He never saw it coming. That was the part that hurt the most. Miles thought they were happy. Their friends always said they were attached at the hip. Miles and Bronwyn (or Bronnie, as he called her), the couple who had outlasted every other relationship in their circle of friends. They were making plans for the future. An around-the-world cruise. Having kids, a boy and a girl, was the hope. There were no warning signs, or at least none he remembered, until it was too late.
Those times, when he would walk into the room and catch her staring off into space or wearing a frown which didn’t suit her delicate features, he would ask her what was wrong and she would smile at him and tell him everything was fine.
He thought about times like that a lot now. Especially at night when he lay in bed, sleep a distant luxury to which he rarely had access to. Those long nights spent awake, listening to cars passing or airliners rumbling in the distance as they ferried their passengers to and from their holiday destinations, were the worst. They were long and frustrating, the ceiling above the bed which was far too big for him alone making a perfect screen for him to review those memories and situations and play through all the things he should have done differently.
You couldn’t have done anything. You had no way of knowing.
He hated that voice. The one that tried to fix him from within. He knew it was wrong. There were signs that could have made the difference, he just missed them. He lay there in the dark, staring at that canvas, exhausted but knowing he was destined to spend the rest of the night awake. He closed his eyes and tried to force the issue, but that was worse. He saw it in flashes.
The note she had left on the table.
The second note on the bathroom door telling him not to go in and to call the police.
He ignored that of course and broke in, splintering the lock. He thought there might be time to save her, but it was obvious she had been there for some time, swinging from the wooden beam, the length of blue washing line embedded deep in her neck.
Miles snapped his eyes opened and groaned to the empty house.
Why?
That was the question that appeared the most and one he knew would never be answered.
Things will get better with time. Just wait and see.
He hated the way the voice in his head patronized him. It had already been six weeks and it was just as raw now as when it first happened.
Things can’t go on like this.
On that, at least, he agreed. He needed help, and even if his pride baulked at the idea, he wasn’t stupid enough to fumble through on his own and hope for the best. He would call the number he had been given for the grief counselor. Maybe they could prescribe him something to help him sleep and get some respite from the incessant misery.
***
The office was too bright. Sun blazed through the window behind the hulking man sitting across from Miles, who found himself trying hard not to stare at the man’s bulbous nose, upon which glasses were perched.
“Mr. Dickinson,” the man said as he shifted position, chair creaking in protest. “I understand you have been through an incredibly traumatic experience. Spousal suicide is growing nationwide, sadly. It’s a real issue.”
Miles nodded, regretting ever coming. He made a mental note to ignore the so-called voice of reason next time it made a suggestion. “It’s bright in here.” he muttered.
The man, who went by the name of Crawford, frowned and smiled.
Smoker’s teeth.
“It’s a bright day, Mr. Dickinson.”
Not when you’ve hardly slept in weeks, asshole.
Miles kept the response to himself and decided to move on. Desperate to get out of the office and breathe in some fresh air. “I hoped you might be able to give me something to help. With the lack of sleep, I mean.”
Crawford folded his plump hands on the desk. “Well, to tell you the truth, I try not to prescribe medication in the first instance.”
“I thought you were supposed to help me.”
“Please, hear me out.” Crawford said. Miles got the impression he was enjoying the position of power he felt he held, but said nothing.
“Now, Mr. Dickinson, you’ve experienced a terrible loss. An unexpected loss. In my experience, those are the hardest to recover from as it leaves more questions than answers.”
Miles nodded. He couldn’t argue with the assessment.”
“That, in my opinion, is the reason for your ability to move on and seek the closure you need. I assume you have questions you wish to have answered, things you wish you had said to your late wife?”
“Actually, that’s exactly it.”
Crawford shifted again, causing his overloaded chair to emit another groan. “I want to suggest something to you. A method which may help. Granted, it’s unorthodox, but there has been some success with it.”
“All right, tell me about it,” Miles said, more confident that the therapist seemed to know what he was doing.
“I want you to write your wife a letter. Hear me out before you protest. I want you to write her a letter and say all the things you wish you had said, all the things that are troubling you. Get them all down on paper, then put the letter away somewhere. A drawer or a safe place. Some people prefer to burn them. The idea is that you get to ask those personal questions and at least unburden yourself so the healing process can begin.”
