Safe Haven(115)

To the woman my husband loves,



If it seems odd for you to read these words, please believe me when I tell you that it feels just as odd to write them. Then again, nothing about this letter feels normal. There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to tell you, and when I first put pen to paper, everything was clear in my mind. Now, however, I find myself struggling and I’m not sure where to begin.

I can start by saying this: I’ve come to believe that in everyone’s life, there’s one undeniable moment of change, a set of circumstances that suddenly alters everything. For me, that moment was meeting Alex. Though I don’t know when or where you’re reading this, I know it means he loves you. It also means he wants to share his life with you, and if nothing else, we will always have that in common.

My name, as you probably know, is Carly, but for most of my life, my friends called me Jo…



Katie stopped reading and looked at the letter in her hands, unable to absorb its words. Taking a deep breath, she reread those words: for most of my life, my friends called me Jo…

She gripped the pages, feeling the memory she’d been struggling to retrieve come into focus at last. Suddenly, she was back in the master bedroom on the night of the fire. She felt the strain in her arms and back as she heaved the rocking chair through the window, felt the surge of panic as she wrapped Josh and Kristen in the comforter, only to hear the loud splintering sound behind her. With sudden clarity, she remembered whirling around and seeing the portrait hanging on the wall, the portrait of Alex’s wife. At the time, she’d been confused, her nerves short-circuiting in the hell of smoke and fear.

But she’d seen the face. Yes, she’d even taken a step closer to get a better look.

That looks a lot like Jo, she remembered thinking, even if her mind hadn’t been able to process it. But now, as she sat on the porch beneath a slowly darkening sky, she knew with certainty that she was wrong. Wrong about everything. She raised her eyes to gaze at Jo’s cottage again.

It looked like Jo, she suddenly realized, because it was Jo. Unbidden, she felt another memory float free, from the first morning that Jo had come over.

My friends call me Jo, she had said by way of introduction.

Oh, my God.

Katie paled.

…Jo…

She hadn’t imagined Jo, she suddenly knew. She hadn’t made her up.

Jo had been here, and she felt her throat begin to tighten. Not because she didn’t believe it, but because she suddenly understood that her friend Jo—her only real friend, her wise adviser, her supporter and confidante—would never come back.

They would never have coffee, they would never share another bottle of wine, they would never visit on the porch out front. She’d never hear the sound of Jo’s laughter or watch the way she arched her eyebrow. She would never hear Jo complain about having to do manual labor, and she began to cry, mourning the wonderful friend she’d never had the chance to meet in life.


She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she was able to begin reading again. It was getting dark, and with a sigh, she stood and unlocked the front door. Inside, she took a seat at the kitchen table. Jo, she remembered, had once sat in the opposite chair, and for a reason she couldn’t explain, Katie felt herself begin to relax.

Okay, she thought to herself. I’m ready to hear what you have to say.

…but for most of my life, my friends called me Jo. Please feel free to call me either, and just so you know, I already consider you a friend. I hope by the end of this letter, you’ll feel the same about me.

Dying is a strange business, and I’m not going to bore you with the details. I might have weeks or I might have months and though it’s a cliché, it’s true that so many of the things I once believed to be important no longer are. I don’t read the newspaper anymore, or care about the stock market, or worry whether it’s going to rain while I’m on vacation. Instead, I find myself reflecting on the essential moments of my life. I think about Alex and how handsome he looked on the day we were married. I remember my exhausted elation when I first held Josh and Kristen in my arms. They were wonderful babies, and I used to lay them in my lap and stare at them while they slept. I could do that for hours, trying to figure out whether they had my nose or Alex’s, his eyes or mine. Sometimes, while they were dreaming, their little fists would curl around my finger, and I can remember thinking that I’d never experienced a purer form of joy.

It wasn’t until I had children that I really understood what love meant. Don’t get me wrong. I love Alex deeply, but it’s different from the love I feel for Josh and Kristen. I don’t know how to explain it and I don’t know that I need to. All I know is that despite my illness, I nonetheless feel blessed, because I’ve been able to experience both. I’ve lived a full, happy life and experienced the kind of love that many people will never know.