, I love you."
He didn't even have to write his name – she would know who it was. And while Abby Lockhart slept on her best friend's sofa, the same one line floated through her dreams becoming nightmares: "Maybe I'll come back to you and make everything up to you," he whispered to her from some place she had never seen but hated for taking away everything she'd ever loved. He stood in the heat and the dirt and the chaos – Carter in the Congo – and his gaze was directed west. She smiled in her sleep and he smiled back, never too far away. "Maybe I'll come back to you, Abby" his voice rustled like the humid breeze through the dried and yellowing grass of Kisangani, but it reached her ears all the same. Maybe not, said her nightmare, maybe not.
Standing under the light, her purse hanging limply and unimportant from her elbow, she unfolded the letter with hands that shook slightly. For a while, she stood still, just staring blurrily at his handwriting before she cursed herself for letting herself fall in love this badly and forced herself to read. What began as an eagerness to hear from him, gradually grew heavy and dragged like a dead weight in her heart. She slowly sat down on the edge of the sofa as she read the last line:
"I guess the obvious thing is to end this – I know you'd think it pointless, carrying on with something that's already reached a dead end. It probably never would've worked and maybe we both already knew that. I'll see you soon. John."
She didn't expect to feel this disappointed, this upset. She stared ahead of her at nothingness while she distractedly folded the letter up again. He said it all like it was so obvious and simple, yet it hadn't been like that when he came back. He had tried to make amends and she had sent him off again. It was like everything felt was mutual, but she realised now that it wasn't. Even if he felt all these things, she didn't – she wasn't ready to let go of him yet. And he was. So that was it then. As easy as that.
Abby stood up and looked around her. The air in her flat felt heavy with sighs that had been there for weeks, ever since he first left. She walked over to shut the front door that had been left open in her eagerness to read the letter. She felt so stupid now, for getting so excited; judging from the date at the top, it had been written even before he had returned from the Congo. She sighed again, adding to the atmosphere. Did she really expect the letter to hold good news, considering the note they left on? Well, actually, yes. She did, with all the hope in her, expect good news.
As she shut the front door, she picked up the mail she had kicked aside and leafed through it half-heartedly. Her eyes watched her hands flick through leaflets, bills and free magazines advertising everything on the earth until she saw something that made her drop all the others. After staring wistfully at it just moments before she was let down, she would remember his handwriting forever. Here it was now, scribbled on the back of a standard airline postcard – a quick explanation that could never really be long enough unless he was actually there in person. She read it quickly and found herself standing very still. Suddenly, she wasn't sure of anything anymore. She looked at the postcard, then at the folded up square of the previous letter. Then she grabbed her coat, locked up the flat and left.
* * *
The moment Susan answered the impatient knocking on her front door, Abby walked straight in; postcard in one hand, letter flapping in the other. She handed them both to Susan, who was fleetingly stunned by the sudden entrance but recovered and read them both obediently.
"Abby – "she began, seeing her friend's strained and distressed expression.
"It doesn't make sense, Susan." Abby interjected, in a higher voice then usual. "I don't know what I've done." This is exactly how he must've felt all along, she thought.
"Abby, please, calm down just for a second. There's going to be a reason why he didn't send this letter." Susan spoke rationally.
"Yeah," Abby muttered, bitterly. "Kind of hard to find a mail office in the Congo, I guess." Susan hugged her and then held her at arms length, both hands on her shoulders
"Listen to me, Abby, if this was really what he felt, he would have sent it by any way he could – it would've reached you." Susan told her, gently. "But he didn't send it, we found it. It makes it so much more different. He loves you. That was what he said."
"So what? Did you even read the whole thing? I've said all this stupid crap that has made him think god knows what and run off back to the Congo," she ran her hands through her hair in frustration and worry. "What if something happens to him? Or if he just never comes back because I've told him to go and do all this stuff that I don't even understand myself? Why the hell did I need to say anything at all?"
"Abby –"Susan tried to stop her friend getting increasingly wound up, but Abby waved her words away and carried on.
"Susan, I've done something really wrong. I've ruined everything." Abby looked at her with tears starting to gloss over her eyes; she was worried, over-worked, lonely and tired. She took back the letter and the postcard still in Susan's hands and then turned to leave.
"Where are you going," Susan asked, suspiciously.
"To my apartment," Abby answered. "To sit and wait." Susan shut the door and turned Abby around.
"You'll never get any sleep. I want you to stay here, okay?" Susan led her to the sofa bed in her front room and sat Abby down on it. She hugged her. "Please, just try to calm down, Abby. This all will work itself out." Abby looked into Susan's deep, caring eyes and nodded.
"Thanks." She mumbled and lay down on the bed, still in her coat and all her day clothes – too tired to change. "Thanks, Susan." Susan pulled a blanket over her and stroked her hair, softly.
"No problem, hun," she murmured. "Goodnight." Then she pried the letter and postcard from Abby's hands and went to put them on the table, re- reading the postcard as she walked. She sighed and glanced at her sleeping friend before going off to bed herself.
"I'm sorry, Abby.
I guess you're right: I really don't know anything about fixing things, but I'm going back now – to the Congo. I don't know - maybe I'll realise something there that I didn't get before and maybe I'll come back to you and make everything up to you. I'm sorry for not yet knowing entirely what I'm sorry for. Maybe I'll come back and I'll know. And though I know that three words won't make any difference, I love you."
He didn't even have to write his name – she would know who it was. And while Abby Lockhart slept on her best friend's sofa, the same one line floated through her dreams becoming nightmares: "Maybe I'll come back to you and make everything up to you," he whispered to her from some place she had never seen but hated for taking away everything she'd ever loved. He stood in the heat and the dirt and the chaos – Carter in the Congo – and his gaze was directed west. She smiled in her sleep and he smiled back, never too far away. "Maybe I'll come back to you, Abby" his voice rustled like the humid breeze through the dried and yellowing grass of Kisangani, but it reached her ears all the same. Maybe not, said her nightmare, maybe not.