A Letter on the Table

The frigid breeze instantly subsided as I stepped into the café, the blasting heat hitting me like a slap in the face. The buzz of the outside world, fresh on a Monday morning was replaced by the soft hum of conversations, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the barista yelling names while holding a small cup or brown paper bag with a pastry in it.

‘Morning, Arial. Can I get you your usual?’ Jane was my usual barista, with her sleek, dark hair swept into a messy bun behind her head, a red apron with dark, coffee-coloured stains tied over the black café uniform, her lipstick impossibly red and a bead of sweat clinging to her temple.

‘Morning, Jane. That’d be great, thanks.’ I replied, smiling generously at her.

‘Order for Mark!’ Jane suddenly called, thrusting a large coffee cup into the air. A man of about forty or fifty came forwards and collected it with a quick thank-you. ‘Sorry. Monday morning rush. I’ll have that right out for you.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, flashing me a Hollywood smile.

I nodded, laptop tucked under my arm and walked over to my usual table, thankfully unoccupied despite the busyness of the café. It was tucked away in the corner, a single chair, right beneath a dangling, yellow light and a heater that was beside my feet. The chairs were like stools but high-backed, which I liked. I pulled the chair out from under the table and a piece of paper spiralled to the floor.

I paused for a moment, surveying the area. No one had noticed the paper fall to the floor. The world had kept moving as if nothing had happened. I bent down and picked it up, carefully holding it between my fingertips like it was porcelain. I slid into the chair and placed my laptop on the table, flattening out the note with my arm. It was a mottled yellow colour, blotches of ink seeping through the paper with curly, cursive handwriting on the other side. I bit my lip. I could leave the paper, forget I ever saw it, go on with my day. It had nothing to do with me. But I felt drawn to it. Something deep inside me –an instinct, or maybe a memory –was tugging me towards it, urging me to read what was on the other side, curiosity like an itch that I couldn’t quite reach.

I wasn’t proud of it, but I unfolded the letter. Laid it flat on the table. And began to read.

Dear Mr & Mrs Johnson,

I hope this letter finds you well. This is my formal apology; this is me admitting what I did was terrible and I understand if you can never forgive me. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not asking you to understand. I just want you to know what happened.

I was by the pool. Layla was playing by the water’s edge, and I was keeping an eye on her, I was. But I heard a crash in the kitchen. Hailey had knocked over some of the dishes on the bench above the dishwasher and some of them smashed. I began to clean up the mess, keeping her away from the sharp fragments of ceramic and glass. I never heard Layla fall into the pool. It was only fifteen minutes later I went back out, but it was too late by then.

Again, I am truly sorry about my negligence, and I understand if you can never forgive me. It’s eating me away as much as it is you. I wish you nothing but the best and hope you can move on with your lives.

The letter wasn’t signed. I dropped it on the table, my hands shaking. It felt like I had peered through a window I wasn’t supposed to look through –an intimate glance at someone’s life that I wasn’t supposed to know. My heart ached at its familiarity, but I couldn’t seem to place it anywhere.

‘Arial! Your coffee’s ready.’ Jane’s voice snapped me out of my train of thought. She pushed the drink across the counter and walked up to the register. I tucked the letter in my pocket and forced a watery smile as I paid for my coffee and thanked Jane.

‘No worries. Let me know if you need anything else.’ She smiled briskly and turned away, but I stood frozen, the coffee warming my hands.

‘Hey, Jane?’ I said slowly. She turned questioningly and a strand of hair flew in front of her face, plastering to her forehead.

‘Yes?’ She inquired politely.

‘Did you see anyone, um, put something on the chair over there, before?’ I asked, pointing at where I was sitting.

‘Put something on the chair?’ I could tell she was forcing the scrutiny out of her voice, her face still customer-service friendly.

‘Yeah, like a piece of paper, or something.’ I said tightly, like my vocal cords were guitar strings pulled too tightly across the wooden frame.

Jane rubbed her forehead with a hand.

