The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline(264)

During those long, dark days, two things kept me going. The first was his letter, the one he’d written before his last mission. The paper had become soft and fragile with the number of times I’d read it. I looked at it often when I was alone for a few seconds, even though I’d long memorized the words.

The second was a small thing, ridiculous really, but it signified a lot to me, and I think to Sebastian, too.

I’d been sorting through a pile of dirty clothes: one of those joyless, thankless jobs that we all have to do, but never get done because they’re never-ending.

I was making sure buttons were done up, and shirts were turned inside out before I threw them into the washer, tedious but necessary trivia, when I picked up Sebastian’s jeans. As usual, he’d tossed them into the hamper unbuttoned and unzipped. I thought I’d better check the pockets, too … and that’s when I found it.

I felt a hard lump in the hip pocket. I pushed my hand inside and pulled out a small, white pebble. It was the little piece of quartz that I’d found on the beach, that silly sentimental gift that I’d given to Sebastian the day he’d flown out to Afghanistan. And he’d kept it. More than that, he kept it with him even now.

My throat started to ache with tears but I refused to let myself cry, because they would have been hopeful tears. If Sebastian cared enough to keep that little pebble, surely it meant he still cared for me? That he was still capable of caring for me?



A loud crash brought me running to the living room.

Sebastian was thrashing around on the floor, swearing up and down, cursing like it was going out of fashion, and surrounded by books.

“What happened?” I said, breathlessly.

“I fucking fell! What does it look like?” he snarled.

I guessed that he’d lost his balance and tried to hold onto the bookshelf, but pulled the whole thing down instead.

I bent down to help him up.

“Leave me alone! I’m not a complete fucking cripple.”

I bit my lip and watched as he struggled to his feet. His frustration at what he perceived as his helplessness boiled over several times a day. I had to remind myself that he wasn’t mad at me, but sometimes it was hard. It hurt to see him fight so hard: fight his own body as it continued to heal, fight me, fight everyone.

He was sinking deeper into depression each day, and I didn’t know how to help him.

He even refused to talk about getting married or anything that involved planning for our future.

“I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” he roared, when I’d been foolish enough to press the subject. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

I’d bit back my angry retort that there wouldn’t be an aisle at City Hall, and left him alone to stew in his own black anger.

My own hopes and dreams drifted further away.

In silence, I bent down and started picking up the books that had tumbled down around him—the ones out of his reach. He watched me sullenly for a moment, then reached out to collect the volumes nearest to him. As he picked up my copy of ‘Lolita’ by its cover, an envelope fell out, fluttering to the ground. I knew at once what it was and leaned over to pick it up; Sebastian was faster.

“What’s this?” he said, his voice puzzled. “It’s got my name on it.”

He looked up at me. “The date on it … that’s the day we first…”

“Yes, I know,” I said, quietly.

The small envelope did indeed have Sebastian’s name scrawled across one corner in my untidy handwriting. The date was ten years ago: the day I’d found him alone in the park, bruised and bloodied after yet another fight with his father. The bastard had hit him several times and then hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s long, surfer hair. I’d taken him to my house, patched him up, and shaved the rest of his hair into an elegant buzz cut, trying to mask the evidence of his father’s assault. It was also the night we’d first made love.

“What’s in it, Caro?” he said, fingering the small, paper package.

It was the only time he’d shown a spark of interest in anything in weeks.

I shrugged. “Open it.”

He propped himself up against the couch then heaved himself up so he was leaning against the cushions. He fumbled, trying to open the sealed envelope, the motor skills of his left hand still limited.

He was probably expecting to find some sort of letter inside, but he was wrong.

A lock of long, blond hair fell out.

I saw the shock of recognition on his face.

“This is mine—my hair. You kept it—all these years?”

“Yes, tesoro. It was all I had of you.”