“A letter?” Miles said, unsure if Crawford was serious. “Your answer is to write a letter? I thought you could help me.”
“I know it sounds strange, but just try it. You might find yourself surprised.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway though.” Miles said, standing and walking to the door.
“It’s just one of many options, Mr. Dickinson. If you come back we can discuss alternatives.”
Miles heard him but didn’t turn back. If that was the best grief therapy could offer, he had no interest in pursuing it further.
***
Instead of taking the pain away, the bottle of vodka had only made him feel sick. Worse, it didn’t even make him forget.
He lay in the dark on his side of the bed, Bronnie’s side, cold and unruffled. He badly wanted to sleep, yet every time he closed his eyes, those images came. The two notes. The discovery in the bathroom. He forced them away, wanting them out of his head.
For a while he lay there, listening to the world pass by, his eyes drifting over the ceiling when his mind returned to the meeting with the grief counselor and the whole letter writing idea. It was still ridiculous, of course, but the little voice deep inside was suggesting to him that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try. The only alternative was to lie there staring into space, feeling sorry for himself.
Decision made, he got up, considered finishing the last quarter of the bottle of vodka then thought better of it. Instead, he powered up the laptop and settled down to write.
***
For a while, he stared at the screen, the text cursor blinking at him with impatience. He moved his fingers towards the keys, then pulled away again. He could think of nothing to say, or even how to begin. He tried to imagine she was there in the room, back when things were good before everything changed forever and asked himself what he would have said to her.
Just start with the basics. Tell her you love her and miss her.
He moved his fingers back into position over the keyboard, alive with adrenaline as he started to type, tentative at first, then his tempo increasing as the emotions he had held onto for so long were finally free.
He paid no attention to typos or spelling. He just wrote.
He couldn’t bring himself to write about how her life had ended. He still wasn’t ready for that. He did, however, talk about how he missed her, how much he loved her. All the things he should have said more often when she were still alive.
When he had finished, the room had taken on the pink orange glow of pre-dawn and his entire body ached, but it was done. It still didn’t feel real until he printed it and held the eight pages in his hands. He read through, the feeling he was seeing them for the first time and they had been written by someone else was hard to shake.
He folded the letter and put it into an envelope, sealing it. The therapist had suggested he burn it, but he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to do it right, to burn it at the park by the bench where they used to stop and sit during their long Sunday morning walks in winter, her pulling close to him as their breath plumed in the chill air.
He loved those moments when it was just them. No work, no phones, just the two of them enjoying each other’s company.
That’s where he would do it.
In her favorite place.
That was for later, though. First he needed to rest.
He went back to the bedroom, a place which had become a prison, a place of misery. He lay on the bed, hands folded behind his pillow and had every intention of thinking about Bronnie, but he was asleep within seconds, his slumber without interruption or nightmares for the first time.
***
The park was quiet aside from a couple of mid-afternoon dog walkers and an enthusiastic older man completing laps of the park somewhere between a brisk walk and a slow jog. After a fitful sleep, Miles had expected the process of destroying the letter at the bench would be a smooth one. Just those few hours of rest had made all the difference, and for the first time in weeks, he felt almost human again.
That all changed when he saw the bench and recalled the things associated with it. Rather than bring him joy, seeing it only reminded him they would never sit on it as a couple again and that every memory the two of them would ever share had already happened. He couldn’t bring himself to sit there. He knew Bronnie would have laughed at him and told him he was stupid, yet it didn’t change anything. He knew if he sat there alone, it would somehow destroy the special feeling the bench had.
Jesus, it’s just a bench. Get a grip and do what you came here to do.
Miles stared at the letter and knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t destroy it, at least not there. Instead, he shoved the letter back into his jacket pocket and started to walk back to the house, a place which was rapidly starting to feel more like a prison. His work had told him to take as long as he needed. Although he wasn’t in any way ready to face the constant whispers and false concern thrown in his direction from people he had never spoken to before—anything had to be better than the perpetual misery.
