Ritchie nodded, agreeing with me. “She’d made her peace with God long before that night. She never had a fatalistic attitude. She wanted to live. More than anything, she wanted to live.”
At one time I’d doubted that. “I begged her to let me take her to Europe because I’d read about an experimental treatment there. She wouldn’t go.”
“It was too late,” Ritchie said simply. His hand tightened around the beer bottle. “She knew it even if we didn’t.”
That was Hannah—not only was she wise, but forever practical. While she was willing to accept the inevitable, I clung to every shred of hope. I spent hours studying medical journals, calling specialists, doing online research. But my crazed efforts to cure her didn’t make any difference. In the end Hannah had been right; she’d reached the point of no return. She died less than two months later.
Even now I was shocked by how quickly she slipped away. It was the only time in our marriage that I became truly angry with her. I wanted Hannah to fight the cancer. I shouted and paced and slammed my fist against the wall. Gently she took my bleeding knuckles between her own hands and kissed away the pain. What she didn’t seem to understand was that no amount of tenderness would ease the ache of her leaving me.
The waitress brought our meals, but I couldn’t have swallowed a single bite had my life depended on it. Ritchie apparently felt the same because his steak remained untouched for several minutes.
“Hannah asked me to give you this,” my brother-in-law finally said. He pulled an envelope from his jacket.
“A letter?”
“She asked me to wait until she’d been gone a year. Then and only then was I to hand this over to you. It was the last thing my sister asked of me.”
I stared up at Ritchie, hardly able to believe he’d kept this from me. We worked out at the gym three mornings a week and had for years. In all these months he’d never let on that he had this letter in his possession.
“The night of the dinner party I promised Hannah I’d give you this,” Ritchie said. “I put the letter in our safety-deposit box and waited, just like she wanted me to.”
Not knowing what to say or how to react, I took the letter.
We left the sports bar soon after. I don’t remember driving home. One minute I was in the parking garage in downtown Seattle and the next time I was aware of anything I’d reached the house and was sitting in my driveway.
Once I’d gone inside, I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. I sat on the edge of the sofa and stared at the envelope. Hannah had written one word on the front of it.
Michael.
I looked at my name, mesmerized as grief rippled through me. Unbelievable though it seemed, it felt as if her love for me vibrated off the paper.
My hand shook as I turned over the envelope and carefully opened it.
Chapter Two
Idon’t know how long I stared at the letter before I found the courage to unfold it. It consisted of four sheets.
The first thing I noticed was the date. March 13. This was another date that had been burned in my memory—the Friday of our appointment with the medical team, when we’d received the devastating news.
Hannah had written the letter that day? That was impossible. I’d been with her every minute from the appointment until dinner with Ritchie and Steph. That meant…
I fell back against the sofa cushion and closed my eyes. Hannah must have written the letter before the appointment. She knew even before we got the final word. She’d always known. In some way I think I did, too, only I couldn’t face it. I’d refused to accept what should have been evident.
I returned my attention to the letter. She’d written it by hand, her cursive elegant and flowing. I felt a visceral reaction to seeing her handwriting, which had once been so familiar. I tensed as if I’d just taken a punch to the gut.
My darling Michael,
I know this letter will come as a shock to you and I apologize for that. It’s been a year now and I imagine it’s been a difficult one for you, as well as our parents and Ritchie. I would’ve given anything to have spared you this grief.
Even on the verge of death, Hannah didn’t think of herself. Instead, she was thinking of me, our parents and her brother and how terribly we missed her and how deeply we’d loved her.
For the past few weeks I’ve been giving serious thought to what I wanted to say and what my last words to you would be. Please bear with me as I have quite a lot on my mind.
I know people laugh when they hear about love at first sight. I was only eighteen when we met, and young as I was, I knew instantly that you were the man I was going to love…and I have, from that moment forward. I will love you until the day I die and beyond. And in my heart I know you’ll love me, too. I want to thank you for loving me. Your devotion to me through everything I’ve undergone since the cancer was diagnosed has been the greatest gift of my life. You have made me so happy, Michael.
I closed my eyes again, fearing I didn’t have the emotional strength to continue. I knew when Ritchie handed me this letter that reading it would be hard, but I didn’t know how hard it was going to be. I dragged in a deep breath and went on.
The early years of our marriage were some of the most wonderful days of my life. We had so little, and yet all we needed was each other. I loved you so much and was…am so proud of you, of the caring pediatrician you’ve become. You were born to be a physician, Michael. And I was born to love you. Thank you for loving me back, for giving so much of yourself to me, especially during these past few months. You made them the very best months of my life.
I don’t want to die, Michael. I fought this, I honestly did. I gave it everything in me. Nothing would have made me happier than to grow old with you. I’m so sorry that, for me, the end has to come so soon.
Please don’t ever believe I had a defeatist attitude. When we first got the diagnosis, I was determined to fight this and win. It’s just in the past week that I’ve come to realize that this cancer is bigger than I am. There’s no use pretending otherwise.
I had to stop reading a second time, regretting once more my insistence that Hannah travel to Europe for the experimental treatment I’d wanted her to receive. It’d been far too late by then. I took a moment to compose myself, then went back to her letter.
I’ve asked Ritchie to give you this a year after my death. Knowing you as well as I do, I suspect you’ve buried yourself in work. My guess is that you spend twelve hours a day at the office, eating on the run. That isn’t a healthy lifestyle, my darling. I do hope you’re still meeting Ritchie at the gym three times a week.
I smiled. Yes, Hannah knew everything about me. Right down to the long hours and skipped meals. I’d tried to quit my exercise regime, too, just like I’d dropped Thursday-night poker with the guys. But Ritchie wouldn’t let me. It became easier to show up than to find an excuse.
Two weeks after Hannah’s funeral he arrived on my doorstep in his workout clothes and dragged me back to the gym. A couple of early-morning calls from my brother-in-law, and I decided I couldn’t fend him off anymore, so our workout became part of my routine once again.
This next section of my letter is the most painful for me to write. Although it hurts, I have to accept that there’s no hope now. I suppose it’s only natural when facing one’s mortality that regrets surface, along with the knowledge that the end is close. The greatest of those regrets is my inability to have children. This is harder for me than even the discovery that my cancer is terminal.