At the age of 78, I traded everything I owned. My apartment, antique pickup truck, and even my vinyl record collection. Elizabeth’s letter arrived without notice, buried amid bills and adverts, as if it had no idea how much power it wielded. “I’ve been thinking of you.” That is all it said. I read it three times before I could take a breath. A letter. From Elizabeth.
“I’m wondering if you ever think about those days. About how we laughed, and how you held my hand that night at the lake. I do. “I always have.” We began writing back and forth. She eventually sent her address. That was it. That was everything I needed.The jet launched into the air, and I closed my eyes to imagine her waiting for me. However, a peculiar pressure in my chest made me breathe faster.
“Sir, are you alright?” I attempted to respond, but the words would not come. When I awoke, the world had changed. A hospital.A woman sat beside the bed, holding my hand. “You terrified us. “I’m Lauren, your nurse,” she said softly. I swallowed, my throat dry. “Where am I?” Bozeman General Hospital. Your jet needed to make an emergency landing. You suffered a small heart attack, but you are now stable. “The doctors say you can’t fly for a while.”
I allowed my head to fall back against the pillow. My dreams had to wait. I breathed sharply. “I don’t strike myself as someone who sits around waiting to di:e, either.” She didn’t flinch or admonish me. She just looked at me closely. “You were going to see someone, weren’t you?” “Elizabeth. After forty years of silence, she invited me to come. “Forty years is a long time.”
“Too long.” She sat near my bed, hands in her lap, without asking any further questions. “You remind me of someone,” I admitted after a moment. “Yeah? Who?” “Myself. “A long time ago.”On my last morning at the hospital, she entered my room with a set of automobile keys. I frowned. “What’s this?” “A way out.” I looked at her face for any signs of hesitancy. I found none.
“You don’t even know me,” I replied. “I know enough.” And I’d like to help you.” We drove for several hours. We arrived at the address listed in the letter, but it was not a house. This was a nursing home. Lauren turned the engine off. “This is it?” “This is the address she gave me.” And then I saw her. Not Elizabeth. Her sister. “Susan,” I sighed. She smiled sadly. “James. “You arrived.”
“You led me to believe Elizabeth was waiting for me. You allowed me to think—” My voice cracked. “Why?” “I found your letters,” she muttered. “Elizabeth didn’t stop reading them. Even after so many years. “She died last year. “I also lost the house.” At Elizabeth’s grave, I said, “I made it. “I am here.” Unfortunately, I was too late. Perhaps it was time to stop.
Lauren stayed. She accepted a position at the local nursing home. I bought back Elizabeth’s home. Susan hesitated one evening when I invited her to stay. “Hi, James. “I do not want to be a burden.” “You’re not,” I replied plainly. “All you wanted was a home. “So did I.”Lauren also moved in. Every evening, we sat in the lawn, playing chess and watching the sky change colors.