“What kind of relationship did you have with Thomas?” I blurted out, not able to control myself.
“The professional kind, Detective,” she said, glaring at me with a pair of icy blue eyes.
“How did you know him, exactly?”
Her face tightened as she continued on a sigh, “I’m a volunteer for POPPA. Are you familiar with the organization?”
Of course I was. It was the Police Organization Providing Peer Assistance. I nodded, stunned. It was the equivalent to a suicide hotline.
She blinked slowly, “So you understand that I would not be able to tell you anything about what Thomas and I spoke about.”
“I’m sorry, can you explain? Are you saying that he spoke on the phone with you…through a suicide prevention hotline?”
She dropped her head in her hands and sighed. “The volunteers there help assist officers in coping effectively with the stresses they feel in their lives. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, martial problems, substance abuse, and yes Detective Fury, at various times, suicidal thoughts.”
My head lifted toward the ceiling where I stared at the crack running through the peeling plaster. He’d been talking to her for months. “The…the brass at the job think he was in trouble at work. His wife had his phone and saw all the times he called you—she thought the worst—about their marriage.” I explained.
Her eyes softened, as did all her features. “I’m sure that was hard. Look, Detective Fury. I wish I could help you more, but I can’t. I can’t speak to you about any of our conversations. However,” she said quickly, reaching into a big black bag. “I received this in the mail last night. That’s when I decided to call you this morning.” She stood, and handed me a large yellow envelope. I rose and reached out my hand, clasping the thick pouch. “Before he died, he must have written letters to few chosen people.”
My fist crunched into the package.
“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for inside. Thomas was a good man, a great officer, and complete gentlemen—one who loved his wife immensely.”
I nodded stunned.
She reached across the desk and gave my hand a squeeze; it was still outstretched, gripping hard around the letters.
I walked out of the office slowly, a heavy numbness tingling through my limbs. My lungs tightened and pinched in my chest, making it hard to inhale enough air. Instantly, the inside of the building became a bit too claustrophobic for me, and I jogged up the stairs, desperate for the sunlight I’d remembered from earlier that morning.
But outside was a mess of snow, slush, and cold. My thoughts whirled dizzily, and I stumbled wetly toward the car, cradling Thomas’ words in my arms.
Inside, I jammed the key in the ignition and turned up the heat as high as it would go. My fingers were wet, staining the envelope with water. I struggled in the driver’s seat, sliding my arms out of my coat and wiping the icy pellets of snow over my shirt to get myself dry.
Inside there were four envelopes. One was labeled to Lucy, one for their son, one for our Sergeant, and the last one for me.
I stared down at Thomas’s handwriting blankly, trying to get the emotions of the moment to sink in. This would be Thomas’ suicide letter, for me. I ran my trembling fingers along the smooth edge of the packet, barely conscious of the sound of my heart accelerating and pounding thickly in my ears.
Minutes passed in silence. The engine vibrated quietly. The heaters pushed out warmth, and my hands were paralyzed in apprehensive of Thomas’ thoughts.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, and gently ripped open the seal.
Hey Bro.
Let’s start off with me saying I’m sorry to you. You’re probably angry, but you could never stay pissed at me for long. I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell happened, knowing you, you’re probably blaming yourself for not being a good enough friend to save me. Stop thinking that bullshit, dude. You were a great friend. You still are.
The problem was me. I’m dying.
Not dying because I’m about to take my own life, but dying because in December I found out I have inoperable brain cancer. Lung cancer. Hell, I had the shit all over my body. I was given less than three months to live. I researched my ass off. I was ready to fight it, and I came out swinging. I promise you I did. But the truth was there was no treatment that would save me, and I didn’t want my wife and my son to watch me waste away. I wanted them to remember me strong and happy. This cancer was a criminal, creeping into my body—my home, in the middle of the night and took everything important from me. So I did what I had to do. I stopped it dead in its tracks. I looked for other options. There are places in this country that have a thing called Death with Dignity, but I didn’t even have time for that. I didn’t have any time left. Don’t hurt for me too much, Dean. I had a good fucking life. I married the love of my life, and we had an amazing son. I had the greatest, hardest job in the world, and I loved every minute of it. I spent the last days of my life with the people I loved the most. I spent a weekend with my father, forgiving him for all the shit he’d ever said to me. I made peace with everything I needed to. I spent time with those who mattered and Dean it wasn’t the job that mattered, it was the people I’d met along the way that did. Don’t forget to live until the very last minute. Find a good woman. Find happiness. Live, Dean, because you never know when you’re time is up.
Within two weeks of my diagnosis, all the will and determination to fight I had just left me, and I suddenly felt ready. It was time to say goodbye to all my pain. Right now, I feel so calm and at peace. I’m so grateful that I can just go to sleep and be free of this vicious sick thing that has taken over my life.
So stop grieving for me douchebag. It’s time for me to kick the bucket. Going over to the other side. I’ll see you when you get here. Keep an eye out for Chase for me. Make sure he knows how much I loved him.
