A Box Of Chocolates

The little black book had been a thing between us for a while. At first, it had been a way for us to talk about our feelings after the accident.

We’d both gotten in the habit of slipping the book into the other’s bag every other night — it had almost become a game of Mr. and Mrs. Smith for us as we would peek around corners and duck into rooms in our clumsy attempts to be furtive.

Before, I’d felt so much shame and guilt that I just couldn’t bear to say aloud. Not to him. There was so much I had needed to say back then that I couldn’t bear to watch him receive. At first, it was a tool we so desperately needed to begin to communicate again. But eventually, it evolved into something else.

We’d find the book in our bag every other morning, making for a sometimes weepy commute. But it was New York. Everyone cries on the train.

As our feelings began to feel less heavy and less suffocating, the little black book became a source of romance. As we relearned to communicate, the notes in the book became more playful, teasing. It turned us into schoolchildren who giggled and shared longing looks across rooms.

Sometimes he’d drop a sexy note or something that would make me blush and giggle uncontrollably. But other times he’d write about how grateful he was to be in this place with me after everything we’d been through. After everything we’d lost. Those were my favorite entries. I’d commit them to memory and read over and over in my head.

I swallowed back tears as I was yanked abruptly back into the present. It was overwhelming to think of how much we’d overcome. Especially now. I stared into space, willing myself to daydream away from the present.

A memory began to form and I could recognize Alex’s deep baritone, smooth like the crushed navy velveteen of my favorite dress growing up.

The image began to clear into what I recognized as us cooking dinner in our kitchen. I was singing along to the R&B on the radio as I danced around him in the kitchen, pausing every once in a while to toss the veggies he was chopping into the hot skillet I had on the stove or to stir the rapidly boiling pasta.

“Baby,” he called out to me.

“Hmm?” I’d answered absentmindedly as I checked on the salmon in the oven.

“Baby, hold up, look at me,” he said, the sudden urgency in his tone causing me to turn more sharply than I’d expected. The oven door had startled me as it slammed shut with a loud bang.

“If anything ever happens, I’ll leave everything in the book."

I remember looking at him, confused as to what the hell he was talking about. But just as quickly, my mind flashed to the last time I’d seen him and the barely recognizable shadow of his face. The ghost of somebody who I used to know that had been haunting me both when I was awake and asleep.

I wonder if he had known then that this heavy, lurking thing would soon confront us in our home. Had there been something I couldn’t see that was alerting him to the fact that tragedy would barrel its way through our door soon, leaving a dramatically different life for us in its path?

Now, I was staring at the little black book with the full knowledge of what he meant and all I wanted to do was go back to that Saturday afternoon, the smell of rosemary and garlic wafting in the air as Jhene Aiko sang about love. The memory of that day felt warm and safe and I wanted to stay there forever.

But I couldn’t.

I looked back at the book, trying to muster up the strength to open it and face my fate. The longer I waited, the more my anxiety was building into this soul-sucking thing that threatened to overcome me. I was afraid that if I let go of the shred of sanity I was desperately holding on to, I’d disappear into a flurry of self-destructive emotion.

Beyond the fear, there was another underlying feeling that having my questions answered would bring on a finality I didn’t think I was prepared for. But I was in a race because my stability was being eroded with each second that not opening the book caused my blood pressure to spike.

I needed wine.

I dragged myself into a standing position, grunting at the weight shifting to my legs and feet. Not that I could see them with my pregnant belly glaring judgmentally up at me. I couldn’t drink the wine, of course, but the smell would calm my nerves.

I pulled down a glass from the cabinet and poured a healthy amount from the half empty bottle of cheap Malbec. I’d been smelling a lot of wine lately. It had almost become a security blanket, the deep earthy notes seemed to embrace me in a familiarity that no longer seemed to exist in real life.

The thing is that I didn’t even want to drink the wine. It just reminded me of him. So many pages of our little black book were stained with drops of red wine. He loved the stuff. Learning about it was his hobby and drinking it was his way to unwind. I’d spent so many nights at that living room table talking about wine, tasting it, sometimes getting drunk enough with him to lose our inhibitions for a little while. I loved frolicking like frantic teenagers with an empty house for a night.

I shook my head because I really had to just open the book. I had my wine and the longer I sat there the tighter my chest got. Okay. Deep breath.

Okay.

Maybe another.

After what seemed like forever, I impulsively snatched the book open, pulling it towards me as I flipped to the last entry. His handwriting was shaky, but the blocky letters were still familiar.

Baby,

I took a deep shaky breath and closed my eyes. I could do this. I just had to actually do it.

I looked back down at the book already struggling to see through the tears I was trying to hold back. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how my life could be as close to perfect as I thought it could be nearly a month ago and now I was considering what my life would be like if Alex never came home.

Okay, let’s try this again.

Baby,

If it’s up to me, this letter is an unnecessary precaution, but just in case, here we go.

Baby, I love you so much and I am so sorry that you are facing this alone. I am fighting with everything I can to get back to you and to get back to the child who’s gonna be the best of the both of us. I’ve wanted to raise that child with you ever since I first saw you singing that NSYNC song in the back of the bar.

I don’t think I ever told you that I saw that. You were waiting for me to show up to our first date and your afro bounced along with some questionable ass dance moves as you sang every word and every ad lib. I knew then that I’d give you everything you’d ever ask me for and I’d do it without hesitation. Even now, love, I’m still trying to give you what you asked me for. I’m still trying to make it home to live the life we’ve talked about so frequently and in such vivid detail.

This virus is beating on me, baby. It is. And if it wins, and I pray that it doesn’t, there are a couple of things you need to know.

First, that promise to make sure our family will always be taken care of still stands. There’s a will in the office. Middle drawer in the file cabinet left of the desk, in a bright orange folder.

Second, if this goes bad, I’m asking you to allow yourself to grieve. Feel your feelings and coach yourself through the weight until it starts feeling smaller and smaller. Don’t let it fester and grow into a wall that exists between you and love. I know you, baby. I know you and I love you and even if I’m gone I’m going to love you the best way I know how. That’s why I’m telling you this.

Third, do not let fear take the wheel of your life. You deserve to take chances, they are essential to living a full life. Do not stop living because of me. Have the experiences we would have had together and experience them fully, with your whole self. Invite joy and love to fill the spaces of your heart that you may feel without me.

And the fourth, and most important thing, is that there’s some money in an account just for you. I want you to spend that money on something that makes you happy and just you. Even if I do make it out of these woods, I want you to have something for yourself. It’s only $20,000 and money doesn’t solve all problems, I know that. But I’m a helpless man in what feels like a helpless situation and I can only do what I can. This is the only thing I have left that I can control.

I’d move every mountain and cross every river just to be back in the bed with you on a Sunday morning. I can see it baby, I can see it and I can smell it and I can’t wait until it’s real again.

Until then, just hold on, baby. If it’s up to me, I’ll be back in your arms before you know it.

I love you. Always and forever.

Alex

The phone rang just as my tears finally began to soak through the page, the ink blurring. I sighed, not even bothering to wipe the tears from my face as I swiped to answer the call. I croaked out a dry, hoarse hello, my voice cracking under the weight of what used to be such a small task.

“We’re not out of the woods yet, but he’s awake, he’s asking for you.”

I gasped.

And then my water broke.