Chapter 48
After
The snow is gone, replaced with fresh, green grass, and the trees are bursting with leaves.
It’s the end of May—Memorial Day—as I drive into the cemetery.
Bindi is in the back, buckled in her car seat, taking a thousand pictures of me with my phone.
Later, I will need to purge the stream of photos.
But occasionally, she captures one that grabs my heart. A moment in time I was unaware of.
Michael has been gone for three months, but his beautiful spirit is alive all around us.
Not a day goes by that I don’t talk to or talk about him.
We keep many pictures around, and Bindi is learning to say Pappy.
She will know and remember her grandpa.
Several cars are parked here in St Joe Cemetery, placing flowers on loved one’s graves, and I pull up first to Tammy’s.
Before getting out, I asked Bindi if Grammy could have her phone back.
She hands it over, and we then exit the car.
“You want to put flowers on Tammy and Pappy’s grave?”
“Pap—py,” she says.
“Very good.
You know who Pappy is, don’t you?”
A big nod, followed by, “Pap—py.”
“Oh, you’re getting to be such a big girl,”
I tell her, carrying her to the back of the car before setting her down.
I pop the trunk, take out the flats of flowers I bought, and reach for Bindi’s hand.
“Come on.
Give Grammy your hand, and we’ll play in the dirt.”
“Durt.”
“Yep.
You like dirt, don’t you?”
“Durt. Pap—py,”
she sing-songs as we walk to Tammy’s grave.
Ryan and the girls have planted Tammy’s favorite flowers—painted daisies.
I add a few more and a couple of small sunflowers to their arrangement.
A garden stone with the caption Mom, always loved and missed, centers the flowers.
“Okay, ready to plant flowers on Pappy’s?”
“Pap—py.”
She helps by picking up the half-empty flat, and we walk to Michael’s grave.
The grass has not yet grown over where he rest for eternity, so I sit down on my knees and plow the soil with my hands to prepare to plant the flowers.
Bindi wastes no time jumping in and squeezing the dirt.
“Yeah, like that.”
“Durt,”
she says, picking it up and letting it sift through her tiny fingers.
“Can you hand Grammy a flower?”
She shuffles over, picks up one flower with both hands and returns it.
“Very good.
Now, put it right here in this hole.”
She drops it in, and I tell her to get more while I make more holes.
Soon, we have the entire plot planted with an arrangement of colorful annuals.
“Now, let’s give the flowers a drink.”
Gathering the empty flats and small spade, we take them back to the car, and I grab the sprinkler can that luckily hasn’t tipped over.
She holds my hand as we stroll back to Michael’s grave.
“Here, you hold this side while Grammy tips the water out.”
It takes a bit, but soon, all the water empties, and I sit on the ground and hold Bindi on my lap.
“Now, who is this?” I say, pointing to the picture I put on Michael’s stone.
“Pap—py.”
“That’s right.”
“Jill? Jill Danforth?”
I hear someone behind me say.
Twisting around, a woman stands behind me.
A woman I recognize from years ago.
“Yes, I’m Jill.”
“Do you remember me? It’s been…”
“Yes, You’re Cami.”
She looks at Michael’s grave and then to Bindi and me.
“What are you doing here?”
“First, let me say I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
I think.
Why is she here? Michael did once tell me they were still friends.
I can’t remember seeing her at his funeral.
“This might seem strange.
Is there somewhere we could talk?”
Curious, I lift Bindi from my lap, then stand to brush the dirt from my pants.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about Michael.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss.
As you can see, Michael is gone.”
“It’s something from Michael.
Please, is there a coffee shop or park we could go to?”
she says, smiling at Bindi.
Curious, I tell her to follow me to the local coffee shop and buckle Bindi back in her seat.
I climb into the driver’s seat.
She waits in her car behind mine, and I put the car in gear.
“Let’s find out what this is all about, shall we?”
I say, looking at Cami in the rearview mirror.
Ten minutes later, I pull Bindi back out, and we walk into the coffee shop.
I find us an isolated table, pull up a high chair, sit Bindi down, and hand her some crackers from her diaper bag.
Cami returns with two coffees and hands one over.
“Thank you,”
I say and try to steady my hand.
“So, is this Michael’s little granddaughter?”
she asks, shaking one of Bindi’s tiny hands.
“Yes, this is Bindi.”
I take a sip of the coffee and set it down.
“Cami, why are we here?”
“The board was cleaning Michael’s office a month ago, and we found this.”
I tremble and grab my coffee as she pulls something from her purse.
Through the tremors, coffee splashes over the rim, causing the hot liquid to run down my fingers.
But I’m too nervous to reach for a napkin and begin with slow sips.
She hands me the envelope, and I freeze when I see my name scribbled across the paper.
“I think you should read what is in this letter,” she says.
Setting the cup down, I wipe my hands on my jeans and reach for the envelope.
My heart races, and I slowly tear open the seal and pull out the letter.
Dear Jill,
As I write this letter, I don’t know if you’ll ever get it.
And if you are reading this, please know that I have passed.
A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s Cancer, and currently, I’m receiving chemotherapy.
But that’s not why I’m writing this.
I’m writing this letter to beg for your forgiveness.
I regretted my past with you and wished I could have been a better husband and father.
Each day, I’m haunted by the way I treated you and left you and Monica.
I’d do anything if given another chance; I would do everything differently.
I hate to think you will look back and see me as the worst thing in your life.
I know it’s too late now to tell you this.
I love you, Jill.
I always have.
I know you won’t believe me, and I understand.
You made me feel so many things, and the problem was, I didn’t know what to do with it. So, instead of learning from you and accepting your love, I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me. I hope you’re happy with Drake and that the two of you live the life I wish I could have had with you. He loves you, Jill, and you deserve to have his love. Please know it wasn’t about you when I left and said I couldn’t do this anymore. It was about me not wanting to hurt you anymore. I was always in my own way, and now it’s too late. If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s this. In the end, we’re all just stories. And I wished mine could have ended with you. I love you, Jill. Take care.
Love, Michael