Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel (15 page)

Becca looked at Marissa.  “I can’t do this,” she said again.

Marissa took her face in her hands.  “Becca, honey, it’s not going to be easy, but we’re here.  Me and John.  We are here for you.  And the boys.  And your friends and family.  We’re all here for you.”

Becca continued to shake her head.  “It’s not fair.”  She pushed them away as she tried to stand.  “It’s not right.”  She lost her footing in her stockings and slid back to the floor.

“You did good today, sweetie.  And tomorrow is a new day.  We’ll start over.  It will be okay,” Marissa assured her.

Becca shook her head defiantly, angrily.  “It’ll never be okay,” she cried.  “Nothing will ever be okay again!  Nothing will ever be the same.”

“No, it won’t,” Marissa said, tears welling in her eyes.

Becca looked down and saw her blouse was unbuttoned.  She reached down and tried to button it, unable to regain her coordination.  “They told me he was getting better.”

Marissa and John looked at each other, perplexed.  Marissa finally spoke.  “Who, honey?”

Becca gave up on her buttons and looked up at Marissa.  “The doctors,” she answered as if her friend knew.  But how could she?  David had been ashamed that he was seeing a psychiatrist at the VA, so he had forbidden Becca from telling anyone.  “They said he would be just fine.”  She turned her face to the wall and then slammed her fist against it.  “How could they have been so wrong?” Becca sobbed.

Marissa tried to turn her friend around.  “Honey,” she began.

Becca pushed her away.  “No!” she exclaimed angrily, startling both of them.  “I’m mad.  I have a right to be mad,” she said, looking from one to the other.  “He made me a widow,” she cried out.  “He left me alone to raise three kids!” she sobbed.  “Why would he do that?” she yelled.  “Why?” She dropped her head to the cold tiles on the floor.  “Just like Mama,” she wept softly.  “How could he do that to them?  To me?”

Tears streamed down Marissa’s face.  She wrapped herself around her friend’s body.  “I don’t know why, Becca.  Maybe he just wasn’t as strong as you, sweetie.”  She turned to John.  “Maybe he was just tired of fighting.”

Becca sat up suddenly.  “He gave up!” she yelled.  “He quit on all of us!  He—” she stopped suddenly, seeing D.R. standing in the doorway.  “Oh God!  Baby, I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out for him.

John and Marissa turned as D.R. twisted around and ran from the room.  Marissa stood.  “I’ll go,” she said, as she rushed after him.

Becca collapsed onto the floor again, sobs racking her body.  John stood and slowly helped her up.  He then lifted her gently and carried her into her room.  Becca leaned into his chest, now crying softly.  She had already pulled back the covers on her side of the bed, so he carefully lay her down.  He pulled the blanket over her, knelt beside her and turned off the lamp on the nightstand.  Becca grasped her pillow tightly.  “Don’t leave me, John.  Please,” she pleaded.

John leaned closer to her.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she said weakly.  “We were supposed to grow old together.”  She looked past him, staring blankly into nowhere.

John stroked her head as she closed her eyes, her tears wetting her pillow.  “You’ll get through this, Becca.”

She opened her eyes again and looked into his.  “I don’t know if I can, this time.”

“Shh,” he said, continuing to stroke her hair.

“I’m scared, John,” she confessed in a whisper, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

John leaned next to her and wrapped his arm around her.  “We’ll get through this, Becca.  I promise.”  He released her and knelt back beside her as her eyes closed once again.

“You always took such good care of me,” she whispered, still holding onto his hand.  “I love you, John.”

“Get some rest,” he told her.  He continued to pet her head as her breathing became steady.  He stood, brushed her hair once more with his hand, leaned over and tenderly kissed her on the forehead.  “I love you, too, Becca.”  As he stood back up, he turned and saw Marissa standing in the doorway.  She smiled sadly, turned and walked from the room.

John sighed and followed her to the living room.  Marissa was putting a sheet over the sofa and fluffing pillows, preparing to make her bed.  She looked up as he walked into the room, then quickly back down.  “The boys are all sound asleep,” she said.

John walked to the yellow phone on the kitchen wall, pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and dialed for a cab.  When he hung up, Marissa stopped, her eyes following him to the mantle, looking at the pictures Becca had placed across it.  “You okay?” she asked.

