Then he smiled.
“First marriage. Let me have my nerves.”
I had laughed.
Now I couldn’t.
Margaret lowered herself into the chair beside me.
“Did Larry tell you why he wanted to marry you?”
I’d laughed. Now I couldn’t.
“He told me a reason.”
I explained what the letter had said.
The story about his burial.
His confession that he had exaggerated the situation because he knew it would make me help.
When I finished speaking, Margaret didn’t try to excuse him.
“That wasn’t fair to you, dear.”
“He told me a reason.”
I turned toward her.
“He knew you’d say yes to a problem,” she said. “Larry was always better at asking for practical help than asking anybody to choose him.”
Margaret closed the binder, but my eyes remained fixed on Larry’s signature.
“What was I really saying yes to?”
I kept looking at Larry’s signature.
Margaret looked down at our certificate.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
Part of me wanted to demand that she answer.
Then I remembered the rest of Larry’s letter waiting inside my purse.
He had specifically told me to come to the courthouse first.
He wanted me to see all of this.
I wanted to demand an answer.
The witness signatures.
The certificate.
The word spouse.
I left the courthouse and boarded the subway toward my apartment.
But when the train reached the station where Larry used to sit, I stepped off.
The woman working at the coffee kiosk recognized me.
“Two?”
The woman behind the counter recognized me.
I nearly answered yes without thinking.
Then I glanced toward the empty space beside the station entrance.
“Yeah.”
She handed over my coffee with cream and Larry’s usual black coffee.
I carried both cups outside and sat where he always used to sit.
For two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish an entire cup.
I almost said yes.
I placed his black coffee beside me.
Then I unfolded the next page of his letter.
At the top, Larry had written only one sentence.
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
Below it was another.
I unfolded the next page.
“But I did want to know what it felt like once to have somebody choose that word with me.”
I stopped reading.
Steam rose from the black coffee beside me into the freezing air.
Then I moved to the next line.
“I knew if I’d told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
I read the next line.
My eyes filled with tears.
“So why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer sat immediately beneath the question.
“Because then I’d have to hear you decide whether being lonely was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, the two years of mornings I had spent with Larry seemed different.
“So why didn’t you?”
His next line said:
“I made it easier for you to say yes by turning loneliness into paperwork. You had the right to know. I’m sorry.”
I stared down at the page.
“You should’ve told me.”
A subway train thundered somewhere beneath the sidewalk.
“You should’ve told me.”
The letter went on.
“You always wanted to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
I almost smiled.
During our brief three weeks as husband and wife, I had bought Larry warmer socks, a phone charger, a fresh blanket, and enough toiletries to last half a year.
I almost smiled.
Every time I visited him at hospice, the routine was identical.
I entered carrying something.
Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”
I would respond, “In a minute.”
There was always another nurse I needed to speak with. Another piece of paperwork to finish. Another problem waiting for me to fix.
“Sit down, Sarah.”
His letter continued: “I didn’t need better socks as much as you thought I did.”
I laughed while tears ran down my face.
“You’re welcome, Larry.”
Then I reached the next sentence.
“I needed you to sit down.”
I stared toward the empty space beside me.
“I needed you to sit down.”
On our final Tuesday together, I had brought him the black coffee he always drank.
“You staying?” he’d asked.
“Five minutes.”
“Big spender.”
I had stayed twelve.
Maybe those twelve minutes had been the real gift.
The final paragraph started with:
“Don’t turn me into one more person you failed to save.”
Maybe 12 minutes had been the gift.
My fingers became still.
Ever since his funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.
If only I had noticed sooner.
Found better doctors.
Found him somewhere to live.
Done more.
Larry had written beneath it: “You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
If I’d noticed sooner.
A laugh burst from me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter together with the copy of our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one particular word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it had appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow moved across the pavement.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
A man carrying a worn backpack gestured toward the empty space beside me.
My hand instinctively moved toward my purse.
Then I stopped myself.
“No.”
He sat down.
My first impulse was to ask if he wanted coffee.
He sat.
Instead, Larry’s final instruction came back to me.
“Next time you start fixing somebody’s life, ask them what they actually want first.”
For several moments, the two of us simply watched commuters rushing toward the subway entrance.
Then I extended my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
The man looked slightly surprised.
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I remembered Larry’s final instruction.
I lifted the second cup and took a sip.
Black.
My face twisted immediately.
Jeremy glanced toward me.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I looked toward Larry’s empty place.
“Just not mine.”
I returned to the coffee kiosk.
The woman working behind the counter noticed me approaching.
“Just not mine.”
“Another black?”
I shook my head.
“Actually, could I get some cream?”
When I returned to the bench, Larry’s letter and our marriage certificate rested beside me.
For once, there was nowhere I needed to hurry.
And the coffee I held finally tasted like it belonged to me.
For once, I wasn’t rushing anywhere.
