Truly, Madly, Like Me - Jo Watson Page 0,146

Mark asked.

“No.” I looked up at him, tears forming in my eyes. I’d not been expecting that at all. Or maybe I’d just hoped for something different.

“Do you want me to read it?” he asked.

I nodded, unable to talk through what was a very strangled throat. I pushed the letter over to him. Mark started reading again and I braced myself for more words that I really didn’t want to hear.

“The doctors tell me I don’t have too much time left. This cancer is a real bastard. But as I lie here, I find myself thinking about you, and wondering what my life would have been like if I’d been a different kind of man. I find myself wondering all sorts of things. That’s the thing about death . . . it makes you think. But there is nothing I can do to change anything. I can’t go back in time and be your dad. And to be honest, I probably wouldn’t if I could.” Mark paused as those words sank in.

I put my hand to my chest. That was harsh. And it fucking hurt.

“You okay?” Mark asked.

I shook my head. “Not really. But carry on.”

“You sure?” He reached out and wiped a tear from my face. “You don’t have to read this, we can burn it if you like?”

“No. Carry on.” Mark stared at me for a few moments, concern etched across his face. But he finally looked back down at the paper.

“I can’t go back and give you any of the things you probably needed from me in life, but I can hopefully give you something that you need from me in death. Please find my enclosed cheque.”

Mark reached down and picked up the other piece of paper and turned it over in his hands.

“It’s not much. I’m not dying a rich man. But it is everything I have, and I’m leaving it all to you. Do with it as you like. I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but I hope it will bring you some happiness. Do something with it that makes you happy. Regards, Timothy (Dad).”

Mark passed the cheque to me and I turned it over in my hands: R320,000.

I looked down at it for the longest time. The name and numbers were written in that same scribbled handwriting that everything else was written in.

I held it up and looked over at Mark.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. Truthfully, I’d barely spent any money since arriving here. It surprised me how little one really needed to be happy. How little shopping one needed to do. How little one really needed to do your hair and make-up and nails. And then a thought hit me . . .

“Oh my God!”

“What?” Mark asked.

“We’ve got to drive to Samirah’s.” I put my foot down and pulled off, tires screeching.

Mark screamed and Harun barked.

“Sorry, I forgot how fast this thing was.” I drove it at a more regular speed until I reached Samirah’s. I rushed up to the front door and banged.

“Samirah,” I called.

She opened the door, looking exhausted. “Crap! Frankie, I’m climbing into bed and the babies are kicking and Faizel smells like an ashtray and—”

“Feel like calling a certain estate agent?” I said, thrusting the paper towards her.

“What?” she asked, looking down at it.

“What do you think?” I asked excitedly.

“What do I think of what?” She was still trying to catch up to me here.

“It’s an inheritance from a father I never knew. He said I should do something with it that makes me happy, and I literally cannot think of anything I would rather do than buy that land and build that sanctuary.”

“Wait . . .” Samirah’s eyes widened. “What?”

“So . . .?”

“Frankie, I can’t.” She pushed the cheque back to me. “This is so thoughtful and amazing and generous and kind, but I could never do this. That is my dream, not—”

“No. That’s where you’re wrong.” I shook my head. “It’s what I want too. This is what I want.”

I pushed the cheque back to her and she looked at it for the longest time.

“You sure?” she asked.

I nodded. “More sure than I’ve been in ages.”

She paused. Holding her breath for a moment and then . . . “This is amazing!” She threw her arms around me and the two of us jumped up and down on the spot together.

“Wait. No!” She pushed me away quickly and suddenly. “No jumping. Please, no jumping. I swear they’re