Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

that’s how it feels. Afterwards, we collapse into each other’s arms. I dream I am in the ocean, adrift. He is my life raft. I cling to him. If I let go of him, I know that I will drown.

I wake to strong sunlight and the call of gulls. I get up before he does and pull the pieces of myself together. Then I pack my things. It doesn’t take long.

He wakes as I head for the door.

“Will I see you again?” he calls, his voice sounding weaker than I’d heard it before. Not from illness, I’m sure of that. But from something new. Something that grabs for my heart.

I don’t answer. I leave his key on the sideboard in the hall. What is there, really, to say? I think about taking the sculpture. Something to remember him by, and I know he doesn’t want it and additionally has no need of it where he is going. But I leave it, in the end. He has had enough taken from him, and it certainly would not go easily through customs and airport security.

I go to the airport. Get a rental, a tidy European job, small and expensive but all that was available on short notice. I only need it for a few hours.

I pack all of my stuff neatly in the trunk of the car, then park it deep in a neighborhood near his office, in a place where I’ll be able to grab it quickly and go. I lock the rental car carefully and leave it behind, heading out on foot to find what I need.

It doesn’t take long. I know it as soon as I see it. The car is longer and older than is usually available anymore and it is perfect for my needs. It is solid, like a tree, and the ignition is broken easily. From the time I put my eyes on the vintage car until I start it without a key is under five minutes and then I’m gliding down the street in a full-sized piece of Detroit steel that was old enough to vote long before I was.

I don’t have long to wait outside his building. I know I’ve timed things pretty well. We haven’t known each other long, but I have a handle on his routine.

When he emerges from the building, I try not to analyze the firmness of his step or the jut of his chin, the tilt of his head. I try not to think about how he is feeling. Is this a good day for him or bad? Is he in pain? Has he said all his goodbyes?

I follow him for three blocks before I see the right moment coming up. I wonder if he feels the shadow or the ghost of me, but I discard the thought. It is fanciful, and there is no place for that here.

I begin to accelerate as his feet leave the curb. I admire again the spring in his step, the length of his stride.

He is in the middle of the intersection when I hit him, full on. He slides under the car. I keep going, grimacing at the solid bump bump I feel under the tires. Between the impact and the follow-up, I feel as certain as I can be that he is gone.

I leave the old car running in an alley a few blocks away, slipping off in the other direction, the direction in which I’ve left my rental car. Slipping off unnoticed and unseen.

It all happens very fast.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I GET THROUGH airport security in record time. In the age of racial and social profiling, I don’t come up on any lists. I am someone’s wife, perhaps. Someone’s boss. Someone’s mother/daughter/aunt. I am someone you need not fear. My pale face and gentle demeanor are practically a get-out-of-jail-free card, or so I’ve observed.

I get through security quickly and end up with time to kill before my flight. Despite my profession, that’s never been something I’m very good at. Time is for holding. Cherishing. Time is for saving or even cutting. Killing time is just counterintuitive to me, as ironic as that may seem. But there is a wine bar near my gate and, with my nerves where they are, and some long flights ahead, a glass of wine does not seem like a bad idea.

I order what sounds like a serviceable enough Sauvignon blanc and settle down to watch one of the televisions perched at the corners of the bar space.

It is a local station and top of the hour is the story of a successful local businessman and philanthropist struck down by an unknown motorist. Beloved by his community, missed by his family, respected by his peers; his loss will be felt. It was a hit-and-run and I learn that, though the car was found, the car’s owner was nowhere to be seen. They are searching for him now.

I don’t realize that I am holding my breath until they say the businessman died on impact. The pronouncement leaves me relieved and broken all in one breath. It’s like a light going out. I want it to be true. I don’t want it to be true. I don’t know what to wish for anymore.

I keep my face stoic, but I taste what I am feeling and realize that I am gutted.

I send a text to my contact.

It is complete.

I know there will be a deposit in my Bitcoin account within hours. I do a bit of Googling and find a place that will accept donations in Bitcoin for cancer research. I donate the amount I know I will soon receive. I know it is not even a token gesture, but I do it anyway. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it doesn’t make me feel worse, either. That seems like a start.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ABOUT THE TIME I am finishing donating money, Atwater is mentioned in the news again and my ears perk up. He is still near the top