My pie date with Joy had buoyed my mood a little, and so I tried to maintain that momentum and set about doing something positive. Menial tasks had felt so pointless over the last few months, and as a result, my place currently resembled something you might see on Hoarders; another quality TV show, if I do say so myself. To put it bluntly, there was shit everywhere.
After ducking out to the store, I came back armed with trash bags, rubber gloves and enough Lysol to kill the bubonic plague. It was a daunting task, but over the next few hours, I gradually transformed my apartment from a hovel into something vaguely respectable. It felt wonderful to actually be taking charge of my life, even if it was only in the relatively trivial area of hygiene. I began telling myself that maybe there was something symbolic in that act, a fresh home for a fresh start. I should have known it was too good to last.
The problem with depression is that it can sneak up on you. There were small periods over the last few months where I really thought I'd hit a turning point — little windows where it felt like maybe the darkness was lifting — but then I'd hit a trigger, some tiny inconsequential thing that reminded me of Tom, and everything would go cascading back into oblivion again.
It was a book that did it this time. Fooled by Randomness, something Tom had read a few months before his death. He'd always been fascinated by the human mind. I think that's what drew him to poker. There's a strong psychological element to the game, and he spent a lot of time trying to understand the intricacies of that.
I'd given the book to him for his birthday last year. It had been the first reward in a long series of treasure hunt clues I'd laid out around Vegas. As he solved each one, he received another gift. I'd been so goddamn proud of that surprise. It had taken me two weeks to organize, and the look of sheer adoration on his face when he found me in the restaurant after solving the last clue would stay with me forever.
The memories came flooding back, drowning whatever good vibes I'd managed to generate. I hated how little control I had over my emotions. I knew Tom wouldn't want me to be this way. He'd want me to let go, to move on and be happy, but his death held such power over me and, try as I might, I couldn't escape it.
I fled to the bedroom.
When things first fell apart, I spent days pouring over my keepsake box; everything that remained of Tom condensed into a single fourteen by ten inch container. It was intensely painful, but I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to hold onto those memories as tightly as possible, lest they float away and vanish.
At some point I realized how damaging it was, and I stashed them in the bottom of my wardrobe. I hadn't looked at them since, but without really thinking about what I was doing, I found myself fishing through them again.
Tom had been big on writing notes. He'd leave them on the kitchen bench for when I got home late, or on his pillow for when I woke. They rarely said anything meaningful, stupid little jokes or sweet nothings, but I loved them nonetheless. They were personal and special and utterly mine, something he'd never shared with anyone else. I'd kept every one.
Good morning, my love. The sun says HELLO =)
A little bird may have left you some ice cream. He also bought some more OJ and TIVO'd a documentary about sushi. Happy Sunday!
But there was one note in there that wasn't like the others. It was the note that broke everything apart. I danced around it for a while, wending my way through the bittersweet portions of the box, but eventually my fingers found their way to the fold.
Dear Grace.
I don't know how to do this. My hands are shaking so much I can barely write. I'm sitting here with this paper in front of me, thinking about what this is going to do to you, and it's just destroying me. I came so close to ending it a hundred times over the last few months, but I always wound up thinking of the moment that you find me, your beautiful face, the shock, the tears, and I couldn't go through with it. All I've ever cared about was making you happy, and now here I am, poised to break you. I fucking hate myself for it. I wish to God there was another choice, but I'm out of time.
I owe some people a lot of money. And we're not just talking banks, we're talking bad people; the kind you never in a million years want to be in debt to. I didn't know it was them at the time, but that's neither here nor there. We're well beyond the point of excuses.
I've been hiding it for the last few months, trying to figure some way out, but there isn't one. The hole is too big. I know you, Grace. I know how kindhearted you are, how selfless. I know you're probably saying to yourself right now that we could have worked it out, that we'd have found some way to pay it off, but the truth is that if we tried, it would have followed us forever. That future we wanted, your future, would have gone up in smoke, and I'm not willing to let you ruin your life for my mistakes. You're too special, and you've got too much to offer the world.