Читать книгу Veronica Tries to be Good, Again - Michael K Freundt - Страница 1

The note sat against the fruit bowl on the kitchen bench. It looked insignificant, but as she picked it up she was almost certain of what it contained. She took a slow deep breath as she took the little hand written note out of the unsealed envelope and opened it out.

Dear Veronica,

I've gone. This is probably not a surprise to you, and if it is, then it won't take you long to realise that it shouldn't be. Over the last five years, you have been my anchor, but when the ship sinks an anchor is of no use. I just couldn't stay. I had to get away. The irony is that I really need to get away from myself. I know how ridiculous that sounds but it's the way I feel. If only I could leave myself behind. Losing Cinnamon set me on this course. To lose a wife and daughter to a pot of boiling water is the craziest blow. I've been horrible to you since her death; inconsolable, distant, self-possessed, depressed. For this I am very sorry. This is not a suicide note; I'm not that brave. Not like her. It’s a sweet pain I feel; she was such a strong human being that I’m proud of her character as well as being hurt at her leaving me. I wasn’t strong enough for her. I'm just going away, limping away. No parent deserves to outlive their child. Don't worry about the house. The mortgage is paid; live in it as you will. I would like you to. I know there must be paperwork, and I will deal with it but not now. Please stay. I'm even self-deluded enough to think that I would like to know where you are when I toss this black rock off my heart. I'm so very sorry.

Ben.

"To lose a wife and daughter to a pot of boiling water..." sounded a wrong note: the rhythmic rhyme lent a tone of unexpected and inappropriate humour to the tragic contents but it was the kind of note where proof-reading was really unnecessary: who would check a note like this?

She read the note again. She did this not that she didn’t understand the contents but she was aware that this was a turning point in her life; her life was back totally in her control. So by reading it again, almost memorising it, she was marking the moment. She had let her life slip a bit from her grasp over the last five years; well, why wouldn’t she? Her life had become a part of his life; they lived it together. She and Ben, Cinnamon, and Jack on weekends, with Sally the doting grandma across town. Now that was over. She felt sad, a little let down, but also determined. She was conscious of her breath moving in and out of her body slowly but surely. She would be OK. The hurt, the sense of loss, and disappointment played minor roles in the feelings she was aware of, and already, they were fading; but she was aware of a niggling thought that she hadn’t been enough for him. She’d been a lover and partner, but she hadn’t been, she had to admit ... wasn’t that good at being a friend.

Ben’s daughter Cinnamon had walked into the Pacific Ocean and breathed in the brine like air, just like Jack London’s anti-hero, Martin Eden, had done, and described in detail, in the book that Cinnamon had just finished reading. Her ravished skin from the childhood accident - boiling water all over her - caused her so much pain, anguish, resentment, and fear of the future. It became an inflexible prison that needed multiple surgical operations to allow her to grow; mingled with the nihilism of a fifteen year old pushed her towards her final decision leaving her father inconsolable. It took two weeks to find her body. That’s when Ben had really left, back then seven months ago when they turned her scalded, now ocean ravished body to ash. It just took that long for him to realise it.

So now a new start, Veronica. I’m not forty yet; almost, but not yet. She had a son who was fifteen in a minute, not living with her, but with his father, but the thought of getting him back (getting him back!) made her breathe that little bit deeper, and made her stand that little bit taller: it’s all up to me. Me.