I’m sure you know that. What you might not know is that before you came along, I’m not entirely convinced that he knew what loving someone meant. My father had accomplished a lot of things in his life, but I’m certain he would have traded it all for a lifetime with you instead. Considering he was married to my mother, it isn’t easy for me to write this, but I thought you’d want to know. And part of me knows that he would be pleased at the thought that I understood how much you meant to him.
Somehow, you changed my father, and because of you, I wouldn’t trade this last year for anything. I don’t know how you did it, but you made my father into a man that I miss already. You saved him, and by doing so, I guess that in a way, you saved me as well.
He was at the outreach clinic in the mountains because of me, you know. It was absolutely terrible that night. It had been raining for days, roads everywhere washing out in the mud. When I radioed the main clinic to say that I couldn’t make it back because my Jeep wouldn’t start, and that a major mudslide was imminent, he was the one who commandeered another Jeep—over the director’s frantic protests—to try to reach me. My dad came to save me, and when I saw it was him sitting behind the wheel, I think it was the first time I’d ever thought of him in that way. Until that point, he’d always been my father, but not my dad, if you know what I mean.
We made it out just in time. Within minutes, we heard the roar as the side of the mountain gave way, destroying the outreach clinic instantly, and I remember that we glanced at each other then, unable to believe how close it had been.
I wish I could tell you what went wrong after that, but I can’t. He was driving carefully and we’d almost made it back. I could even see the lights from the clinic in the valley below. But suddenly, the Jeep started to skid as we rounded a sharp curve, and the next thing I knew, we were off the road and tumbling down the mountain.
Other than breaking my arm and several ribs, I was okay, but I knew immediately that my dad wasn’t. I remember screaming at him to hold on, that I’d go get help, but he grabbed my hand and held me in place. I think even he knew it was almost over, and he wanted me to stay with him.
Then, this man who had just saved my life asked me to forgive him.
He loved you, Adrienne. Please don’t ever forget that. Despite the short time you spent with him, he adored you, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss. When things are hard, as they are for me, fall back on the knowledge that not only would he have done the same thing for you that he did for me, but because of you, I was given the chance to get to know, and love, my dad.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, thank you.
Mark Flanner
Amanda lowered the letter to the table. It was almost dark in the kitchen now, and she could hear the sound of her own breath. Her mother had stayed in the living room, alone with her thoughts, and Amanda folded the letter, thinking of Paul now, thinking of her mother, and, oddly, thinking of Brent.
With effort, she could recall that Christmas so many years ago—how quiet her mother had been, the smiles that always seemed a little forced, the unexplained tears that they’d all assumed had something to do with their father.
And, through it all, she had said nothing.
Despite the fact that her mother and Paul hadn’t had the years together that she’d had with Brent, Amanda knew with sudden certainty that Paul’s death had struck her mother with the same intensity that Amanda experienced when sitting beside Brent’s bed for the very last time—with one difference.
Unlike her, her mother hadn’t been given the chance to say good-bye.
When she heard the muted sounds of her daughter’s sobs, Adrienne turned from the window in the living room and made her way to the kitchen. Amanda looked up in silence, her eyes filled with unspoken anguish.
Adrienne stood without moving, watching her daughter, then finally opened her arms. Instinctively Amanda rose, trying and failing to stop her