"What's in the bag?" Emma asks again.
I glance down at the worn leather handle I'm gripping. The stitching has come loose after years of wear and tear. "Letters."
"Letters?" Emma asks.
"I had nowhere to send the letters, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to write them."
"You wrote Grams letters, all these years?"
"All of the years," I answer simply.
"Isn't it sad that you both went so long, obviously loving each other, but not being able to be together?"
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to find pleasing words to offer as a response. Being positive is something I strive for, but her question—I can't spin it in the right way. "Yes, darling. It is quite sad, indeed."
The door to the waiting room opens again. This time it's a nurse. "Emma, your grandmother is asking for you. We'll allow one more in right now."
Emma glances over at me. "I'm sorry. I know you've been waiting a lifetime to see her."
"Another couple of hours won't feel like much in comparison," I tell Emma.
Less than an hour has passed when I see Annie and Clara walk past the waiting room. When the door opens, Emma pokes her head inside. "She's asking for you," she says with a twinkle in her eye.
It's my turn.
I collect my briefcase—my letter carrying bag—in my right hand and walk as properly and yet, as quickly as humanly possible down to Amelia's recovery room.
A deep breath calms me before stepping inside the room. The scent of hand sanitizer is stronger inside than it was in the hall, and the beeps are much more alarming. Amelia is alert, her cheeks are rosy, and her hair has been pulled up in a neat twist. I'm assuming Emma has helped her.
"Charlie," she croaks, lifting her hand as if she's reaching for me.
"Amelia, sweetheart." My legs move on their own, and I nearly fall to the seat beside her bed. "You are a fighter."
"I wasn't ready," she says. "I need at least ten more years so I can live my life with you." I don't know if the odds are in our favor to make it to a hundred and two, but if it is possible, I will do what it takes to make it that far if Amelia is by my side.
"Good. Because we have a life to tend to."
"We certainly do, Charlie Crane."
"Are you in much pain?"
Amelia moves her head from side to side with subtle movements. "Not much. How could I feel pain when my heart—this trusty heart of mine—is filled with so much joy and contentment?"
The weakened muscles alongside my lips stretch as I smile at my girl. "You haven't changed a bit."
"Do you have those letters?" She doesn't want to hear my flattery. "I need to read my letters."
"I do have every single one of them," I tell her.
"Is that what is in your briefcase?" she asks.
I unclip the buckle holding the case shut and reach inside for the first stack. The paper from the envelope is yellowed and soft like pressed cotton. "It all begins here."
"Read me the first letter, Charlie. Please." Amelia pulls her hands together in plea.
"Of course, sweetheart."
With a shaky hand, I slip the first letter out of the rubber band's tight hold. I open the flap and slide the notepaper out, unfolding the pages with care. "Amelia, some of these letters are a little dark. I want to let you know that my mind is no longer in that place, and I am well—I have been well for some time, but writing to you, it always made me feel a little better in my worst moments."
