15 Years

You were walking back from the mailbox, flipping through the usual pieces of direct mail and unwanted catalogs, when a handwritten letter addressed to you caught your eye. It wasn’t even your birthday or Christmas. Hardly anyone sends snail mail anymore. Looking a little closer, you realized you recognized the handwriting. “What in the world…” You mumbled aloud, barely realizing you’d spoken. After you scanned the front of the envelope, you flipped it over to look at the back, but it was blank. You turned it back over and looked at the return address. “There’s no way…” you whispered. Then you looked at the postmark, which was June 20th of this year, only 5 days previous. This wouldn’t seem so strange to the casual observer, but to you, it was absolutely impossible. It was so bizarre because the unique handwriting was undeniably that of someone who’d been dead for over 15 years.

You were feeling pretty distressed about the letter and were mulling over all the possible scenarios when you snapped out of it and realized you hadn’t even opened the envelope. You obviously needed more clues, so you told yourself, “open it, idiot!” You didn’t want to risk ripping it, so you walked to the kitchen, opened the junk drawer, and rummaged through all the crap in there to find a letter opener. You were starting to feel your legs getting shaky and thought it was best to be sitting down when you opened the envelope. As you made your way to the sofa, you continued going through some of those scenarios from earlier.

Okay, maybe he wrote it 15 years ago and asked someone else to send it at a future date. But that sounded like he knew he was going to die. That was nuts. Besides, it seemed pretty unlikely that someone would not only keep it safe all that time, but also remember to send it. Even with that being a possibility, the strike against it was that the envelope, with his writing, was new, white, and crisp, as crisp as it could be after going through the mail system. Okay, what if someone forged his handwriting? That could happen. But why would someone forge a letter from him to you? Who would care about you? Not his family. After the funeral, you never heard from them again. Enough with the speculation. You needed to read the letter. You carefully inserted the opener under the back flap and sliced open the envelope. Inside was one piece of paper. You could see it was handwritten, not typed.  

As you pulled out the letter, you thought back to when you were 20. The year he died. You were shocked when his sister called to tell you that your perfectly healthy 22-year-old boyfriend had died. It had been a car accident, so it didn’t matter if he’d been healthy even seconds before. It was earth shattering.

You came back to the present and said to yourself, “it is an undeniable fact that he died. Right? I mean, someone couldn’t have made all that up. No way. That stuff only happens in movies. I would have known. And he’d never have done that to me…” You wouldn’t let yourself go down that path any further.

You thought of all the stuff that would have to happen for someone to fake their own death, and you just couldn’t picture him going through with it. He’d always said he was a boring, average guy. Even though you didn’t completely agree with his assessment, you certainly didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d have any idea – let alone desire – of how to pull that off. He couldn’t have had access to whoever or whatever you needed to know in order to fake one’s own death! Right? Your hands started to tremble as you unfolded the letter. You exhaled deeply as you began to read.

Dear Cassie,

I know this letter will come as a shock. It must feel unbelievable to

see something from me 15 years after my death. I’d like to explain

in person. Will you meet me? Trenton Park, June 30^th, 1:00 pm.

You’ll recognize me. I haven’t changed much. I’ll be watching for

you.

Eric

Your hands were shaking even more as you lay the letter in your lap. “Meet me”? “You’ll recognize me”? What was going on? Today had been a normal day. After that letter it was completely turned upside down.

Your thoughts wandered again to 15 years ago. You were at his funeral. You and many other people truly grieved the loss of someone we never even doubted was dead. It had never crossed your mind that he might not be dead. You wished it a million times, of course. Replayed that day and wished you could have kept him from getting in that car and driving on the highway. Wished that the replaying of the memory could somehow change it. You had never doubted his death. Okay, maybe you could say you did doubt it. Denial and bargaining were a real part of the grieving process. You did go through times of both. But there was a big difference between the bargaining of “if I could have only…” and what seemed like the insane thoughts of “I actually think he might have faked his death. It wasn’t really his body inside that closed coffin. I’ll just imagine him alive and living somewhere else under a different name.”

