The Moment of Letting Go by J. A. Redmerski
I look at the five-by-seven of my mom again, the woman who gave up everything for me.
“For the sake of what’s important,” I say aloud to myself.
Smiling at my mother once more, I get up from my desk and leave my office, heading for Cassandra’s at the other end of the hall.
“Congrats on the Bahamas job,” I hear someone say, but I don’t pay attention enough to know which of Cassandra’s many employees it came from.
Weaving my way past offices and then the break room, I make it to the tall frosted-glass double doors to Cassandra’s office. They’re wide open and Cassandra is inside talking to a man in a suit.
When he notices me standing at the entrance, he wraps up their conversation and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow.
“Come on in, Sienna,” Cassandra says with the wave of her hand just as the man is walking past me.
I step inside with a nervous ball in the pit of my stomach.
She sits down behind her engulfing desk. Then she picks up a folder and holds it out to me.
“Here are some of the details of the job,” she says. “The rest I’m emailing over to you now.”
I don’t take the folder.
“Miss Harrington,” I say calmly, “I … well, I just wanted to say that I will do the job in the Bahamas if you have no one else to fill in for me, but after that I will be resigning. I’m here to give you my two weeks’ notice.”
The smile drops from her face and she sets the folder back on the desk.
“What do you mean?” she asks, confused. “You’re quitting? Why?”
I fold my hands down in front of me.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t think this is the job for me,” I say. “But I do very much appreciate your confidence in me and your willingness to give me a chance when you first hired me.”
Her lavish chest rises and falls heavily. She presses her back against the tall leather desk chair, crosses one leg over the other, and interlocks her hands on her lap.
“I think you’re making a mistake, Miss Murphy,” she says. She only ever uses formalities when she feels someone is above or beneath her. “You should reconsider.”
“I have,” I admit. “But ultimately, I’ve decided to go in another direction.”
She laughs lightly under her breath, easily maintaining her air of superiority without appearing childish. “Oh, Miss Murphy,” she says, “do you have any idea what you’re doing?” She smirks.
OK, now she’s beginning to show her true colors.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer with respect. “I’m doing what’s important to me.”
I didn’t need to elaborate on that comment for her to know exactly what it meant and where it came from.
Cassandra raises her chin; it takes her a long moment to say, “Well, if that’s what you want, then I suppose this is good-bye.” She uncrosses her legs, raises her back from the chair, and begins sifting through paperwork on her desk, no longer looking at me.
“Thank you for understanding,” I say. “Please just send the other information over and I’ll get to work on the event right away.” I go to take the folder, but she puts her hand on top of it and slides it to the side.
“That won’t be necessary,” she says with a faint sneer, barely looking at me. “I’ll find you something … smaller to work on for your remaining time here. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
I nod and make my way out, shocked by how Jekyll and Hyde she had become, but I guess deep down I always knew she was that way. As I step through the double glass doors, at first I feel a great sense of regret, but as I get farther away, a funny thing happens—my lips turn up at the corners. And by the time I make it back to my office, I feel like a huge burden has just been lifted from my life and that now maybe I can truly get on with my life.
Or at least try. There’s something missing, but I’m strong enough; I know I can do this on my own. Luke would’ve wanted that for me. He would’ve wanted me to be able to push myself to greater heights whether he was in my life or not. Luke …
I count the following days as if waiting for the world to end. Every day I dread more than the one before it. Every minute that passes brings me closer to the day Luke will be in Norway, the day that might be his last. I come in to work barely smiling back at those who will soon be former coworkers, and I hide away inside my office with the door closed, listening to the sound of fancy shoes tapping against the tile floor outside in the hall. To and from. Happy voices.
The clock ticks on the wall high above my desk. Tick. Tick. Tick. There’s not much for me to do during the remainder of my employment at Harrington Planners other than sit here, alone with my thoughts that only torture me more every day, the closer that inevitable day looms.
Cassandra decided against sending me on any more planning jobs and opted for putting me in charge of random paperwork—no commissions to be made on paperwork.
Another day comes and goes. Another eight hours with my dark thoughts, my fears that rival anything I’ve ever been afraid of in my life.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday.
Finally, as that day comes while I’m in Oregon with my mom, I’m thankful to be surrounded by family to help keep my mind off Luke. Futilely, I admit.
And the moment I arrive back at home, I spend all day looking at the photos I took of us. The first one I took with my phone and sent to Paige; the one of Luke crouching in front of his painting at the community center; the goofy one of him next to me on the bus; one of us lying in bed together—I can’t bear it. I can’t! I shut my laptop harder than I normally would and rush into the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. I stare out the kitchen window, looking into the clear blue sky peeking through the trees that surround my apartment complex, and I imagine Luke being out there, right now, standing on the edge of that cliff.