Love you,
Thomas
I couldn’t stop the rush of sadness that engulfed me as I realized what he must have gone through, all alone, how he suffered, but still made the best of the time he had left here.
Tears streamed down my face, slipping over my smile. I was bewildered and elated at the same time—horrified and grief-stricken—realizing that in all my harshest imaginings I never thought there would be any way Thomas’s death could ever be justified. Yet, somehow, holding his last thoughts in my hands, I understood where it was he was coming from.
I swiped the tears from my face, roughly. For a few infinite moments, I felt how bleak and dark the world around me was. I tried to breathe in deeply, slowly—ignoring the wretched emotions that crawled at my chest in sharp slices. Everyone should learn from Thomas’ tragedy. People should learn to take each moment of their life with gratitude and understanding.
My throat closed, and my heart rammed into it like a jabbing fist. In an instant, my life blurred like fast-forwarded movie clips in my head, streaking reflections of regret and mistakes that tainted and stained at the edges. I was twenty, headstrong and arrogant, the world in front of me, and I conquered everything in my path. Everything that meant nothing to me, none of it was of any importance. I did a terrific job of keeping everyone at a distance, married myself to a job that never loved me in return, and spent my energy on limited unemotional relationships. I blinked, and I was thirty and running from the only girl that made me feel something, really feel something. My life seemed to pass in hazy disjointed pictures. The only things that seemed to stand out were the significant moments, and the ones that seemed etched in my brain all included Thomas or Liv.
Chapter 18
Liv
“Hey,” Brooke said as I walked into the kitchen. “I banged in today.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, stopping short by the window to peek out. Thick gray fog and fat flakes of an icy-snow combination was all I saw—a dreary day to match my mood.
She laughed, her mood contrary to everything around me. “It means I took the day off.”
> “Oh,” I said, collapsing on a kitchen chair still flushed and irritated from the tousle in bed with Dean. Somehow a steaming mug of coffee appeared in front of me. I mumbled a thank you and cupped my hands around the rim, lightly rubbing my thumbs in circles over its edge. I couldn’t stop thinking about how his mouth explored mine, how his hands made my insides melt like butter, how my panties were comfortably wet just thinking about it.
I felt her sit down next to me at the table, but I didn’t look up. I just stared straight into the caramel-colored liquid inside my cup. “So,” she said, clearing her throat and placing her hand over my forearm. “Why did Dean run out of here before?”
I felt myself shrug. “He got a call about Thomas.”
Her body shifted uneasily. “What happened?” she asked, her voice sounded anxious.
I snapped my eyes up to hers, and saw the concern in her expression. I didn’t want to upset her—not after what happened last night with those cadets—so why was I making her worry needlessly? “Oh, I really don’t know. He just got a call from someone who had been in contact with him or something. Someone I think he was talking to before, you know—”
Brooke leaned back in her chair, and breathed in deeply. “I hope it’s nothing bad,” she mumbled. “So, he just ran out of here, though. Just like that?” She bit at her lip, contemplating his actions.
“Brooke, I heard everything you said to him outside,” I muttered, tilting my head at her.
“Well, yeah. That’s why I went outside right by your window, did you think I wouldn’t have rather talked to my asshole brother inside where it was warmer?” She chuckled drily, “I was freezing my ass off out there.”
“Why, though?” I stared at her, struggling to understand.
“Because, Liv. I wanted you to hear how he really felt. God girl, the way he looks at you? I’ve never seen him that way before. I don’t want him to lose that. I don’t want him to lose you. And selfishly, I don’t want to lose you either.” Her lips tightened into a straight line, and I realized she was trying to control her emotions.
“It doesn’t matter. He told me I should go back home and that I was better off finding someone else,” I mumbled. “His exact words were: You should run the fuck out of here and go somewhere where you could find something or someone who would always put you first. And something about all he’d ever be able to give me was a lifetime of watching him walk away.” I choked on a gasp and squeezed my fists. “Then he did it! He walked out, got in his car, and drove away.”
Brooke glared down at her hands, then leaned forward urging me to listen. “He didn’t mean that. If you heard any of what we talked about this morning then—”
“Brooke, stop, please. He doesn’t feel that way about me—at least not enough—not the same way I feel about him. I think it’s time for me to stop wishing that something real could have ever happen between us. Yeah, maybe he wants to hook up with me and that would have been fine, but Brooke, I’m not staying here in the same town as my crazy mother when there’s nothing really keeping me here.”
She lowered her head, with a bitter smile. I understood; I was just as disappointed. “So that’s it? You’re really leaving?”
“I’m going to the hospital this morning to talk once more to that horrible woman and then, yeah, I’m going home,” I sighed, resigned to my decision.
“Look, do you want me to come to the hospital, and then after we could talk—?” She began talking quickly.
I held my palms up to quiet her down. “I just want to leave, and I need to do this myself.”
“Liv, I really want you to think about staying. You can stay here with me. You could just get a job teaching here,” she pleaded.