So, you were back to thinking about how you’d never imagined he could still be alive. Then a vague memory seemed to be climbing up from the depths of your mind and you stopped to focus in on it. In the weeks following his death and a few times in those first couple years, you had received several phone calls in which there was a long silence and eventually the line clicked dead. The caller ID always showed nothing identifiable. Eventually you stopped picking up those calls because you assumed they were telemarketers. Could that have been him?

Your thoughts returned to the present. Either it was from him or someone was playing a cruel trick on you. Who would do that? You felt angry and upset and the grief you’d worked on burying for the past 15 years was creeping up and you were starting to feel nauseous. As you stood up to get a drink of water, you felt dizzy and collapsed back onto the sofa. You lay there for a while feeling completely bewildered.

June 30^th was less than a week away. At least you had time to think about whether or not you wanted to see him. If this letter had come the same year he had died, you would have been overjoyed. There was nothing more you had wanted but for him to come walking through your door and say there’d been a huge mistake, and everything was okay. But to hear from him (or someone playing a mean trick) 15 years later did not leave you feeling overjoyed.

It’s noon on June 30^th. You’ve decided to go. You haven’t told anyone about the letter. Your friends think you’re acting strange, but you don’t want people to think you’re crazy or to try to talk you out of it, so you just keep it to yourself. At 12:30, you walk to your car and head for Trenton Park. It’s a warm and sunny day. You find a parking space about 2 blocks from the park. You get out of the car, lock it, and walk down the sidewalk. It’s a nice, big park you haven’t been to in years. You used to take walks with him around the outside loop. Through the years you’ve been back a couple times, but it’s been long enough for the trees to look much larger. It appears the playground has been updated. He didn’t give specifics, but you know where to head. The pier of the little pond where people rent paddle boats.

As you near the pond, your mind goes over some of the explanations you’ve been tossing around for the last week. Is he a spy? A vampire? Pull it together, you tell yourself, for about the hundredth time this week.

You arrive at the pier. There’s a young man there. You walk a little closer. Wait, it’s him. It is shocking to see him. When he said he hadn’t changed much, you thought he just meant he aged well. Well, he hasn’t aged at all. A chill goes down your spine and you’re starting to get the creeps. Even though you were picturing him as you last saw him, it is still a jolt seeing him now. He still looks 22. Because you’re 35 now, you can tell he looks quite a bit younger than you. That vampire theory crosses your mind again.

He walks over to you. He has enough sense to stop a few feet away instead of running up and embracing you. “Oh, Cassie,” he says, “I’m so sorry.”

You had planned to have a civil and polite interaction, but you can’t help but blurt out, “Why did you contact me after 15 years?” You sound angrier than you’d meant to. You’d been practicing self-control all week. You were not going to lose it. He starts to say something, but you interrupt him.

“Wait – I have more questions. Why are – how are you – alive?” You almost shout this last question.

“I didn’t tell you because I was trying to protect you.”

“Didn’t tell me what? Protect me from what? Let me tell you something – I certainly didn’t feel protected when I had my heart ripped out finding out you were dead.” You look away for a moment, then back at him. “It’s not feeling so great now either.” Your heart is beating faster and there’s pounding in your ears.  “What are you, a vampire? Is that why you look exactly the same as you did when I last saw you? You’re 37. Why do you still look 22?”

He looks around the park and then lowers his voice. “Can we sit over there under that tree and talk?” He pointed to a large oak. You nod, then both of you walk over and sit down on the grass. He takes a deep breath, then starts explaining. “At the beginning of my senior year, one of my professors told me about a study being done at a research company near the college. They were recruiting students by promising us money to help us pay off our college—"

You cut him off. “Why couldn’t you have told me about it then? I could have used some extra cash, too.”

“I’m sorry. They said it was by invitation only, and they were only recruiting guys.”

“Go on,” you say.

