After
AFTER
On my first morning at the cabin, my head is a mess.
I try to escape the chaos by wandering into the living room, but it doesn’t look the way I remember. The knickknacks on the mantel have vanished, along with the bug-eyed owl clock on the wall. The wicker daybed and split-log table now sit on a perfect perpendicular to the ashless fireplace, and the knotty-pine-paneled walls gleam, no doubt recently polished to showcase the place for buyers.
The unfamiliar order makes me wish for the cozy, controlled mess of my childhood. That, at least, might have soothed this chaos inside my head, in which glossy magazine clippings fall and fall, never finding the floor. In which a stapled stack of printer paper flutters open to an inky signature that cracks my life in two. In which thoughtless ex-brothers-in-law send emails to—
My hand shoots out. Someone has folded the blanket over the daybed with military precision, and I yank it off. From there, I march into the kitchen, pull the silverware drawer halfway out, then crumple a dishtowel beside the sink. I retrieve my luggage from the car, splay my suitcase open near my bed, and leave the rumpled sheets untouched.
The acts of rebellion soothe me. Or delude me into feeling like I have some say in the fifty-car-pileup that is my life.
Either way, by the time I finish, my mind has quieted enough that I get through my morning ablutions and sling on my laptop bag. I have an article due for work, and I’ll need to stock the cabin’s cupboards for my four-day stay.
In the car, dirt road rushes past, then asphalt . Twenty minutes later, I park in an angled spot along Millbrook’s Main Street outside Grounds for Dismissal Coffee. Pedestrians amble past. I watch them through the windshield, wondering how many have had their lives shattered at some point.
How did they manage to move forward? By running from their pain? Trying to forget it?
Starting over?
Why the hell isn’t there an instruction manual for this?
Inside the coffee shop, I nestle into a plush armchair. My hazelnut latte sweetens my tongue as I autopilot through an article about continuous-delivery insulin pumps. The words fail to excite me—they’re as dry and unappetizing as uncooked pasta—but the work gives me structure, so I keep slogging through, even though Michael’s substantial life insurance payout means I could probably retire tomorrow.
I finally send off the article, then knock back the rest of my drink. Caffeine zings in my blood, prompting me to open my email’s trash folder. A blank screen stares back. There’s no recover button, no way to undo yesterday’s impulsiveness. Unless...
An idea germinates. I nurture it, sit with it until I’m sure.
I pull out my phone and hunt through my contacts. Kate will have her kids up by now, so her tech-wizard husband—who just happens to work for the same mega-conglomerate that owns my email service—will be safely sequestered in his office.
Tanner answers on the first ring. “Uh...hi? Mina? Is that actually you?”
“Yep. Hi, Tanner. How’s it going?”
He pauses. “Did you butt-dial me?”
I wince. We haven’t spoken in months, and I’m aware of how classless it is to break radio silence in order to ask for a favor, but I’m not exactly flush with options. “No, I called you on purpose. And I’ll apologize in advance, because I know I’m a jerk for asking, but I was hoping you could help me out. Could you maybe recover an email for me? I emptied my trash folder, but I needed something in there.”
Silence. I brace, wondering if he’ll hang up. I wouldn’t blame him.
Except when he answers, interest warms his words. “It’s possible,” he says slowly. “How old was the email?”
My grip on the phone relaxes. Of course. This is the sort of thing Tanner thrives on. He likes puzzles. Challenges. For him, hunting down lost data probably equates to a spa day.
“Months,” I say. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but it was from Grayson Drake.”
Tanner doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve named a minor celebrity. “Sure, sure. Do you know his email address?”
I bite my cheek. “I don’t, sorry.”
“That’s okay, I can try with a name.” He launches into a breezy explanation about server caches and backups that I understand roughly five percent of. Keys clack away in the background.
When his monologue ends, I say, “Sounds great. How long will that take?”
“A few days, probably. I might have to turn over a few stones, but I’ll call you when I have something.”