Then I picture his face, that beautiful smile of his that hides so much pain. And I picture his eyes, looking back at me with so much devotion and passion, and the tears stream down my face.
I picture him looking at me one last time. I’ll be all right, his smiling eyes say to me.
And then he jumps.
My head snaps away from the window and I sob into the palms of my hands.
For the next week, I try to forget about him. I go to work every single day, forcing a smile and engaging my coworkers in conversation as much as I can. I seek out Cassandra, practically begging—without actually begging—for something more to do. I’ll do anything, even if it’s cleaning her office and everybody else’s, just so I’ll have something to do to keep my mind busy.
I try to forget.
I try.
By the end of the week, the day before my last day at Harrington Planners, I’m gathering my things when Jackson, Cassandra’s secretary, knocks lightly on my open office door.
“I’m gonna miss yah,” he says as he steps the rest of the way inside.
Jackson is tall and lanky with light brown hair spiked up in the front, and he wears stylish black-rimmed glasses.
“I’ll miss you too,” I say, shouldering my purse.
“So what are you gonna do after leaving the big HP?” He smiles brightly and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“I’ve got a few things in mind,” I say, being vague. As much as I like Jackson, I don’t feel like explaining to him or anyone else at Harrington Planners why I left a job making as much as I’ve been making here for a little more than minimum wage at a nearby arts and crafts store—I was hired three days ago; went in one afternoon after work and filled out an application. They were in desperate need of someone, and I was hired on the spot.
Jackson smiles and nods.
Then he steps up and places a small stack of mail on my desk, like he does about every other day.
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” he says. “I don’t expect yah to come around this place anymore, but don’t forget about me next time you go out to Silver’s Bar wit
I smile back at him. “It’s a date,” I tell him. Of course, he knows it’s not really a date—Jackson is gay.
“Well, I’ll see yah around,” Jackson says just before he leaves my office.
“See yah, Jack.”
I reach out and grab my soda from my desk and go to leave when something catches my eye. I stop and set the soda back down next to the stack of mail that Jackson just brought by. I rarely ever look at it. Mostly it’s junk mail or ads from businesses I’m signed up for where I purchase a lot of things for planning events and such. But buried beneath all the junk is a white envelope with a handwritten address poking out from the side.
I barely notice when my purse slides off my shoulder and hits the floor as I lean over and shuffle the junk mail away from the letter. My heart is racing, my breath is beginning to pick up, with excitement or anticipation or fear—I don’t know which, maybe all of them.
But then … my heart just stops cold. I suck in a sharp breath and every bone in my body locks up.
The letter isn’t from Luke as I had thought, as I had hoped.
It’s from Kendra.
One week later …
Paige clutches my black Gucci tote bag against her chest like a mother holding on to her child.
“You’re crazy,” she says, digging her fingers dramatically into the leather. “You can’t give all this stuff away.”
I take another blouse dangling from a hanger down from the closet and slide the hanger out.
“I’m not giving it away,” I tell her, folding the blouse and putting it in a box on my bed. “I can make some money back on it selling it to consignment.”
“That’s the same thing as giving it away.”
“You can keep the tote bag if you want,” I tell her. “Paige, I haven’t worn or used more than half of this stuff for six months.”
By the time I’m nearly finished with the stuff in the closet, there are three boxes full of clothes and shoes in my room, some of which I’ll try to make some money back on; the rest I plan to give to a secondhand store.
“Are you low on cash or something?” she asks, sitting on the end of my bed. “I can loan you some money if you need it. You know that.”
“No, it’s nothing like that—I’m saving up to buy new camera equipment,” I tell her and close the first box by tucking the flaps in on each other in a crisscross pattern. “I figured I’d get rid of what I don’t need to make room for what I do.”
We say nothing for several long, quiet moments.
I continue to pack away the last of it—I’ve been doing a lot of things like this lately when I’m at home, to keep my mind busy.
“Sienna, I’m really worried about you,” Paige finally says.
She crosses one leg over the other, pressing the palms of her hands into the mattress, her arms stiff at her sides. “I know you miss him, and I hate it that things didn’t work out, but you just don’t seem yourself. I’m starting to worry. You’re not yourself. You’re—”
She wanted to say something else, but she refrained. It won’t be long though.
I smile at her and close the second box.
“I’m OK, honestly,” I tell her. “I’ve just been making some changes in my life, is all. Things I should’ve done a long time ago.”
“Giving away all of your stuff?” she says, waving her hand about the room. “Refusing to go out partying with me anymore?”
“I told you I’m fine,” I say. “No, I take that back—I’m good. I miss Luke and I wish things could’ve turned out differently, but I’m good.” I smile hugely and motion my hands out at my sides. “I’ve spent more time with my camera in a month than I think I have all the time I’ve had it. I have Luke to thank for that.” I point at her briefly to underline that last statement.
Then I add suddenly, “And I have gone out partying with you, Paige, so you can’t say that.”