“They did experiments on us. They gave us drugs. They told us it was all very noble research about slowing down the aging process and that we were aiding their investigation and it would help a lot of people. They were paying us pretty well and I really needed help paying for college. I was so stupid to not ask more questions before I signed on the dotted line, but before I figured out that what they were doing wasn’t legal or ethical, I’d gotten too far in the research that they weren’t about to let me walk away.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath. There’s a pained and faraway look in his eyes as he’s explaining this. Like it’s something he hasn’t allowed himself to think about for a long time. And now he has to force himself to relive it in order to explain it to you. It doesn’t look easy for him.

He continues, “They had made us sign confidentiality agreements because they didn’t want anyone to find out what kind of studies they were doing. Eventually I went to them and told them I had changed my mind and I just wanted to leave, and I swore I’d never tell anyone about the study. They looked at my naive college boy face, laughed and said, ‘We’re sorry, but we can’t let you out of the contract. This is proprietary information and we can’t risk it getting into the wrong hands.’ They reviewed the contract with me and emphasized that I had to stay for the entirety of the study, including the follow up. Of course they weren’t going to believe I’d walk away and never say anything. They would have been under serious investigation if anyone had ever found out. Anyway, I felt so uneasy about it and so I brought it up one last time. I don’t know how, but I gathered up the courage and told them that I really couldn’t take it anymore, and I was leaving the program. I don’t think they could believe I’d had the nerve to bring it up again. They became profoundly serious and said it was too late for that. When I responded with “What if I just walk away?” they upped the stakes by threatening to harm my loved ones. My family. You. They made specific threats.”

“They knew about me?” You ask.

“They knew about anyone who was important to me,” he replies.

The iciness that’s been building up in your heart is beginning to melt a little and you feel sad for him in some ways. But you are still hurt and angry for what he has put you through.  

He continues, “It was over Christmas break of my senior year, your sophomore, that I started putting a plan together. You had gone on vacation with your family and I was at home trying to figure out what I was going to do. I finally realized that as crazy as it seemed, the only way to keep my loved ones safe, and to continue surviving myself, was that I’d have to fake my own death.”

An involuntary shudder went through his body. You could see a slight tremble in his hands. He paused before he went on. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“You were so secretive and evasive. I thought you’d found someone else.”

“No! I was just so worried and scared. I probably could have gone to the authorities, but I was so worried about the threats.”

“It sounds terrible what you went through. I won’t say I understand, but I’m so sorry you had to go through it. I feel sad that you felt so scared and desperate and felt you had to go it alone.” You stopped to take a breath before going on. “But I can’t forget what I went through. So, why are you here now? Why didn’t you just go on living your life and leave me out of it? Especially if you were so worried for my safety.”

“Because I’m selfish. I’ve been trying to convince myself for 15 years that I should just let you go and live your life and not come back and disrupt it. But eventually all I could think about was how much I had to see you and make sure you were ok. And I hoped it might help you to see that I’m not dead. I’m really sorry, Cassie.”

You take a long pause, trying to gain more confidence before you speak. You don’t feel more confident, but you can hear yourself speaking calmly. “While you’ve been trying to convince yourself what to do for 15 years, I’ve been grieving – and healing.” You hesitate, unsure if you want to continue. But you look at him and see he is listening intently, so you go on. “It was so terrible for a long time. Then there were several years of denial. Then I got to a point where I decided I’d actively work on dealing with the grief. I cried so much. So much I couldn’t even imagine where biologically all the tears were coming from. I read books, cried more, joined a grief therapy group. I don’t think I want to bring up all these feelings again. I mean, you’re here, you’re not dead. I’m happy for you that you’re alive. But it’s bringing up a lot of hard things – not relief – in me. I think I need things to go back to the way they were before I got your letter. I’ll just try to imagine I never received it.”  You stand up, pick up your purse and water bottle. You can see tears forming in his eyes.

“But, Cass… Can’t we meet again to talk some more?”

You shake your head.

“How about just one time to see how it goes?” He pleads.

You shake your head again, but then you say you’ll let him know. “I’ll get back to you sometime between next week and 15 years from now.” You turn and start walking away. You want to leave before you start crying or change your mind. The pain is starting to become unbearable. It’s tearing you up inside, but you continue to walk away. You fight the urge to stop and look back at him. You keep walking until you get to your car. You get in and drive away.