Forty-six
FORTY-SIX
Bea
A t the cabin, I took a long deep breath. The almost two hours drive had left me on pins and needles. The entire time I thought of the black book and wondered what story filled its pages. It was hard to wait, but being alone would be worth it.
I checked my phone. True to what Aunt Judith said, I had zero bars and thirty seconds proved the WiFi was in fact out of commission. When I had stopped to fill up my car with gas, I texted my family and said I was staying at the cabin until I could sort out some things. They seemed to understand.
The sun was gone now, and shadows stretched across every room of the dark cabin. I flipped on lights as I walked through the house, relishing in the dusty pine smell that permeated this place. My family had spent many wonderful vacations here. A stone’s throw from Estes Park, the cabin was perfect for getaways.
Always a creature of habit, I didn’t take the master bedroom. I went to the room Jackie, Hollie, and I always shared. In the back corner of the cabin, a queen bed and single bed cramped a tiny room. Old fashioned, folk quilts were tossed over the mattresses and grizzly bears decorated the room in every direction. The curtains, the lamp stand, even one on the adjoining bathroom shower curtain. I loved this room. I quickly unpacked my things, threw the food I’d bought in the fridge, made myself a glass of tea, and bumped the heat up a few degrees.
Finally, I sat down and held the book on my legs.
Fear raced through my veins. And hope—beautiful, blessed hope.
He loved me.
I loved him.
And his heart was in my hands, across my lap.
I opened the cover. On the first page part one was scrawled in Tag’s unruly handwriting.
Right beneath was a four-lined poem.
I find myself in smudges
between warm skin and paper.
Ink whispers all my secrets
when shame’s hand grips my tongue.
I blinked then read it four more times. It was deep—haunting. Did Tag write this? Or quote this? I had no idea he was into poetry.
I read it again, even more slowly, letting my heart attach to the meaning built into the words.
His words on the page. Words he couldn’t say.
Tears swam in my eyes. With an unsteady breath, I turned the page.
“I blame the rain, maybe that isn’t fair though. Because the trouble in my life didn’t start with that tropical storm. It was just the reason I looked down and realized I was soaked and alone. It’s painful to be honest with myself—to admit the trouble was there long before. Starting with and stemming from my mother…”
For hours, I got lost.
For hours, I wept.
For hours, I grieved.
I grieved for the little boy who never knew love. Grieved for the best friend I adored. Grieved for the man I loved. I broke over and over as his heart became one with mine, his words wrapping around and settling into the core of my soul. The ache and longing in his writing called to my spirit so intimately I felt sick with need to go to him.
Even in the pages of hopelessness, anger, shame, and regret…there was power.
He had no idea how strong he was.
Anyone who could walk through all that but still wake up and fill their lungs with air every morning was a living and breathing miracle. Forget accomplishments, forget career, forget family and relationships. Survival alone was the miracle.
Everything I’d felt for him—the admiration, the love, the affinity—grew, quadrupled, and burst to overflowing.
His story was written in three parts, and each part began with a short poem.
Part one was about a boy who popped open a Coke minutes before his life changed forever.
Part two was about a man who fell in love.
Part three was about a man reaching out for help.
Part four was blank.
Two days later I stopped rereading his book and closed it. With shaky hands and a shattered spirit, I did the only thing I knew to do.
I reached for my heart and touched her strings.