Page 84 of When She Needs Them Most
The small trunk from Clark sits just inside the doorway. Tossing the monitor on the bed, I step over and pop the hinge lid. My letter is right on top, and I snatch it out before making my way back to sit on the edge of the bed.
My hands shake as I pull the folded sheets of paper free of the envelope.
My name is written in Clark’s handwriting on the flat side of the trifolded papers.
I run my pointer finger over it as my eyes ache.
This sucks so bad.
There’s no relaxation to be had, because I remember this letter exists at the most inopportune moments. It feels like a weight hanging over my head that could fall at any time.
Flipping over the papers, I unfold them.
The first is dated the day Clark broke up with me.
Chels,
I know I hurt you today.
I’m sorry for that.
I doubt I’ll send this, but I needed to apologize, even if you never get to read it. I received some bad news, medically speaking, and there’s no way I can drag you along for the ride.
And that’s the thing. I know you would put your life on hold to take care of me. I love you for it, but that’s not how I want you to spend the next few years. That’s if it’s even worth fighting.
Just know that I’m sorry.
Clark
My shoulders shake, and I toss that sheet of paper aside, frantically trying to get to the next message.
He told me he loved me in a letter he never intended to send?
My heart beats so violently that I can hear my pulse in my ears. The next one is dated a few days after I left the voicemail telling him he was going to be a father.
Chels,
I’ve picked up the phone and put it back down no less than a hundred times today. I want to hear your voice and apologize for the mistakes I’ve made, but I’m afraid that would be the most selfish thing I could do.
The tumor is at grade four, that’s what they told me after my last round of scans. Apparently, other types of cancers have stages, but for brain tumors they go by grades, which is weird because I always pushed myself to get the best grades, and now I have a tumor that’s doing the best job it can to kill me.
Sorry.
I’m bad at jokes. You know this.
I snort, wiping my leaking eyes. He really had a cheesy sense of humor, but I loved that about him.
I got your messages. In my entire life, I’ve never been more torn on what to do.
If I tell you the truth, I’m afraid you’ll focus on caring for me.
We both know you would.
My favorite days were the ones I got to see your smiling face and listen to you laugh when I said something silly. It’s why I bought the dad joke book that I was slowly making my way through.
You’ve always been so vibrant, and I don’t want you to lose that because of me. I know you’re still hurting from the loss of your mom, and I’m worried about what will happen to you if I don’t make it. The chances aren’t good, but I’m fighting.
I daydream sometimes that I’ll be able to come back into your life as the healthy version of me that you remember. Maybe you would even let me back in and not tell me to get lost.