“Thanks, Tanner. I appreciate this more than I can say. At the very least, I owe you a bottle of something expensive. What’s your favorite?”
He laughs softly. “Whatever Kate’s in the mood for.”
I smile. He might be oblivious sometimes, but he really does love my best friend.
hanging up, I contemplate a second latte, but decide against it and instead skim the unread remainder of my email. all, Kate had a point. I can only put off real life for so long.
Halfway through, the surrounding clink of silverware fades. Apparently, I’ve wasted my favor with Tanner, because Grayson sent me a second email, at least a month after the first. His name burns black on my screen, paired with another single-word subject line: “Appeal.”
My pulse gathers speed, a boulder careening downhill.
Dear Mina,
First off, I don’t blame you for not responding. some reflection, I’ve realized how selfish it was for me to message you out of the blue asking something of you.
I know I have no right. None at all.
I’ve tried to imagine how Michael’s death must have affected you. Obviously, he and I grew apart a long time ago, but I’ve still mourned him, and at times it’s felt like an endless pouring out of the spirit that leaves me empty. I suspect that, for you, that’s amplified by an order of magnitude, since you were married to him. In essence, I’m sorry I made demands of you when you’re probably already overburdened.
Too bad no one’s invented that “unsend” button yet.
If they had, I would’ve used it. But since we’re still waiting on that, I’ll just come out with this directly, instead of making vague, inconsiderate requests: I need to know you’re okay. If nothing else, you’re my brother’s widow, and that means something to me, regardless of the issues Michael and I had.
I’ll do my best to make a meeting worth your while. If you need something to cry on, I have not one, but two (!) available shoulders. Or, if you’d rather rage at the injustice of Michael’s death, I’m not at all intimidated by expletives—shouted, snarled, or otherwise. As a last option, if you’d prefer to toss a cup of coffee in my face as retribution for my first message, not to mention everything else, I’ll buy.
Pick one, or, if you’re feeling really daring, all three.
Let me know.
Grayson
I read it three times.
Compared to the first, this message seems written by a different person. One who’s clearly nothing like my husband, because he’s done the exact opposite of urge me to go running. He’s invited me to feel . To explode my land mine on purpose.
Moreover, he’s owned up to the damage he did. To Michael. To us .
I fire out a response. I don’t censor myself, the way I did with my husband those last few years. I just write what I feel and don’t worry about how he’ll take it.
Grayson,
You’re right. Your first email did piss me off, though I’ll admit that probably had more to do with me than you. Your second...not so much. But as tempting as I find the idea of dousing you with hot beverages (the important question being, of course, can I *actually* bear to waste a perfectly good hazelnut latte), I don’t think I’m ready to meet someone who shares Michael’s face just yet. Seeing you in National Geographic was weird enough (what a way to find out your husband has an identical twin!), so I can only imagine the effect face-to-face.
That said, we probably should talk. I’m at my family’s cabin right now, where the cell service is spotty, so you’re welcome to call the land line. (Bet you didn’t even know those existed anymore.)
Keep the coffee offer on standby, though. Maybe the one with the expletives, too.
Mina
I add the cabin’s number, then read what I’ve written. I almost sense a real live person behind the words, one with a heart that beats and everything. The woman I used to be peeks through, like a pinpoint of light shining through a tattered curtain.
I hit Send and bang my laptop closed.
Back in the Porsche, I navigate to the market on the outskirts of Millbrook. Town only consists of three stoplights, so the drive doesn’t take long. In the parking lot, Michael’s car attracts a few appreciative looks, and I return multiple friendly waves before rushing through my grocery shopping.
I tell myself I’m only in a hurry so I can go seek solace in the forest. But beneath the daydreams of towering trees and whispering wind, something else simmers, as well.
I don’t examine it too closely. I’m not sure I actually want to know what it is, even as I speed through the checkout line and urge the Porsche ever faster on the drive back. The whole time, a hive’s worth of bees buzzes in my stomach.
At the cabin, I’m only just slipping the key into the lock when inside, the landline rings.