We don’t go out as much as we used to.
We’re slow now—he with his knees and me with my back—so it’s just easier to eat at home most nights. Not that we don’t want to. Ernest did say he wanted steak last week, though. He said, “Real steak.” “With wine.” Use cloth napkins. “No TV.”
When we took our kids there, it had changed hands at least three times since we last went there. So we went to that old place by the bowling alley.
It was dark and quiet. He asked for a cabernet. It was the same wine I always get and never finish. At first, we didn’t say much. We just clinked our drinks and listened to the soft chatter going on around us.
Ernest then asked out of the blue, “Do you ever wonder what happened to Clara Jean?”
It was cold before I even put down my glass.
Hi, Clara Jean. That name hadn’t come up in forty years. Not since before the last child was born. He hasn’t done that since that winter when he worked late every night and smelled like peppermint and tricks.
He said it quietly, as if he had been holding it in, “She died last fall.”
I did not ask him how he knew.
He looked like he had been crying in the parking lot before we came in, but we didn’t ask him why.
Not even a word. Took a small sip. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that my hand was shaking.
Then he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out an old, yellowed package that didn’t have writing I recognized.
“This is what she left for me.” But it talks about you.
The package was on the table between us. Its edges were worn, like it had been read or held many times. My heart was beating fast as I looked at it. The noise of the restaurant, like silverware clinking and other people talking, seemed to fade away. The weight of that one piece of paper shut out everything else.
I finally said, “Open it,” but my voice was barely above a whisper. Ernest thought for a moment and then carefully tore the flap open. There was an old, folded letter inside. He slowly opened it, and his hands were shaking almost as much as mine had been. As he read, I could feel the past coming back to me like a wave I had worked so hard to keep away.
“Dear Ernest,” he read, his voice cracking a little. “If you’re reading this, it means I left without properly saying goodbye.” It’s hard to explain everything, but I owe you and Ruth this much.
The thought of my name made my stomach drop. Did Clara Jean know about me? She had to; how could she not? At that time in our marriage, she worked at the insurance office with Ernest. It felt like two ships passing in the night. But hearing her say it out loud made everything feel real again.
Ernest spoke again after clearing his throat. “She writes about… guilt.” “She claims she never meant for things to get tough.” She truly cared about us both, but she couldn’t live with herself after what she had done.
“What did she do?” I agreed, leaning forward even though I didn’t want to. This wasn’t just a ghost from the past; it felt real, urgent, and begged for answers after all these years.
Ernest gave me a sad look as he looked up at me. “This is where she says she found something.” “Something important.” They moved over the words as if they could show more than just ink on paper. “It’s about David.”
David. Our youngest son. This person died suddenly at six months old from SIDS. I still cry when I say his name out loud, even after all these years. How is it possible for Clara Jean to know anything about him?
“She says…” Ernest paused again and swallowed hard before going on. “She says David didn’t die naturally.” The crib was messed with by someone.
The room turned around. To keep myself steady, I grabbed the edge of the table. “Do you mean to say that?” Part of me already believed her, but I asked anyway. I had been awake at night, sure that something wasn’t right, and doctors couldn’t figure out why a baby who seemed so healthy would stop breathing so quickly. This thought had been bothering me for years.
Ernest mumbled, “I don’t understand,” and turned the page over as if he wanted to know more. But there wasn’t any. One last line quickly written across the bottom: Find the truth.
We both kept quiet for a moment. The gravity of what we were hearing made us feel very close to each other. We buried more than just sadness those years ago. We buried anger, suspicion, and betrayal as well. We had to dig it all up again because of a woman who was long gone.
With a voice that surprised even myself, I finally said, “We need to figure this out.” I owed David and myself the chance to say goodbye after forty years of silence.
Ernest said “yes,” but his face stayed pale. “But how do we begin?”
That question stayed with us through dinner, which neither of us finished more than a few bites of. When we got outside, the cold air hit me like a slap and brought me back to the real world. I was awake for the first time in decades. I wasn’t numb or ready to give up; I was driven.
Over the next few days, we looked through old boxes in the attic for anything that had to do with David’s death. Most of what we found were old, faded pictures and tiny clothes that made us feel sad all over again. But in an old shoebox marked “Miscellaneous,” I found something I didn’t expect: a note written by Clara Jean and dated just a few weeks before David died.
It just said, “Ask Dr. Hargrove.”
David had seen Dr. Hargrove when he was a child. He lived in a small house outside of town now that he was retired. Ernest agreed that it was worth a shot, even though he didn’t want to face him after all these years. Together, we drove to see him, practicing questions along the way but never quite getting ready for what he would say.
The man’s face changed from confusion to recognition when Dr. Hargrove opened the door. He gently asked, “Ruth? Ernest?” and opened the door for us. The walls of his house were covered with shelves of medical papers and old, dusty textbooks. The house had a faint lavender scent.
After greeting each other, Ernest got right to the point. He slid Clara Jean’s note across the couch table and said, “We’re here about David.”
When Dr. Hargrove picked it up, his hands were shaking. He looked at it for a long time and then let out a heavy sigh. He said, “I wondered if this day would come.” “Clara Jean came to see me not long before… well, before David died.” She thought there was foul play.
“Beating?” My voice rose as I said it again. “Who would do something like that?”
Dr. Hargrove paused, showing that he was unsure about whether to tell them what he knew. He finally looked at me. “There was another family at the hospital. It was a couple whose baby had serious problems.” Anything they had to do to save their child was enough for them. They were arguing with someone about switching kids, about taking David’s crib while theirs was being fixed. Clara Jean heard them.
I held my breath. “Are you saying that—”
“They thought that temporarily switching cribs wouldn’t make a difference,” Dr. Hargrove said. “But something went wrong.” Really wrong.” He shook his head and looked scared. “It was too late for Clara Jean to figure out what had happened.”
Ernest and I just sat there in shock. The pieces fit together too well for it to be an accident. Someone else’s neediness had cost us our son.
During the weeks that followed, we chose not to go to court. Why would you want to reopen scars that have been closed for decades? Not for them, but for ourselves, we chose to forgive. We could respect David’s memory in a way we hadn’t been able to before after letting go of our anger.
The day after he died, we went to his grave together for the first time in many years. As we stood there hand in hand, I felt blessed with peace. Life is fragile and hard to plan for. Keeping anger inside only makes us feel bad. Letting go is sometimes the most loving thing you can do.
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