Just be rid of it. Just writing the letter isn’t enough. You need to destroy it.
He was just a few streets from home now and knew the sleep which had come the night before was likely a one-off. There was a post box on the corner, one he had walked past hundreds of times and never noticed. In an age of instant messaging and emails, there was little use for actual letters.
Without thinking, he took the letter out of his pocket. There were no details that could be traced back to him and it was easier than burning it. Whoever found the blank envelope at the sorting office would dispose of it and that suited him fine.
There was no thought, no hesitation. He barely broke stride as he slipped the letter into the post-box. He didn’t even look back.
He did, however, make one final stop before heading home. He was out of vodka and knew the night was going to be long.
***
As hangovers went, Miles was confident this one was in the top three worst ones he had ever experienced. He had been woken by a combination of sunlight streaming through the window and someone close by mowing their lawn, the incessant drone of the mower not helping the raging headache which pulsed in his skull.
He didn’t notice the letter on the doormat until later when he was making coffee. Confused, he picked it up, wondering if it was another belated condolence or well wishes from one of his neighbors who for some reason had only just found out about what had happened.
He tore open the envelope, wishing the headache would give him a little respite. That and everything else ceased to matter when his eyes drifted over the words.
Unlike the letter he had sent this was handwritten and a single sheet with three short sentences written on it. He read them again and again, the world around him ceasing to exist.
He finally exhaled, realizing only then he had been holding his breath. It was too much for him to process and he emitted a short bark of laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation as he scanned the words on the letter.
Miles,
This is what I wanted and I’m happy now. You have to move on and let me go.
It was never a case of not loving you, I didn’t love me anymore.
Bronnie
His stomach tightened into a hot ball of something he had never felt before. A cocktail of fear, elation, disbelief and happiness. The words on the paper blurred as he blinked through a film of tears. It was the first time he had cried since the day it happened. He touched the paper, letting his fingers glide over the words.
Wait, don’t get carried away. You know this isn’t possible. It could be a sick prank. It’s not what you think.
He dismissed the voice in his head immediately. It was her. Somehow, some way he knew it was Bronnie. It was written the way she would have worded it. Short and to the point, a no-bullshit response as was her way. He could imagine her saying it, standing in front of her, not realizing how her being angry made her all the more attractive. Miles didn’t believe in miracles or the supernatural, but supposed those things by definition were only believed by those who experienced them. There was more he wanted to say, he wanted to keep these lines of communication open, so rushed to the laptop and powered it up, unsure what he was doing or why, just knowing it felt right.
You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. This can’t be what you think it is. Be rational.
Fuck rational.
This was the exact thing he had been hoping for, the chance to talk to Bronnie. He didn’t know how it was possible, and he didn’t care. He just knew he had to act on it and deal with the consequences later.
He wrote to her, begging her to speak to him, asking for answers, knowing he was rambling, but it didn’t matter. He had to get it out and prove it wasn’t some kind of twisted coincidence.
When he was finished, unable to stop his hands from shaking, he sealed the envelope. It was the most alive he had felt in weeks.
Not sure what had triggered the response, he repeated his route. Went to the park, stood by the bench, held the letter then posted it in the same post-box on the way home.
On arriving home, he was full of energy, anxious and excited, nervous and afraid. The biggest high he had ever experienced. Miles dragged a chair from the sitting room to the hallway, positioning it opposite the door. He wanted to be there when his reply arrived, no matter how long he would have to wait.
You realize it’s the middle of the day. The post won’t be here until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Stop torturing yourself. You know this isn’t real.
Ignoring his inner voice, he focused on Bronnie and what she might say in her response. It wasn’t even odd to him how quickly the situation had become completely normal. He knew it was insanity, and yet, he had the physical evidence.
You don’t have any evidence. This could be a sick prank and then what?
He’d thought of that, too. He’d asked her in his letter to prove it was her in a way only the two of them would know. That is how he would get his proof. That is how he would know. He waited to see if his increasingly annoying inner self had any further comment to make but for now it was silent. He was glad and settled in to wait for the letter to arrive.