John turned to her.  “No, I’m not okay,” he replied, feeling the culmination of the day settling in his gut.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said casually, as she began to put pillowcases on two pillows she’d grabbed from the hallway closet.

John turned to her, perplexed.

“Oh, come on, John.  Please,” Marissa said in frustration.  “You’re still in love with her.  You’ve always been in love with her.  I knew it.  She knew it.  Hell, even David knew it,” she added as she stuffed the pillow into the fresh linen case.  “Maybe I’m even a little jealous,” she admitted with a sigh.  “Having two people love you that much.  Most times you can’t even find one person to love you like that in a lifetime,” she said sadly.

John stared at her for a long moment, as if staring right through her.  He turned without a word, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of Crown and turned to leave.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw David’s flask sitting on the counter by the coffee pot.  He walked over, picked it up and headed for the door.

Marissa walked from the living room to the hallway.  “John?”

“Look, I have to go,” he said abruptly.  “If Becca wakes up, tell her… well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he sighed.  He picked up his hat, turned and walked back to Marissa, kissed her on the cheek and then turned toward the door.

Marissa grabbed his arm and pulled him to her.  “Uh-uh,” she said.  “You’re not getting off that easy.” She smiled as she kissed him gently.  She pulled away just enough to tease his lips with hers.  “Too many nights you’ve left me frustrated, with just my imagination to fulfill me,” she whispered against his lips.  Slowly he relaxed and wrapped his arms around her, still holding the bottle and flask.  She kissed him again and then said softly against his cheek, “Do you know what my biggest fear is?” He shook his head ever-so-slightly.  “That every time you kissed me, you were thinking of her.”

John leaned back.  He saw tears in her eyes.

“And that every time you made love to me, you wanted it to be her.”

John reached behind her and set the bottle and flask on an end table, then took her face in his hands.  He looked deeply into her eyes, brushing away her tears with his thumbs, and he kissed her fully, passionately as she melted into his arms.  John finally pulled back, looked into her eyes and smiled.  “You’re an amazing woman, Marissa.”

Marissa put her finger to his lips.  “I know,” she nodded.  “And you’re a damn fool for ever letting me go.”  She kept nodding until he matched her motion.  “Good,” she smiled.  “At least we’re in agreement,” she said, kissing him sweetly again.  He smiled as he dropped his head to her neck and nuzzled against her.  “Uh-uh-uh, buddy,” she said, turning him around.  She handed him the bottle and flask, then opened the door and faced him out.  “Now, get the hell out of here.” She smiled and patted his butt to get him moving.  Marissa leaned against the door until he was out of sight.  “A damn fool,” she said to herself, as she shut and locked the door behind her.

The Fort Sam Houston Cemetery was gated and fenced, and for almost eighty years it had never been breached.  And if it weren’t for Crown Royal and John’s sheer determination, the record would have been unscathed.  John leaned back against the headstone opposite his friend’s, his polished shoes soiled by the dirt from the grave, his arms scraped from scaling the wall, his pants snagged and his shirt torn from the tree that broke his fall.

John attempted to fill the flask, but it was so dark and he was so drunk that he poured more on himself and the ground than in the flask.  He planted the flask firmly in the ground at the foot of the grave, sinking it into the soft sand.  He tapped the bottle to the flask.  “To friends,” he said, taking a sip, then looking up into the sky.  He stared upward, squinting as he looked up.  He pointed skyward as he thought he could recognize constellations, but then decided he was mistaken.  He tapped the bottle to the flask again.  “To Becca.  The best thing that happened to either one of us.”  He stood up, wobbling unsteadily.  “Certainly, the best thing that ever happened to you.”  He pointed to the small mound of dirt with no headstone.

