I looked at her.
“He knew you’d say yes to a problem,” she said. “Larry was always better at asking for practical help than asking anybody to choose him.”
Margaret closed the binder, but I kept looking at Larry’s signature.
“What was I really saying yes to?”
I kept looking at Larry’s signature.
Margaret looked at the certificate.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
I wanted to demand an answer.
Then I remembered the remaining pages of Larry’s letter in my purse.
He’d told me to come here first.
He wanted me to see this.
I wanted to demand an answer.
The witness signatures.
The certificate.
The word spouse.
I left the courthouse and took the subway toward home.
But when the train reached Larry’s old stop, I got off.
At the coffee kiosk, the woman behind the counter recognized me.
“Two?”
The woman behind the counter recognized me.
I almost said yes.
Then I looked toward the empty place beside the station entrance.
“Yeah.”
She handed me my coffee with cream and Larry’s black.
I carried both outside and sat in his usual spot.
For two years, I’d never stayed there long enough to finish a cup.
I almost said yes.
I put his coffee beside me.
Then I unfolded the next page.
Larry had written only one sentence at the top.
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
Underneath it was another.
I unfolded the next page.
“But I did want to know what it felt like once to have somebody choose that word with me.”
I stopped.
The black coffee beside me steamed in the cold air.
Then I read the next line.
“I knew if I’d told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
I read the next line.
My eyes filled.
“So why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer was waiting directly underneath.
“Because then I’d have to hear you decide whether being lonely was a good enough reason.”
And suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry began to look different.
“So why didn’t you?”
Larry’s next line read:
“I made it easier for you to say yes by turning loneliness into paperwork. You had the right to know. I’m sorry.”
I stared at the page.
“You should’ve told me.”
A train rumbled beneath the pavement.
“You should’ve told me.”
The letter continued.
“You always wanted to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
I almost smiled.
During our three weeks of marriage, I’d bought Larry better socks, a phone charger, a new blanket, and enough toiletries for six months.
I almost smiled.
Every hospice visit began the same way.
I’d walk in carrying something.
Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”
I’d answer, “In a minute.”
There was always another nurse to find. Another form to complete. Another problem I could solve.
“Sit down, Sarah.”
His letter said: “I didn’t need better socks as much as you thought I did.”
I laughed through my tears.
“You’re welcome, Larry.”
Then I read the next line.
“I needed you to sit down.”
I looked at the empty place beside me.
“I needed you to sit down.”
Our last Tuesday together, I’d brought his usual coffee.
“You staying?” he’d asked.
“Five minutes.”
“Big spender.”
I’d stayed 12.
Maybe 12 minutes had been the gift.
The final paragraph began:
“Don’t turn me into one more person you failed to save.”
Maybe 12 minutes had been the gift.
My fingers stopped.
Since his funeral, I’d done exactly that.
If I’d noticed sooner.
Found better doctors.
Found housing.
Done more.
Larry had written beneath it: “You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
If I’d noticed sooner.
A laugh broke out of me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter around the copy of our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it had appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow crossed the sidewalk.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
A man with a worn backpack nodded toward the space beside me.
My hand automatically moved toward my purse.
Then stopped.
“No.”
He sat.
I nearly asked whether he needed coffee.
He sat.
Instead, I remembered Larry’s final instruction.
“Next time you start fixing somebody’s life, ask them what they actually want first.”
For a moment, we simply watched people hurry toward the station.
Then I held out my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I remembered Larry’s final instruction.
I took a sip from the second coffee.
Black.
I made a face.
Jeremy glanced over.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I looked at Larry’s empty spot.
“Just not mine.”
I walked back to the kiosk.
The woman behind the counter saw me coming.
“Just not mine.”
“Another black?”
I shook my head.
“Actually, could I get some cream?”
When I sat down again, Larry’s letter and our marriage certificate rested beside me.
For once, I wasn’t rushing anywhere.
And the coffee in my hands finally tasted like mine.
For once, I wasn’t rushing anywhere.
