Chapter 64 Carl Kosakowski

CHAPTER 64 CARL KOSAKOWSKI

2013

New Jersey

My wife’s name was Charlene. She died of breast cancer the year the final book in The Very Last trilogy was released. I read it to her. I was thankful for its existence because she looked forward to it each day—one of the only things she did at the time. We had been childhood sweethearts, me and Charlene. Small-town New Jersey. Yes, there is such a thing. I always worried she regretted marrying me, but I never regretted marrying her, not for one second. My tastes were simple. I ate the same lunch—bologna and pickle on rye—for forty years. But she was adventurous, always wanting to try new things. I didn’t know how to change to make her happier.

But I loved her so, and I hope I showed her that. Our last years together were good ones, and getting better and better. Then the cancer. I took a leave of absence and never left her side, nor did I want to. I was steadfast and loyal. Maybe not qualities she had pined for as a younger woman, but good ones at the end.

The third book of The Very Last was the only one I read. Charlene was the book person in the family. She read every night until she got sick, then I read to her. It took me three weeks to read that book aloud, and when I finished the last page, I closed it and placed it on my lap. I didn’t want it to end. Finality scared me. I avoided endings of any kind during those months. Still don’t like them much.

That night I looked tenderly at Charlene, brought her hand to my lips and kissed it, placed it gently back beside her. I could see she was thinking. It was easy to tell when she was. A far-off stare, a soft squint to her eyes. Whenever I noticed this look, I’d say, “Penny for your thoughts,” which had charmed her when we were young, but less so as we aged. She liked to keep some things for herself. We were different like that. I didn’t mind her knowing everything I was thinking.

I stopped myself from asking after her that night. Let her be, I told myself. But a minute or so later, she said, not really to me, but aloud, “I think the person who wrote those books is young—it’s like she’s trying to work something out about the world.”

“Yeah?” I said, ’cause I sure didn’t have anything else to say.

“Those main characters—Samantha and Persephone—they remind me of me when I was younger. They want so much from the world. Seems they haven’t learned the most important lesson yet.”

My ears perked up. Oh man. Did I want to know? Yes—I wanted to know everything Charlene thought about life or anything else.

“And what’s that, my love?”

“The trick of life,” she said. Then she got caught in a coughing fit. I offered her the glass of water by the bed, but she waved me off, continued.

“The trick of life, as I see it now, is to make what’s around you beautiful. It’ll grow from there. Took me a long time to see that.”

I sat back. I hoped, I hoped so dearly, that she meant that even though our love hadn’t been perfect, that it had been beautiful in its own way. Broken things are beautiful. More beautiful in the end than perfect things, which are usually an illusion of some sort. I hoped I had given her a beautiful life.

Slowly, she turned her head and met my eyes, and I don’t know what she was thinking in that moment, but she did reach for my hand and held it without letting go, and that was enough for me.

She died a few weeks later.

That winter, I was transferred to the warehouse and put in charge of the P.O. boxes. When I saw Cate Kay/ The Very Last on my list, I took it as a sign from Charlene. I think I even glanced upward and shook my head.

And when that striking young woman came asking after it, I knew. Right when she walked into my little office, I was reminded of Charlene, who was also always impatient for what might come next. I just knew, with a deep certainty, that she was the young woman my wife had predicted, trying so hard to work something out about the world.