I check the time and see I’ve still got an hour before he gets home. I figure I’ll go ahead and open it. Then, after seeing what’s inside, I’ll decide if it’s worth showing to him. I’m sure it won’t be though. I anticipate it containing clothes he may not want to wear, his old cell phone containing pictures he won’t want to see, and perhaps other mementos from a past he can’t remember.
I slice through the strong tape and open the lid of the box. His military issued duffle bag is inside, stuffed to the gills. It’s too heavy for me to pull out so I turn the box on its side and slide it out onto the floor, drawing in a breath as I prepare myself for an emotional trip down memory lane.
Opening the zipper, I get a whiff of his scent. Or his old scent—he no longer wears the same cologne. I close my eyes and inhale, feeling like I’m somehow betraying the new Trevor with thoughts of the old one. Oh how things can change over the course of a few months.
I pull out several T-shirts he took over to wear underneath his field uniform. Then socks, underwear, toiletries, a few favorite books he’d taken with him, two pairs of boots, sneakers, other random articles of clothing, and a large envelope containing all the letters I wrote to him. Fishing my hands through some of the inside pockets, I also find his passport and military ID, along with some foreign currency and his cell phone.
None of it is anything I think he’d care to see.
But then I come across the one thing I know might interest him. Inside a zippered pocket, there’s a soft pouch. I know what’s inside based on the shape and feel. It’s the stethoscope I gave him when he graduated medical school. I saved up for months to be able to buy him the best one I could find.
I remove it from the pouch, turn it over, and trace a finger across the engraving.
You’ll always have my heart
~ Ava
He used to say it was his most prized possession. He took it on every deployment, even though I doubt he used it in the field hospitals where it could have gotten lost or damaged. He said it would be the only one he ever used when he became an attending physician back here in the states, but that he wanted to carry it as a reminder of how much I loved him.
As if he needed a reminder. I said it in every letter. On every phone call. It was evident in every picture we’d ever taken together.
I hope he still wants it.
I keep the stethoscope out but tuck everything else back into the duffle bag. The choice of whether or not he wants to go through it will be his.
I know in my heart he won’t. And I also know I’m finally at peace with that.
A zippered pocket on the outside end of the duffle catches my eye. It’s a small pocket, and I’m kind of hoping his wedding ring will be inside. They told us his attackers most likely removed all jewelry. Still, maybe he wasn’t wearing it that day. The pocket istoo small for much of anything. And surgeons do have to take off their rings before scrubbing in. Maybe this is where he kept it.
I swallow as I unzip it slowly, knowing that if I find it, it will be the one and only secret I ever keep from him, wanting just this small reminder of the day and the man he can’t remember.
Trevor has never mentioned not having a wedding ring. Maybe he thinks he didn’t have one. Or perhaps he’s simply avoiding a conversation that would lead to more talk of a past he doesn't remember. I suppose I haven’t brought it up for the same reason. Which is why I know I’ll keep it to myself if it’s here.
As I sweep a finger in the pocket, it’s not a ring I find, it’s a small, folded envelope. I pull it out and tears fill my eyes when I see that it’s addressed to me. The last letter he ever wrote before the accident.
He didn’t write a lot. He never had much downtime, not to mention it would take so long for the letters to get overseas that eventually we had cut back to only a few times a year these past few years. An anniversary card for sure. And birthdays. But other than those, they were few and far between. Emails and occasional phone calls—neither of which were ever as emotional and heartfelt as the actual pen and paper letters we’d send each other—were our main way to keep in touch.
I run a hand across the flap that he hadn’t even sealed yet. Maybe he never even had time to finish writing it. I pull out and unfold the letter knowing thatthismight be the one secret I keep from him. Because I’m not sure I could ever bring myself to burn the very last letter written by the man who is no more.
But when I read the very first line, my entire body stiffens. Every letter he’s ever written to me has the same salutation:My Sweet Ava.He’d never written a single solitary letter without those three words at the top.
Until now.
And a feeling of pure dread scorches me to my very soul.
Chapter Forty-Three
Ava,
This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. And I know writing it from 6,000 miles away makes me a coward. But it’s been eating away at me like cancer, and I can’t go on like this.
Maybe I didn’t see it sooner because I’m away so much. Maybe I just didn’t want to ever see it. But we’ve changed. Our lives are no longer our own. They belong to this constant and obsessive need to have a child.
You and I have been together for so long that your needs became my needs. Your wants became my wants. Until I realized they weren’t.
I’m not saying I don’t want to be a father. I’m saying it’s no longer a requirement in my life. That I can be happy and fulfilled without checking that box. But you,Ava, were born to be a mother, and I know you will never be happy until you achieve that goal.
Ever since I can remember, all I wanted was to make you happy.
