Page 80 of Don't Go
I picked up the envelope.
It was warm from the lamp.
The handwriting on the front was my father's. Beau. He had used a fountain pen since 1989 because his father had used one since 1957.
I opened it.
The paper was cream. The ink matched the envelope's. The handwriting moved across the page in the same loops, the same slope. His.
Dear son.
If you're reading this, then I'm no longer with you, physically at least, but I'll always be with you, no matter what.
I remember the first time I held you in my arms. I shed a good tear or two. I loved you from that moment and have loved you since.
I've been so proud and so happy to see you grow into the man you are today. Although death came suddenly, I'm happy I got to watch you grow. It was me on that hospital bed, and not you. That was all I needed.
I hope you take comfort in knowing that I'm at peace now. Be happy. My pain isn't yours.
I'll leave you with one piece of advice: love freely, Beau. Don't let life pass you by without living it. If you have the chance to change someone's life, do it. If you have thechance to help someone, do it. And if you ever have the chance to love, do it with all your heart, the way I had the chance to love two great loves in my lifetime.
I love you, son.
Love, Dad.
I read it again and again.
The third time I read it, a sentence struck me.
If you have the chance to help someone, do it.
That was what he had set aside in this letter for me to find when I needed it.
I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and placed the envelope back on the pad of paper. The room was lighter than when I had picked up the letter. The dark had taken on edges.
I was going to find a way to help.
I needed a way that didn’t break the deal Sabrina had asked me to keep — no check presented to her in a hospital lounge, just a quiet yes to a plan she wouldn’t know was mine. I didn't know what the way was yet.
But I'd been the chairman of Cross Real Estate Holdings for fifteen days, and I was, by virtue of one signature in a will my father had updated some weeks before he had died, a man whose phone calls people took.
I had ways.
I showered, dressed, and drove to the hospital.
Bonnie was in a pediatric room on the fourth floor. The room had a mural on the wall — frogs in pajamas, painted by someone who had loved their job — and a window that looked out at the same courtyard the family lounge faced, only from a higher angle.
Sabrina was in a chair beside the bed. She was wearing the same shirt and jeans she had on last night. Her hair was up in the clip, but it was holding less hair than it had when I left her.
Bonnie was awake.
She was sitting up, with a tray of green Jell-O in front of her and an opinion about it. The opinion appeared to be unfavorable from where I was standing.
She saw me and set the spoon down. "Beau."
"Hi, Bonnie."
"You forgot the book."