He tried to tuck his shirt in, unsuccessfully, and then he leaned back against another headstone to steady himself.  He turned and chuckled and patted the headstone.  “Sorry, fella.”  He turned back to his friend’s grave.  “Why, man?  Why?” He began feeling the anger building inside.  “You could have called me.  You
should
have called me!” he said, pointing his finger.  “We could have worked through this.”  He stumbled around as he began his prepared speech.  “You said you loved her.”  He wagged his finger.  “You survived that damn war to come back to her,” he spat angrily.  “Then you take the coward’s way out?”  John fell to his knees and shook his head.  “What’s she supposed to do now?  What are we supposed to do now?  Who’s supposed to take care of your family now?” He fell back onto his butt.  “You stupid, selfish SOB!” he yelled.  “Nobody said it was supposed to be easy!” He dropped his head into his hands.  “Stupid….  selfish…”

John looked down at the grave.  “You committed me to a life in hell knowing I could never have her, but making me promise.”  He threw the bottle and it shattered against the headstone next to David’s grave.  “You knew,” he said again, feeling drained and tired.  He closed his eyes.  “You knew,” he said under his breath.  Then he jerked, as if suddenly woken up.  He looked at the broken bottle and stood back up, wavering, unable to stand still.  “You should have told me,” he scolded.  “I would have come.”  He shook his finger.  “I would have come.”  He looked down and saw the flask stuck in the dirt.  He leaned over, making a couple of attempts to pick it up.  He brushed it off and unsealed it.  He held it up to the sky.  “To you, my friend,” he said before taking a gulp.  Then he held it up over the grave and poured the rest out.  He dropped the flask into the dirt, and walked down the aisle of headstones, mumbling as he walked.  “Sorry… excuse me… Sorry, fella.”

John reached the wall and suddenly had no energy left.  The sun was just starting to rise, but he had no idea where he was and where he came in.  He thought if only he could muster a little more strength he might make it to the other side.  But he simply gave up and dropped beside the wall.  He was sweaty and dirty and very drunk.  He stared out over the headstones.  They would find him soon and probably have him arrested.  Or if he were lucky, they’d feel sorry for him and just call someone to pick him up.  He couldn’t call Becca.  That’s all she needed, with everything she was dealing with.  He could call Marissa.  He closed his eyes.  She had felt so good in his arms again.  When he kissed her, he hadn’t wanted to stop.  His world was falling apart and all he thought about in that moment was making love to Marissa.  But it was Becca he wanted, wasn’t it?  It had always been Becca.

John felt the warmth on his face and opened his eyes.  The sun shone full over the wall of trees in front of him, blinding him.  He slowly slid down the wall and covered his eyes with his arm.  It had always been Becca.  He lay down on the ground, the cool morning dew brushing his cheeks.  It’s always been you, Becca.  And then he fell asleep.

John walked the length of the graves, a map in his hand of where his friend’s grave could be found.  He walked slowly down the rows and rows of white markers.  More areas had been opened up, and thousands more graves had been dug since his last visit on that fateful night.  That next morning, security had found him passed out and snoring against the wall.  He was fortunate that the guard was a veteran and empathized with his tale.  That was, once he sobered him up with a few cups of coffee and shared with him some of the breakfast his wife had packed him.  John hadn’t believed his luck, knowing the man should have followed protocol and called the police and had him arrested for trespassing.

He had thanked God for his luck that morning, and then had spent the rest of his morning at his hotel, promising God he’d never drink again and praying for forgiveness as he puked up the breakfast, the coffee, and the alcohol he had consumed the night before.

John referenced the map again as he walked the row of his friend’s final resting place.  The grass had long grown over the graves that were dug that week David was buried, so that all the graves looked simply like a flat lawn with thousands of white markers.  He knew maintaining the place had to be a nightmare, weed eating between thousands of headstones, dodging flags and flowers.

John thought back to that morning so long ago.  He had been as sick as he’d ever remembered, and dog tired.  He had slept almost four hours before the phone woke him.  He barely recognized her voice; it was so faint on the end of the line.  His head ached as he sat up and listened to her sob on the phone.  He selfishly asked if he could call her right back so he could pee and take some aspirin.  Of course, he didn’t tell her that.

Peeing was a chore, because he didn’t think he’d ever stop.  Then he had to leave the room to get an aspirin from the front desk—another chore because he had to at least put on pants.  He called Becca back about ten minutes later, but D.R. had answered.  D.R. wanted to know where he was, and if he was coming over.  John promised he would be over in just a little while.  After he got rid of his headache, he didn’t add.  He slept for another hour, but the alarm woke him.  With only a dull ache of his migraine left, he called Becca back, told her he was bringing dinner and took topping requests for pizza.

