Marcie read on, through a dozen letters, every once in a while replenishing her glass and his. At one point she got up and fixed herself a glass of cold well water, but continued on. Eventually, the letters contained more about her and less about Bobby, because of course he remained unchanged. She had written all about her trip to British Columbia, about the charm, the landscape, the friendly people. Then there was an all-girls cruise for four days, three nights. She took Ian through two years of her life as the wife of a disabled marine, as a sister, a sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, friend. There were family gatherings, new births, weddings, things that were normal. She had a falling-out with a close girlfriend that alienated them for a few weeks and in the next letter explained how they worked it all out. She told him about a bad haircut, about her younger brother Drew’s plethora of girlfriends and his careless ways with them. She even reported on the VW’s broken fuel pump.
The letters were more about Marcie’s life than Bobby’s. And Marcie’s life was not the torture he’d envisioned. But the thing that had him riveted was that she wrote to him as if he were an old friend. An important friend. And she always included her phone number, asking him to call her collect anytime. And she always closed with “Miss you…”
Then came the most recent letter, written last year, telling him that Bobby had passed, sweetly and quietly, and as divine luck would have it, she had been there. Since she was only there for a couple of hours a day and took some days off on occasion, she considered this a small miracle. She was cradling his head in her arm, reading, when she realized he hadn’t moved his head or eyes or mouth in a long while. She felt for a pulse, put her face against his to see if he was breathing. “‘And I knew right away… Not from the absence of pulse or breath really…It was as if I felt his spirit leave him. I don’t know if you’ll understand this—it was a great relief to know that all this time his spirit had been there while we all loved him so well. I had always thought it possible that his spirit had gone home long before his body would release its hold—but I swear to you, I had a fullness in my heart as though he’d passed through me as he departed. And I said, “Goodbye, darling Bobby. We’ll all miss you.” And I was so happy for him.’”
It was quite late when she’d finished reading that last letter to him. The level in the bottle was considerably lower, but they hadn’t killed it. She plunked the last envelope down on the stack and they were quiet. Ian sniffed quietly once or twice, then wiped impatiently at his eyes.
Finally Marcie said, “I might need an escort to the loo. I’m a little drunk.”
It broke through his sadness, changing his mood yet again. “You think?” he asked, smiling.
“Well, I don’t exactly have your height and girth. And I’m a small drinker—couple of beers or wines or fruity things. Truth is, I’m worried about standing up…”
He laughed at her. “No one held you down and poured it down your neck.”
“It’s awful reading letters you’ve written. All the bad sentences, terrible spelling, stupid remarks…I bet when you go to hell, they just read every letter you ever wrote out loud.”
He chuckled and stood. He said, “Come on, lightweight, I’ll take you out.” But what he thought was, they were beautiful letters. If he’d actually read them, they might have helped him get his head straight a little quicker. The one thing he’d been missing in his life—someone who cared about him—she’d offered him a long time ago.
He walked her to the outhouse, stood outside while she took her turn, then escorted her back to the cabin before making his run. She flopped on the couch and rolled over on her side without taking her boots off, without pulling up the quilt. He shook his head at her. “You’re going to sleep good.” Then he pulled her boots off and covered her.
“Hmm. That’s the last time you get me drunk, Buchanan.”
“Like I said, I didn’t hold you down.”
“I sense a problem. I got real used to the taste.” And then she hiccupped.
“I’ll be gone when you come out of it,” he reminded her. “I’ve got some wood to deliver in the morning.”
“Right. Yeah, I know that. Do I still have my library books?”
“You think I could get to the library in the hour you were gone today?”
“Oh, never mind. Good night, my sweet bear.”
Oh, God, how that made his heart swell and lurch. Before he could stop himself, he bent his lips to her temple and placed a soft kiss there. Her hand came up, stroked his hairy face, and she hummed. “The only problem with this is that I can hardly tell when you smile. I so love it when you smile.”