She holds up two fingers. “You went twice,” she says with a smirk. “And the second time you left early.”
“Because the only reason you had me there was so you could fix me up.” I grin at her.
She rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t the only reason,” she defends.
Paige gets up from the bed and steps around the boxes on the floor, making her way to my desk by the window. She picks up my cell phone and slides her finger across the screen.
And here it comes …
“Have you called him?” she asks.
I step around the boxes, too, and take the phone from her hand before she can start searching my text messages.
“No.” I push the phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts.
“Why not?” I feel her eyes on me, her blond head cocked to one side, but I don’t look at her directly.
“Because it’s for the best.”
Bending down, I grab a box with both hands and stack it and the others against the wall by my bedroom door.
“Now, this is where you can’t convince me that you’re good,” Paige says with accusation.
Silence ensues. I stop in the center of the room with my back to her.
“You need to know, Sienna.” She walks up behind me. Her voice is careful and soft and intent. “Even if you can’t be together, it’s gonna mess with your head forever unless you pick up the phone and find out if he’s OK.”
“I can’t.”
I walk away from her and take the box off the top and decide to carry it into the living room instead. There’s no purpose to it other than to not talk about this, hoping Paige will drop it. But I know she won’t. She never does.
She follows me into the living room.
“Then open the damn letter, Sienna,” she says, and I stop cold in my tracks, the box getting heavy in my arms. “If you won’t open it, I will.”
The box falls against the floor in front of me with a thud. I turn around briskly to face her.
“No you won’t. And neither will I.”
“Sienna, this is stupid—”
“I don’t care!” I shout, but then compose myself and say more calmly, “There’s only one reason why I would just randomly get a letter from Kendra one day. Out of the blue. Just one week after the day Luke was going to jump in Norway.” I step up closer to her and point my index finger upward. “One reason. And you know it.”
I start to head back to my room for another box, but Paige stops me again.
“Then why keep it?” she asks. “You refuse to open it to find out the truth. You say you don’t want to know, but you won’t get rid of the letter. You’re holding on to it for something, Sienna, and it ain’t for sentimental value.”
I sigh.
“I’m holding on to it because I’m not ready.”
She steps up beside me and lays her head on my shoulder. She smells like fruity perfume and chlorine.
“You can never be ready to face something like that,” she says, “but by not opening it, you’ll never find closure—it’ll destroy you either way.”
I say nothing and hold my tears deep inside.
Paige hugs me and then picks her purse up from the chair nearby.
“I have to go to work,” she says. “Think about Friday night, OK? I miss my best friend.”
I look at her without eye contact and nod.
Once Paige leaves, I go back into my room and open my desk drawer. Kendra’s letter stares back at me next to some pens and cute stationery. The date stamp reads July. “It’s addressed simply to “c/o Sienna” because she probably never knew or remembered my last name. And the address reads “Harrington Planners.” It probably wasn’t too difficult to get the address of where I worked.
I stand here for ten minutes, unmoving, staring down at the letter, my tear-filled eyes following the pretty cursive flow of Kendra’s handwriting, the curvy tail of the “K” in her name, the fancy swirl of the “S” in mine, and I think about opening it again. For a while it takes everything in me not to. I have to know, I say to
My heart died that day. It just died. I wondered how I was still able to breathe as I left the office.
But the more I stare at it, the more I realize that I already know. Why would Kendra write to me at all? Why would she write instead of Luke? Why would she go out of her way to track down my address just to send me a letter? And why would she send a handwritten letter anyway? She could have just as easily sent an email through the company website.
Because handwritten letters are more personal.
You don’t break up with someone in an email or a text message. And you sure as hell don’t tell someone in an email or a text message that someone they cared deeply for died.
I already know what’s inside that envelope, but I’m not ready for the finality. Maybe a part of me wants to hold on to the lie for as long as I can. Sometimes lies are more comforting than the truth.
THIRTY-THREE
Sienna
I spend the next few days trying to put Luke out of my mind. But that letter from Kendra haunts me. I can’t sleep at night, especially with it being in my room. I think about him every second of every day, and it’s only getting worse—the feelings I carry, the fear of him being gone forever, weighing me down.
Every day I come home from work and find myself sitting on the sofa for hours with the television off, listening to the sound of the neighbors walking across the floor in the upstairs apartment.
I expect tonight to be no different, but the second I close my apartment door and slide the chain over, I burst into sobs. Sitting against the front door with my back pressed against it and my legs drawn up, bent at the knees, I drag my hands through the top of my hair and sniffle back my tears. Minutes pass—it feels like an hour—and I’m still sitting on the floor in the same spot, torturing myself with memories of Hawaii, of Luke. I let my head fall back against the door and I gaze up at the ceiling, watching the blades on the ceiling fan move around and around, hypnotizing me, but still all I see is his face.