An hour later, he delivered pizza, Mug Root Beer and Blue Bell ice cream.  The kids were beyond excited.  After dinner, Marissa played with the boys outside while John and Becca talked about insurance and David’s will and the house.  They had just moved into their home the month before David’s death, and she didn’t know how they would be able to afford it now, without tapping into the boys’ college funds.  Thanks to David, the insurance policies on him were now worthless.

David’s parents had moved to Florida when his father retired.  However, David’s mother had died less than a year after moving there, from a massive stroke.  David’s father was still alive, but in poor health.  David was their only child.  His death had devastated his father so much that he couldn’t travel to the funeral.  He called Becca the night before the funeral, sobbing, telling her he didn’t’ want her to move.  He told her David would have inherited everything he had when he died, anyway, so he wanted to make sure that she had a home for the boys.  He sent her a check for the balance of the mortgage that afternoon.  Becca had cried, thanking him profusely.

After teaching for six years, Marissa decided education wasn’t her forte.  Since she had dabbled in selling Mary Kay products on the side through her entire teaching career, once she walked away from the classroom, she began selling Mary Kay full time.  She was now a successful Mary Kay consultant, with a pink Cadillac to show for it.

Marissa had already promised that she would stay for as long as Becca needed her.  She could work anywhere.  John, on the other hand, though he promised to stay as long as she needed him, was not as flexible.  He had used every bit of vacation and sick leave time he had accumulated, not to mention digging into his savings for hotel and a rental car.  The days had turned into a week, and he finally had to leave.  He remembered the look of sadness on all their faces as he watched them disappear into the distance from the rearview mirror.  He felt like such a coward—it seemed like he was abandoning her all over again, when she needed him the most.

John stopped before the grave, standing where he had over twenty years ago.  The marble looked worn from years of weathering.  The ground was untouched.  He read the engraved words that hadn’t been there when he last stood in that very spot.  Loving son, father, husband and friend.  He drew in a deep breath as he took the letter from his pocket.

You said you would always be there, and when you left again, I was so hurt.  I felt abandoned again.  First by David, then, by you.  And then I got angry.  I was so angry with you, John.  Angry because you left me again.  And then I realized you hadn’t left me.  You were moving on with your life.  And I felt I’d been so selfish.  And I felt so horrible for making you feel guilty for moving on.  It’s like I wanted you to move on, but felt scared when you did.  I was afraid you’d forget about me.  I feared that I’d become just a casual call or occasional letter that you read with some amusement.  I wanted to be more than that, John.  I always wanted to be more than that.

John refolded the letter and put it back into his pocket.  He stood before the grave and then slowly stepped behind it and saw that there was no spousal engraving on the back.  He dropped his head and sighed with relief.  Maybe he wasn’t too late.  He walked with a little more courage back to the waiting cab and then gave the cabbie the only address he had.

The drive seemed to take forever though it was only fifteen minutes.  He looked around, not recognizing much of the landscape.  San Antonio had changed so much.  Of course, he hadn’t been back in longer than he cared to remember.  Here he was, sixty years old and still nervous.  He rubbed his hands on his jeans, then laughed at himself.  He caught the cabbie looking at him in the rearview mirror like he was senile.  John smiled at him, then leaned back.  What would he say after so many years?  What could he say after so many years that could make up for what he hadn’t said so many years before?

The cab pulled up to the same ranch house he remembered.  It seemed smaller somehow, but in good repair.  The yard was green and manicured, the gardens tended and the hedges trimmed.  He wondered if she still lived there, and if she did, if she still worked in the yard.  He envisioned her bent over, tending her roses and snapdragons.  He smiled to himself, then looked up and caught the cabbie looking at him again.  After a few moments of a stare down the cabbie blinked.  “This your stop?”

John sat upright.  “Oh, yes, sorry.”  He slowly stepped from the car and then pulled his wallet out and handed the cabbie his fare and a few dollars’ tip.

“Do you want me to wait?” he asked.

John shook his head and waved.  “No, thank you,” he said, then turned and walked deliberately to the house.  He held the railing to take the two steps to the front door.  He drew in a deep breath for confidence and knocked.