"So, did Claude end up moving out after you got the new job?" Emma inquires.
I smooth out a crease on my pants and let the memories roll back. "It wasn't without hours of convincing, but my friend needed a life of his own with his wife."
"What about you?" Emma asks.
"I needed to learn how to be on my own. I needed to find myself." I reach down for the next envelope in the stack I have tied together inside of my briefcase. "The day Claude and Juliette moved away, I sat down inside of my new apartment and wrote you another letter."
Amelia reaches over to the rolling table where the remnants of her dinner wait to be picked up. She takes a tissue and presses it to her nose. "Go on, read it, please."
I focus my attention and study the first words as I find the breath needed to read.
Dear Amelia,
Today marks the three-year date of when I saw you last. When I close my eyes at night, I can still see you running with Lucie cradled in your arms as you turned back to see if I was all right. Your face was filled with worry, hope, and pain. I couldn't be with you, but I still wanted to make you feel better. I wanted to give you the motivation to run faster and harder, even though I knew you were surviving through skin and bones. Your eyebrows were downcast, angling in toward your nose, and your eyes were wide as if you were struggling with every thought racing through your mind. I watched you until you were out of sight. I don't know why the guards took mercy on you that day, but I considered it a miracle that they were more concerned with my wrongdoings than yours.
I have asked myself if there was something I could have done differently, but no matter how many times I replay that day in my head, I can't think of a different path or potential outcome. I just haven't been able to convince myself that our fates were not aligned.
Today starts a new chapter in my life; it seemed like an appropriate day to do so. Within the last couple of months, I have taken a job at an art gallery after I noticed your painting in the window. I later found out there were a dozen paintings with your name signed elegantly on the bottom right corner. The time I have spent in the gallery has consisted of hours staring at every stroke and wisp you painted. It wasn't hard to imagine you sitting in an art studio, listening to violins and pianos that might inspire your ever mark. The paintings were full of emotion and life, and this is being assumed by a man who has never so much as given a second glance to a piece of art. That has changed for me now. I crave the time I spend analyzing each hue of color, the pressure of a brushstroke, and the textures of paint. I feel connected to you in a sense, being the observer of your masterpieces.
I have done my best to get well these last couple of months. I put the liquor bottles aside and began taking walks and baking, as well as tending to the gallery. I needed to prove to Claude that I was capable of caring for myself, so he and his bride could move to a small Connecticut town so they could start their family.
It was the least I could do for my friend.
As they were saying their goodbyes today, Juliette took my hand and placed it on her stomach. She smiled sweetly and her cheeks blushed. That's when she told me they were expecting their first child.
I was so pleased for them, but like all the milestones I have been bearing witness to with Claude and Juliette, there was a nagging pain in my chest. I wish I could have been a father to Lucie. She deserves a papa. I wish we could have had our own children too, and I could watch your belly grow with life inside. It's a silly dream in the grand scheme of life, but I want a family someday.
When Claude and Juliette decided it was time to move, I found a new apartment—one much smaller than the place we were living. I didn't need the extra bedroom, and downsizing would make the rent much more affordable. The place is quaint, on a quiet corner near Midtown. I have a small galley kitchen, a television room, a decent size bathroom, and a bedroom. The bedroom is a bit smaller than I would like, but I only plan to sleep there. There are closets though, and that's the best part. I can keep the apartment neat without clutter.
This morning as I was unpacking my belongings, I realized I needed some furniture for the television room. There is no use having a room as such without furniture, right?
I went to a small furniture shop down the street and spotted the most wonderful set-up right in the window showcase. There were two plush leather chairs, with a small circular table that would fit neatly between the two. The pieces spoke to me. I purchased them right away, and one of the men who worked in the shop was kind enough to help me move the furniture two blocks and up to my apartment unit.
Now, I have his and hers chairs in front of the television. It might sound absurd, but in case we find each other, I wanted you to have your own chair. The furniture makes the apartment feel homier. I can see myself staying put for a while now.
Amelia, I must confess though, I am beginning to feel like I'm in a relationship with an invisible woman. If anyone were to know the truth, I might be sent to a hospital to have my head examined. Maybe I have lost my mind, Amelia. I am not entirely sure. Holding on to hope is all I have, and if I didn't feed that hope, the chances of seeing you again would be gone.
For now, my love, I hope you are doing well.
Love Always,
-Charlie
Amelia is smiling proudly as she brushes a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "You saw my paintings?"
"I was and am in love with those paintings, darling."
"I was very fortunate to have sold my paintings. With two small children at home, I didn't have the ability to do much else. It was as if my life was pre-planned. Each direction I took was because of where I was standing. One thing led to another, and my dreams began to come true—well, most of my dreams."
"That gave me the motivation to do the same, Amelia," I tell her.
"How so?"
Chapter 35
Ten Years Later - 1958
New York City, NY