‘I don’t know, sorry Arial. I wasn’t here that early, but I didn’t see anything on my shift.’ She paused. ‘Maybe the previous shift workers saw something. I could ask,’ she offered, and I nodded eagerly, pained at being a burden but unable to battle the insatiable unnerving curiosity that had sparked inside of me.

‘Thanks, Jane.’ I said, taking my coffee and making my way back to my table.

The letter stayed on my mind as I tried to work. Usually, the hum of conversation, the scraping of chairs as people stood up, the quiet turning of pages of a book and the warm smell of brewing coffee helped me focus, but today, it felt like a distraction. My mind kept wandering, my computer screen burning the back of my eyes. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking you to understand. I found myself typing out the words on my laptop, staring at them, and wondering. Who was the letter meant for? Why was it on my seat?

And why did it sound so familiar?

My apartment was small and quaint –with one bedroom, a black-and-white tiled bathroom, a kitchen bench with chairs in which I ate my dinner. It was my first ever apartment that I had all to myself. It might have been small, but it did the job.

I dumped my laptop on the bench and dug the letter out of my pocket. It was slightly crumpled now, the paper fragile and thin and I clutched it with an unknowing care. Something about it just seemed too familiar, like it had come from a dream of mine, buried in the back of my mind. Who had left it on the chair? Had they left it for me to find?

I shook the thought from my mind. Obviously not. I shouldn’t have taken it. It wasn’t addressed to me. Maybe I had intercepted a letter that was meant for someone else, but now never made it there.

Tuesday mornings were always less busy than Mondays. The week had begun, and the work quickly piled up. The coffee shop was quieter, mostly filled with old ladies reminiscing over a cup of tea, or new mums slumped over their coffee with sunken eyes and a hand slumped over a nearby pram, half paying attention, half not.

‘Morning, Arial. Same as usual?’ Jane looked less flustered this morning. Her hair was neatly swept back into a ponytail and her lashes were curled and glossed with a thick coat of mascara.

‘Yes please, Jane.’ I replied, fighting back a yawn. Coffee would wake me up. Usually, by the end of the week, Jane had my order waiting for me by the time I arrived. ‘Oh, and by the way, did you ask the other workers about the piece of paper on the seat?’

Jane looked confused for a second. ‘Sorry? Oh, right. Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a woman sitting over there, crying apparently. Didn’t talk to anyone, or order anything. Must have dropped something by accident.’ She flashed me a dismissive smile.

‘Oh, okay. Well, thanks for checking.’ I said, quickly turning away.

‘No worries. Your coffee will be ready in a moment, I’ll call you.’ Jane replied.

‘Thank you,’ I called over my shoulder as I left the counter and walked to my table in the corner. I checked the seat before sitting down: no note this time. Anxious anticipation had been brewing inside of me which released like a wave as I sat down.

There was a small potted plant in the middle of the table, which hadn’t been there yesterday. Its leaves peeked over the screen of my laptop, constantly catching my eye. I frowned, pushing the plant to one side. It slid along the table in fragmented intervals, like there was something beneath it. I picked it up, and a moistened piece of paper slid to the floor.

My heart stopped. Another letter. I glanced over my shoulder, instinctively checking to see if anyone was watching. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it felt like I was. It felt like I was gazing through a window into someone’s life that I shouldn’t have been looking through. A mysterious figure –the one I knew as the writer of the letters. Somehow, it felt like something was connecting us –an intangible link that pushed me to the brink of my curiosity, drip-feeding me information to keep me coming back for more.

I opened the letter, my eyes feasting on the neat cursive hand, written with splotchy black ink.

Dear Mr & Mrs Johnson,

I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I know you probably want me out of your lives, to pretend I never existed at all. Well, I want that too. The guilt is eating me up alive. I hope you know that.

I don’t know why I’m still writing to you. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, or if you’ll just throw it away when you see my name on the envelope. To discard it like a used tissue, thrown into the wastebin until it gets transferred to landfill.

If my last breath is coming soon, take peace in knowing it was never your fault. Layla’s memory haunts me and I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. One of these days I’ll be dragged into hell for what I’ve done.

Maybe I’ll see Layla again, looking down from heaven.

