The blade I was constantly fishing out before washing.
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes again before falling to his knees and cutting the tape on the box.
Uncle John sometimes did this—delivered boxes of goodies from things he’d ordered online for Jacob and me.
Care packages, I called them.
Love reminders, he called them.
Either way, this wasn’t one of those as Jacob tore out brown paper packaging and yanked out a book nestled with countless other books.
A book that my eyes skimmed, discarded, then shot back to with a cry.
A book that took the strength in my legs and crashed me to the floor.
“I-I don’t understand.” Tears streamed down my face, obscuring the blue cover with a lonely boy walking in a blizzard. A boy almost hidden by the title and wrapped up in a blue satin ribbon.
“The Boy and His Ribbon by Della and Ren Wild,” Jacob muttered, reading eloquently and smoothly. His eyes flashed to mine. “Mom? Did you and Dad write this?”
My head shook blindly as I held out my hand.
Hardback.
Freshly printed.
Heavy as a gravestone.
It tingled in my hands, warm and alive and filled with ghosts.
What has he done?
“Mom?” Jacob asked again, but for once, I couldn’t put him first. I couldn’t assure him. I couldn’t push aside my own selfish pain. Jacob missed his father as much as I did…but he’d had Ren for ten years. I’d had him for thirty-two.
In this…my heart was cruel.
Standing on shaking legs, I couldn’t tear my eyes off the cover, desperate to open it, petrified to read it.
“I…I’m going for a walk, Wild One. Okay?” My voice broke and patched together, thicker and rougher than before. “I…I won’t go far.”
“Mom?” His voice rose with worry. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I drifted forward as if my legs were no longer made of sinew and bone but air and storm cloud. “I-I’m fine.” I repeated, desperate to believe it.
I left my son.
I was a bad mother.
I abandoned my role and slipped back into a girl who missed her boy with every frisson of her soul.
I didn’t know how long I walked, but finally, when the shadow strings of willow leaves enveloped me and the grotto where so many things had happened whispered it would keep me safe, I sank to the earth and opened the book.
The first page was copyright jargon.
The second, print information.
The third, the title.
The fourth…the dedication.
For Della and Jacob.
I keeled over, rocking the book to my chest, sobs wrenched from my very toes.
No.
I hadn’t cried this badly…well, since the funeral.
I never let myself go.
Never could.
Never allowed.
I had to be strong for Jacob.
But that strength was now shattered and in pieces on the ground.
Four simple words.
Four words that broke me.
They broke me.
Ren.
His voice danced on the breeze as if he’d never gone. His wild scent of smoke and freedom swirled in my lungs. And the gentle, delicious pressure of his hand on my cheek forced me to look down at the pages, tear smudged and turning translucent.
Read, the breeze murmured.
Listen, the willow whispered.
Heal, the forest begged.
With another sob, I flipped the page.
A letter to the reader.
A letter from beyond.
Dear Reader,
First, let me explain the nature of this book before I can explain it to my wife.
Once upon a time, a wonderful girl fell in love with an unworthy boy, and she decided to write their tale.
Her tale opened that stupid boy’s eyes.
It made true love leap over rules and boundaries.
It survived years wrapped in plastic and protected at all costs in a well-travelled backpack.
It was the best tale the boy had ever read.
But it was also missing something.
It was missing the side of the story from the boy who fell in love with the girl, but he wasn’t as eloquent as she.
So he had to improvise.
He enlisted the help of a ghost writer to turn messy dictated thoughts into words worthy of being beside hers, and he didn’t have a lot of time to do it.
It was my hardest secret.
And even now, I’m unsure I did the right thing.
But it’s too late to change my mind. Too late to approve or deny the finished copy.
I just have to hope our story is enjoyed.
And I have to trust that every word I chose proves the same thing her words do.
That I loved her.
Painfully so.
The words danced and bounced as my hands shook and shook.
Sobs and heaving quakes took hold of me as I turned the page and found yet another letter.
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t prepared.
I would never be ready to say goodbye because that was what this was.
A goodbye.
A final farewell organised in secrecy.
My Dear Beloved Ribbon,
I hope you can forgive me for taking our privacy and making it public.
I hope you can understand why I had to do it and why it had to be this way.
And I hope you can still love me for not being there to hold you.