***
At some point, he realized he must have dozed off. Miles snapped awake, the first hues of his third day of waiting filling the room suggesting he had missed a large chunk of the night to the micro-naps he had been having as he waited for his reply. The stiff neck and discomfort were forgotten when he saw the letter on the doormat. His exhaustion must have been deeper than he anticipated, as he didn’t even hear the letterbox flip closed when it was deposited. He lurched out of the chair and rushed down the hall, snatching up the letter.
Before he even opened it, there was no doubt. As he tore the plain white envelope open he smelled her perfume, the one she always said was her favorite so he would buy her a bottle every year for her birthday.
The heady mix of nervous excitement radiated through him as he scanned the letter.
Miles,
I can’t answer all the questions you have, it’s simply not possible. Just know that I’m happy now and this is a better place. It’s important for you to move on and forget about me. I know it will be hard, but you have to. I didn’t want to be in this world anymore, but I would hate to think you are wasting your life on my account. I know you might not believe this is me, and that is one assurance I can give you if only to help you move on. To answer your question, I had salmon on our first date, although it was you who had ordered it. I didn’t like the steak I’d ordered as it had mushrooms on it so you gave me your meal instead.
I hope this helps to convince you this is really me. You need to pull yourself together, Miles, and move on. As horrible as it was, this is what I wanted. You deserve happiness too. Remember, I’ll always love you.
Bronnie
Miles slumped against the wall and slid to a sitting position, sobbing and unsure how he felt. It was all so overwhelming that he simply had no idea how to process what had happened. He read the letter over and over again. The magnitude of it hit him then. He knew the answer to the greatest unanswered question of all time. He knew now life went on, and there was something else, a better place beyond the cruel and violent world he had come to hate.
Don’t get any stupid ideas. She wouldn’t want you to follow her. It says so in the letter. She wants you to live.
Miles moved the letter closer to his face and inhaled, the scent of her perfume igniting memories which somehow were even more painful. He didn’t know what to do, how he could possibly go on without her. He badly wanted to be with her, but at the same time, didn’t want to go against her wishes. It was this impossible conundrum that was rattling around his brain, without any sign of being solved, when there was a knock at the door.
It was her.
He knew it. Some instinct deep within him knew she had come to him in person. Still, he couldn’t move. He sat on the floor, clutching the letter and staring down the hall as another knock came.
Go on then. Answer it. This is what you wanted. Be done with it.
He knew that, for once, the inner voice was right, yet he was frozen. Even breathing seemed difficult, like something he had to give conscious effort to do. He imagined getting the courage to stand and open the door, only to see that Bronnie wasn’t how he imagined. That she was, in fact, a horror movie cliché, a banshee from beyond, washing line noose still embedded into her neck, tongue bloated and protruding as she glared at him with milky hatred filled eyes.
Don’t be stupid. Just answer the fucking door.
A third, less patient knock roused him to action. He didn’t want her to go away if this was his one chance to finally see her again. There was no sense trying to explain it. Maybe it was some kind of bond built by his love for her or some other kind of supernatural explanation beyond the knowledge of mankind. All he knew was it was real and happening to him.
On trembling legs, he pulled himself to his feet and towards the door. He had never felt such fear, such anticipation. It was so overwhelming he could feel himself trembling as if his body couldn’t handle the potent euphoria and terror combination. Even as he reached out to open the door, he felt detached, as if he were watching someone else through a fisheye lens.
There were three men on the other side of the door. Miles stood for a moment, confusion taking over. One of the men he recognized. The other two he didn’t.
“Dr. Crawford? What are you doing here?”
Crawford shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Mr. Dickinson, I . . . we need to speak to you.”
“I think I know what this is about. Actually, I was planning on calling you today to thank you. The whole writing a letter idea you had was genius. It works. Look, see for yourself. She replied. Bronnie replied.”
He was crying again but didn’t care. He thrust the letter towards Crawford, who glanced at it but didn’t take it.
“Mr. Dickinson, I think you should come with us so we can help you.”
“I don’t need help anymore, Dr. Crawford. Thanks to you, I can finally move on. Bronnie and I are in touch and communicating.”
