Her Last Letter

He had not been expecting a letter. In fact, it had been years since he had seen a letter; everyone he knew sent e-mail or text messages now. For a moment he simply stared at the envelope as if he had discovered an ancient Sanskrit tablet.

This letter, however, was more than just a figurative relic of a bygone era. It was postmarked November 18, 1986, almost 23 ago. He had heard of screw-ups at the post office delaying mail delivery before, but nothing like this. There was no return address.

He sat at the table and lit a cigarette, then opened the letter with a kitchen knife. The single folded sheet of stationery was good quality, heavier than normal copy paper. It was pale lilac, and he could faintly make out the watermark; it looked like a cross between a large dog and a wolf.

He took a drag from the cigarette and unfolded the page. The handwriting was flowing and perfect with the tell-tale impression points of a fountain pen, and he recognized it immediately. In a box in his closet there were many letters with this same handwriting. This excited and terrified him in the same instant; for a moment everything blurred and he could not see the writing. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another, shook his head sharply and started to read:

10/25/09

Matt,

I know this letter will come as a surprise. I just want you to know I forgive you, and I still love you.

Julie

His hands were shaking violently after he read the brief lines, and his heart was beating at an impossible rate.

How could a letter dated today have a postmark 23 years old? And how could Amy have written it, given that she had died...what was the date again...it was so long ago. Think...before Thanksgiving...November...November 18, 1986. The same day the letter was postmarked.

Matt leaned his head on the table to steady himself. The events of that night flooded back into his memory. They had argued at the bar and he'd gotten drunk. She didn't want him to drive, especially not her car, but he could handle it. It wasn't even raining that hard yet.

The cop knocking on the door had woken him the next morning. He said that Julie had apparently lost control when the car hydroplaned and crashed through the guardrail to the rocky beach below. It was a tragic accident. He'd nodded and said nothing. Why had she gone back out? It made no sense.

As he lit another cigarette, her words swirled in his mind: "I forgive you." For what? As he asked himself the question a scent floated up from the lilac-colored page: Julie's perfume, the one she'd been wearing that night. But he hadn't noticed it earlier. His head swam as he drank in the scent. Suddenly the night came back to him again, but different this time.

The argument was the same, the drinking, and him driving. The rain came down harder now, and as they rounded a curve he felt the traction leave the tires. He overcorrected and drifted into the oncoming lane. On impact the guardrail split wide open and the car fell forever, but he never felt it land. How could he be seeing this? He hadn't been there.

Now the car was stopped, battered and silent on the rocks below. He felt surprisingly unhurt, but Julie was moaning, and he could see blood pouring down her face. Neither of them had been wearing a seat belt, and she had been thrown almost on top of him. He felt separate from his body as he pushed open the door and got out, shaken but still steady.

"Matt," she said weakly.

He brushed the hair out of her eyes, turned, and started the long walk home.

The letter fell from his fingers. That wasn't what happened, was it? Had he crashed and then simply left her to die alone on the beach? Was it possible?

He felt a chill in the room, looked up, and there she was, standing on the balcony, beckoning him to her. He covered the distance to the sliding glass door in three long strides, threw it open, and stepped out to her in the rain. If he could just reach her, just tell her.

The police officer looked at the broken body at his feet, then up at the balcony. Had the guy fallen or jumped? Regardless, the four-story trip to the ground ended the same way. There was a piece of light blue paper lying near the body, but the ink had run and blurred in the rain. All that remained was a watermark that looked to the cop, who was a superstitious sort, like a large hell-hound.