. . . . .
Andrew must have contacted Jackie because hours later, long after he had left me to my thoughts, she tiptoed into Theo’s hospital room, pulled me into her arms, and handed me a letter.
“I’m not here because of this letter,” Jackie said. “But Brooke told me to give it to you. Looks like it’s from Rick and Laura.”
Too few positive messages had come to me lately written on stationery like this, and I feared what lurked inside. Would they judge Theo for his actions? Even though I had judged him, I wasn’t sure I’d survive reading a letter full of condemnation.
“I know what happened, and Rick and Laura have always served as rays of hope. Open the letter. It might make you feel better.”
Turning my back to Jackie, I pushed my finger underneath the envelope’s flap before extracting a square of blue paper. The writing—the product of a steady hand—was Laura’s, but Rick had signed the letter from them both. My gaze found Jackie’s. “These two are such beautiful examples for all of us, working in concert together, all the time. If only...” My sentence hovered, unfinished. Instead, I lowered my body into a waiting chair and attempted to read the words swimming before my eyes.
Dear Theo and Sadie,
Thank you for contacting us and for being so honest about the situation. If we could, we’d head down for a visit. But with the weather forecast being what it is, it isn’t possible at this moment. Theo and you and the children are in every thought we have. We hope, so much, that Theo pulls through this trying time.
Sadie, I also want to say that what Theo did has indeed crossed my mind before. When I was given the diagnosis, my first thought was I had been handed a life sentence, and I wouldn’t see my children grow up and have grandchildren. I’d have to leave Laura behind before I was ready because I wouldn’t be able to live with PTSD. But something in me made me want to stay and fight, and I’m not sure I can even articulate what that something is. If I could bottle it, I’d send it down to you and Theo in a heartbeat.
If there is anything we can do to help you right now, please let us know. We are only a phone call away.
With much love and hope,
Rick and Laura
I read the letter twice and then folded the piece of paper over and stuffed it back into its envelope, hoping Theo would one day be able to read it himself. Drained of energy, I crumbled against Jackie and clung to her as if my life depended upon it.
“I’ll talk when I’m ready,” I said into my friend’s shoulder.
“Okay, Sadie. But I’m dragging you to the cafeteria. A change of scenery, even a small one, will be good for you.”
The slap of our shoes against the squeaky tile floor of the hospital distracted me from noticing much about our entrance into the cafeteria. To my surprise and delight, Kate and Pickles Martin sat at one of the old Formica-covered tables. My mood lifted the moment Pickles and I made eye contact, and I hugged the older lady with strong arms, not letting go for what had to be at least a minute. When I pulled back, Pickles smiled, took my hand, and escorted me to one of the coffee kiosks.
I filled my paper cup to the halfway mark with the hospital-grade decaffeinated brew and then poured in strong, regular coffee. Pickles fiddled with her tea bag and returned to the table as I splashed the cream into the cup, covered it with a plastic lid, and extracted a tall coffee stirrer from the container. The line behind me was mounting, so without looking at my beverage, I went back to the table the ladies had secured.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I said as I pulled out a chair and placed a hand on Kate’s back. “This’ll taste so good today. It’s been too cold around here, and the warmth is lovely.” Peeling back the lid of the coffee, I plunged the stirrer into the cup. To my horror, large chunks of curdled cream floated on top of the coffee, like miniature icebergs. I grimaced, and pushed the cup toward my friends, all of whom leaned back with pained looks on their faces.
“Ewww, you better go get another one,” Pickles said.
With a huff in my heavy steps, I emptied the cup in the trash and progressed through the same motions again, filling the paper cup with coffee and pouring in the cream. For the second time, the cream curdled, a sickly ivory against the sea of brown. Annoyed with a simple act that went so wrong, I sat at the table and sighed.
“You can ask them to replace the cream,” Jackie said as she glanced into the cup I should have, but hadn’t yet, thrown away. “Actually, you should ask them to replace the cream. That,” she waved her fingers in the direction of the offending cup, “is just awful.”
I shook my head and chuckled. “I know. I will.” I rotated the cup sitting before me and scrutinized how the chunks swirled and bobbed in the brown liquid. The cream had one job—make bitter coffee smoother and richer—but it was tainted. Like me. The cream was me: I, too, had a job to do, but I wasn’t certain how to take care of my family at this point. My mind turned somersaults while my dear friends sat and waited for me.
“You okay, honey? What can I do?” Pickles leaned in, a