Crawford again shuffled his feet and flicked a nervous glance towards one of his colleagues. “Mr. Dickinson, I don’t think you understand the . . . severity of your situation. Please, just come with us and everything will be alright.”
Miles looked at Crawford then at the two men, they looked official, both burly men who looked like they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Fear knotted his gut.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.”
“You’re ill, Mr. Dickinson. You and I have discussed this many times.”
“Many times? I’ve only been in your office once.”
Crawford shook his head. “No, Miles, that isn’t true. You and I have been having regular appointments twice a week for the last six weeks. You were referred to me by your grief counselor.”
“You are my grief counselor. What are you even saying?” Miles said, growing agitated and angry.
“I’m your doctor. You need to come with me now to the hospital. We’ll take care of you.”
Miles barked a laugh and knew it would sound as insane to them as it felt to him.
“Hospital? I’m not sick. Don’t you understand? For the first time ever I actually feel well. I know it sounds inane but Bronnie replied to my letters. We’re communicating, just look.”
Crawford looked at the letter as Miles thrust it towards him again. That paper is blank, Miles. There is nothing there to see.”
“Are you insane? It’s right there”’ His words trailed off as he looked at the paper in his hand. Crawford was right. It was blank. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand this.”
“It’s actually not uncommon with couples where an unexpected death occurs. In this instance, where not only was the death unexpected, but with a suicide, the mental toll on the spouse can be devastating if left untreated.”
Miles hardly heard a word. He couldn’t take his eyes off the letter. “It’s real. I read it,” he mumbled.
“Unfortunately, I suspected this would be the outcome when you came to me with this whole letter writing idea.”
“But it was your idea,” he whispered as he retreated into the apartment. He rushed to the table and picked up the previous letter he had received from the desk, but it too was blank. Beside it sat the bottle of perfume he had taken from Bronnie’s dresser, an accusing piece of evidence against him.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Miles said as he slumped in the chair, letting the two blank pieces of paper fall to the ground at his feet. Crawford and the two orderlies entered the apartment.
“Your neighbors alerted us, Miles. Said they were concerned about you. At first, they said they could just hear you talking to yourself. Then things escalated. They said they saw you walking the halls wearing your wife’s clothes and talking to her as if she were there with you.”
He was about to deny it as ludicrous when a flash of memory came to him of stumbling past Mr. and Mrs. Brenton in the hall, struggling to walk in Bronnie’s shoes, which were far too small for his feet. The look of revulsion on their faces as he smiled at them, the taste of Bronnie’s badly applied lipstick returning with disturbing familiarity.
“I left my number and they called me. They say you’ve been walking the hallways, coming in and out of your own apartment and posting the same letter over and over again. They said this happens all night.”
“They’re wrong. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t understand.”
“Have you been taking your medication? The one to help with the voices you hear?”
No, he hasn’t. We put a stop to that straight away, didn’t we? Thought we could fix it ourselves, that we didn’t need help.
Miles shook his head. “I don’t understand this.”
“We’ll help you, Miles, but you have to come with us now.”
“I’m going nowhere with you. Just leave me alone and let me think. You hear me? Get out of here.”
Crawford stood firm, whatever initial nerves that were showing when he arrived were now long gone. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. You are in no fit state to make your own decisions Miles, so we spoke to your sister. She has assumed responsibility for you and agreed to have you brought to the hospital for your own good, just until we can help you.”
Miles lurched out of the chair, trying to skirt around Crawford to the door, but the two orderlies were waiting and moved to restrain him, one pinning him against the wall as the other prepared a syringe. Miles screamed and kicked, desperate to be free.
“Let me go, you don’t understand. Bronnie is out there. I need to talk to her. You can’t do this to me.”
Crawford remained stony-faced as Miles was injected with the sedative.
“You don’t understand now Miles, but we all have your best interests at heart. This is the first step to recovery.”
Miles didn’t hear it. He was already slipping away. He was in a dream inside a dream. A dream with a door and someone knocking. A door which, despite the inner warnings not to, he opened, and there she was. Bronnie. A horror movie cliché, a banshee from beyond, washing line noose still embedded into her neck, tongue bloated and protruding as she glared at him with milky hatred-filled eyes.