Em Bea

The next day, I get another postcard.

The third arrives with a letter, but the address on that is in unfamiliar hand-writing. I open it and read the contents. From his solicitor, explaining that the postcards were written in his last days and it was his dying wish that I read them. I ball the letter up and toss it in the waste paper basket.

Half an hour later, I retrieve the letter, smooth it out, and reread it.

His dying wish.

My throat aches as I take out the postcards. His words blur with tears. My dearest friend, stolen away from by cancer, his life curtailed by the need for chemotherapy and oxygen.

“My dearest Ellie.” The postcard has a cartoon deer on the front and the legend, ‘Look at the size of this Dik (Dik)!’ I snort and turn it over. “If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. Not what we’d planned, is it? But mice and men and all that. I imagine you’re angry and hurting. I’m beyond sorry, my dear. However, I can’t leave you alone in the world without a few last words, a last gift. There are more to come. Love, Mark.”

I wipe my eyes. He’s right and I am angry. It’s not at him, though. Life is a bitch, and never more so than to visit the dreaded C word on those that don’t deserve it. I grimace – no one deserves it. There’s not a soul I would wish it on.

Postcard two is a photograph of a banana stuck between two apples. He’d the sense of humour of a twelve-year old, but it was never aimed at people. He’d rarely a bad word to say about anyone. He was loving and supportive, and a great listener – he’d paid attention when I jabbered on after Ron had left me, offering the odd word as a balm to my wounded heart.

“My dearest Ellie, time is short and there’s no room for regret, though I would have loved to have seen you one last time. Instead, I have to settle for words. Such as Ron is a prick, and you’re better off without him. I’ve seen you blossom since he left you, growing into a woman who knows her own mind. Who dares to chase her dreams. Go get them, girl. Love, Mark.”

I smile through my tears. When I was with Ron, I put his caution down to him not wanting to see me hurt. But more and more, the things I thought I wanted were his goals and my dreams were frivolous. Those of a child, and I’d needed to grow up. Mark argued differently. He shored up my hopes and dispelled my doubts. Made me realise that Ron and I were incompatible.

“My dearest Ellie,” reads the third, on the back of a cartoon of two blue-footed birds and the caption ‘I love Boobies!’ “Remember you’re never too old to dream. That failure is part of the process. And that you are the most incredible person I know. Love, Mark.”

I put the postcards back in the drawer, and then the solicitor’s letter on top. I get on with my day and, at the end of it, go to bed with a sense of… not quite excitement, but at least I’m looking forward to the following day.

The cards keep coming. Mark’s writing gets messier; a sign of the cancer that’s killing him. That killed him. I shake my head – the postcards are a time machine of sorts and when I’m reading them, I forget that he is gone. Then it hits me afresh and I have to remember to breathe.

Each card reiterates something he’s told me before, often more than once. Telling me that I’m brilliant, that I can get everything I want, that all I need to do is believe in myself. “You’re a master of words,” he writes, and I was.

No, I am. I’d put away that childish thing at Ron’s behest. But I didn’t toss the notebooks as he suggested. They’re in the bottom of my drawer, under the postcards that defy every negative thing my ex told me.

A week after the first postcard came, I start writing again. The story of a shy girl and a gregarious guy who met by happenstance on a beach. I smile at the memory of salt and sand, and his dog’s lead wrapped around my legs. A meet cute for the ages.

Every card that comes through my door inspires me to write another chapter. This story, I get right. My heroine chooses the right guy, the one who believes in her, and chases her dream across the globe. To be with the one she loves.

“My dearest Ellie.” It’s three weeks after the funeral, and while grief is still a hard lump in my chest, I’ve started to breathe easier. It can sucker-punch me, though, and it hits again as I read Mark’s card. “Dear, dear Ellie,” he writes, and I know what’s coming. “I think this will be my final message. I’m so tired now. I’m not afraid of death, but the idea of leaving you hurts. Not as much as it will you. I know there are things you regret. That road not taken. I regret nothing. Not one moment. I love you, Mark.”

I sob until there are no more tears. Then I add the card to the collection in my drawer. I don’t know whether I’ll read them again, but they’re there. Quiet reminders of his faith in me. I can’t let him down. I open my laptop and then the manuscript for my story. I add returns before the first chapter and then four words.

“For my dearest Mark.”