Black crosses, one by one, began to fill the empty calendar. I was waiting for word; a letter from the other side of the ocean, a whole world away.
It was winter here, and my life was all about work, mothering, work, housework and more work and everything else that is boring. My daydreams were about turquoise waters, sandy beaches, balmy breezes and Robert. I wrote and sent little gifts from home like scotch tape, string for his garden, seed packets and bubble gum. Each letter took six weeks to travel to him, and I would wait another 6 weeks for a response in the beginning. When I felt really low I’d sit on the shore overlooking the ocean that separated us. I would touch a wave and know that he could touch it too. I would watch the moon and know it was the very same moon that hung in the sky above his island. In our letters, these would be the comfort we would come to share.
In late February, I ran into a mutual friend of ours one cold rainy day. He invited me to coffee, which I gratefully accepted. As we sat warming our hands on the hot cups, we started talking about Robert -things. I mentioned I had been waiting for the first letter. He tilted his head and scrunched up his eyebrows at my words. “What?” I asked. He stumbled a bit and then said, “Ah, you know he took someone with him, right?”
I spent the next month tending to the terrible crack in my heart. I wanted to call him and yell at him. I wanted to ask him why, and I wanted to know what I had ever done to warrant being treated like this. And yet I still defended him to my heart. Somehow I knew this wasn’t what it seemed to be.
One month later, the first letter arrived. He described a little bit of the paradise he had found there, and spoke of the kind people and their interesting language, a form of pidgin-English he said. He wrote about the incredible scenery, the heat, the many bugs and flies and the lazy days. His task, he said, would be difficult as the people readily found fruit just lying on the ground, and the fish were plentiful whenever someone needed a meal. There was no commerce on this South Pacific Island, and no need to press toward it. At the end he mentioned that he missed me.
I would write back as if nothing had happened, and I would give him time to confess for nearly a year. Without so much as a hint, the following autumn, I bounded into my manager’s office to tell her of my sudden prediction. She knew the story of Robert and I, and she had been intrigued especially by our dreams where we would meet in real time. “Mark my words. He will be here by Friday.”
The following Thursday, the phone rang at home. It was Robert. “Where are you!?” I knew he was here: there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. “I’m in L.A.” My heart skipped a beat. “I knew it! Why are you in L.A?” There was a pause and then an answer, “My son has been in an accident and they say he’s not likely to survive, so CUSO flew me out to be with him. I’ll be in Edmonton tomorrow.”
It was 30 below in the middle of a snow storm at the Edmonton airport. When I finally made it inside the terminal and we spotted each other, we ran into each other’s arms, just like they do in the movies. Home. We spent the next four days together. He confessed and cried over me, and I cried over him. She was a nurse with three kids who took advantage of her, was about all I remember. We held each other but something was different yet again; the veil was thicker somehow. We were all about reminiscing of times gone by, of things we did and the way we were with each other, and we even talked about our strange connection. And strangely enough we didn’t make love, just held each other as if by some magical force we would be forever linked regardless of what or who happened. He professed his love for me, and I held onto his words with a death grip.
His son recovered, he went back to paradise and I returned to boring. Our correspondence continued and as the months fell one upon the other; his discomfort of being away and even of being with her began to show more and more in each letter.
The following March I would leave home to care for my mother on the mainland. Robert’s last letter arrived just before I left. He would be home by mid-June behind his apologies and ramping-up loving wishes. This is an excerpt from his final letter.
“Warm fuzzies is a good way to wake up in the morning. I can’t wait to wake up next to you. Take care and think of me. My love as always, Robert.”
…to be continued
Photo Credits
Letter from Robert by Faye Thornton – All Rights Reserved
All other photos @ 123rf Stock Photos
Please Share Your Thoughts - Leave A Comment!