“Thank you so much for the offer and really, for everything you’ve done for me the last few days, really. But, Vermont is where my life is.” Not that it was much of a life; it was a very lonely one, but I would never say that out loud.
“How about you come back here after visiting with your mother? We could say a proper goodbye, and that way, you don’t have to drag your stuff there?” I could see the gears in her mind churning, trying to think of things that would get me to prolong my departure.
I stared back at her, struggling to find the right words that wouldn’t cause her feelings to get hurt. Then, I remembered what Dean had said. Brooke needed me. And even though I knew she was stronger than I’d ever be, maybe I’d just give her a few more hours, it was the least I could do.
“Okay,” I sighed, reaching out for her arm. “I’ll go see the witch and then come back here and say goodbye.” I offered her a wide smile, and hoped she thought it was genuine. “You do know you could always visit me in Vermont, right? You’d love small town life there.”
I glanced toward the clock on the microwave and felt my eyes widen. It was already ten o’clock. I jumped up out of my seat, and grabbed for my coat that hung on the rack by the side door. “I should go; I have a big conversation with my mother ahead of me. I can’t wait to hear what messed up excuse she’ll offer me for what happened with my father.”
She nodded, but said nothing. What was there to say? What words of wisdom could anyone give me? None. She walked me to the front door and offered a hug that was the best she could do under the circumstances. I slung my bag of papers over my shoulder and took a deep breath. I didn’t want to confront my mother, but I knew it was what had to happen for me to have any sort of closure here. Or any understanding of why all that money had been given, but kept well hidden from me.
Outside, lined up on the front porch, were dozens of red bouquets of flowers. Big beautiful arrangements—so many that it smelled like springtime as soon as you stepped out.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth.
“That is really romantic,” I said, not able to stop the huge smile that cracked across my angry face. “See? Now this is what I want, a grand gesture, like in the movies.” I bent down and breathed in an array of red and pink roses. “If your admirer comes out of the bushes with a boom box above his head with the song, “In Your Eyes,” blasting out of it, I’ll drop dead. I want a love story like this.”
Her face was ashen. “Trust me you don’t.”
“Are you okay?” I asked, glancing around looking for whomever left the gifts. Nothing but mist and rain surrounded us.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I just wish he wasn’t making this so hard for the both of us.” She walked me to the door of my car. I could tell she was trying very hard not to get flustered by what was going on.
“Why don’t you think it’s romantic? What happened between you both?”
“It is romantic, Liv. I just—” she shook her head and gazed back over her shoulders to the forest of flowers covering her porch. “He could have gone about it another way, that’s all.”
I watched her for a few moments, concerned, but she ended up smiling back at me and poking my shoulder with her index finger. “Remember you promised to come back here and say goodbye, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”
An inch of ice and snow covered the front yard and the top of my car. High above our heads white ice coated the pine needles on the huge evergreen tree between our houses in beautiful blue tinted patterns. My boots slid over the ice and snow as I attempted to clean off the car and warm up the inside. Vermont winters were much worse than New York ones, but somehow I struggled getting it done.
When the car was finally drivable, I made my way slowly through the icy covered streets. I drove slowly, not wanting to slide all over the road; my car wasn’t the best in this kind of weather. Now that I had a nice-sized bank account, I’d see to it that my old rusted car got upgraded to something a little more Vermont-ready and had four-wheel drive.
I distracted myself with images of the prettiest looking SUVs I had seen, but unfortunately, all my thoughts keep running back to Dean. Or my parents and how horribly alone I felt in this world.
I walked into hospital room feeling resigned to my fate. I w
as completely okay with not being wanted…by anyone. I was ready for her to lie and fight with me, and I was ready, more than ready, to say goodbye to this place and go home, even if it was to an empty home.
My mother was lying in her hospital bed, upright, staring quietly at a blank space on the wall. She looked almost peaceful, calm—not an adjective I would have ever thought to use to describe her. For a brief time, I leaned up against the doorway watching as she lay there, hoping and wishing one last time that maybe, just maybe this time—after this talk, things would be different.
After a while she noticed me. “Olivia?” she asked, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits.
I walked in slowly and pulled one of the soft cushioned chairs next to her bed. And without a word, I slid the papers out of my bag and in front of her.
Her face paled, but she didn’t move. “I told you not to go through my things,” she croaked. Her voice was heavy with agony, rasping with years of inhaling and drinking her self-inflicted punishments.
“Well, see I had to,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I had to, because you had exactly fifty-six empty bottles of booze, twenty-eight half full ones and five unopened ones cluttering your house. All your clothes were full of piss and shit and vomit. I needed to clean it all up. You started a house fire. Your home was uninhabitable, and I could have had it condemned.” I pushed the papers closer to her. “Why didn’t you tell me he was dead?” I asked, low.
She flinched back at the words.
“Or that he had a family?” I continued, as calmly as I could.
She looked away and a surge of white-hot anger tore across my chest.
“Look at me, Goddamn it!” I said, losing my shit, pounding my fist down on the metal side rail of her bed. “Why didn’t you tell me my own father was paying you off to keep me away?”