My fingers were trembling. I realised I wasn’t breathing. I flipped the letter over, searching the back for a name, a postal code, something to tie the letter to its owner. But there was nothing. The words stared at me, lodging into my brain with an uncanny familiarity. There was just something about it –something that felt like I was fishing through my brain to a memory that kept slipping through my grasp. Had I seen the letters before? Who was leaving them on my table?

‘Everything alright, Arial?’ I flinched. Jane placed my coffee beside me, glancing down at the letter in my hands.

‘What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Fine.’ I quickly tucked the letter under my laptop, but too slow. She had already seen it.

‘Another note?’ She asked, and I nodded hesitantly. ‘I can look into it after my shift, if you want. We’ve got security cameras here so I should be able to review it and get back to you tomorrow.’

I released a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. ‘Thanks, Jane. Really. That means a lot.’

‘Of course,’ she smiled graciously.

I flopped onto my bed as soon as I reached home. The soft mattress swallowed me, although it was barely four pm. The shot of caffeine in the morning had kept my eyes open long enough to finish my work for the day, but the effects had started to wear off and the rush of sleepiness had begun to hit me. Why was I so exhausted? I wasn’t usually this tired.

I awoke, dazed, in the middle of the night. The blind was still open and blinking lights illuminated the city like stars strewn across the night sky. My throat was dry and my stomach was empty, my face strangely moist. I stumbled out of bed and closed the blind, realising my shoes were still on. I quicky slipped them off and collapsed back into bed, swaddled in the warm blankets until morning.

Sunlight peeked through my window at dawn, and I sat up in bed, groaning and rubbing the haze from my mind. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table: barely six-thirty. Outside my window, the city was asleep, the golden glow of the sun slowly waking everyone up. Hadn’t I closed my blind last night?

My room was a mess. My shoes were scattered across the room and I could only find one sock. I was still wearing my clothes from the previous day, my hair pasted to my forehead and my eyes swollen and red. I felt completely drained, as if every ounce of energy had been siphoned from me, leaving my soul hollow and empty. I sat on the edge of my bed, willing myself to get up. Had I slept all afternoon and all evening? Why was I still so tired?

‘Morning, Arial. You’re here earlier than usual.’ Jane remarked as I entered the coffee shop, the heat adding to my drowsiness.  

‘Morning. Yeah, I woke up pretty early this morning. No point in waiting around.’ I replied.

‘Of course. Would you like the usual?’ She asked, and I hesitated.

‘Actually, could I have another shot of espresso in my latte please? Feeling a little out of it today,’ I explained, and Jane nodded.

‘Of course. Oh, and also, I found the footage you asked for yesterday. If you could wait until I finished my shift, I can chat to you about it.’

‘Oh, that’d be great, thanks. Yeah, I’ll be here until I finish today, around three-thirty.’ I said, though her use of words puzzled me. I can chat to you about it. Why didn’t she just say she’d explain what happened?

The pot plant was gone off my usual table. It felt like a relief –back to normal, no more enigmatic, disturbing letters. But since the last two days, it felt too easy. I stood up, and backed away from the table. I checked on the chair, under the table, even on the table, which was completely clear except for a small tub of packaged sugars. I sat down, relieved, picking up a packet of sugar and fiddling with it between my fingers. My hand brushed against the tub as I returned it, and I froze. Nestled among the sugar packets. Another letter. With shaking hands, I rubbed my eyes and unfolded the paper.

Dear Mr & Mrs Johnson,

I’m still here, thanks to you. Maybe that’s not something you wanted to hear. But I can’t go until I’ve made peace with what happened, and that starts with you.

I know you can never forgive me. I don’t even forgive me. I can never truly fix what’s broken. I’ve spent countless sleepless nights trying to find the right words, but there’s nothing to fully explain the weight of my regret. I’ve replayed it over and over in my mind, wishing I could go back, wishing I’d have paid more attention. But I can’t. We’re here, in the present, and we are forced to carry the burden, day by day.

I’m sorry for the trust I shattered, I know that can never be replaced. I’m sorry for the hurt I caused. And I’m sorry for the beautiful life I let die under my care.

I hope, one day, the pain fades. I hope time heals this wound like it would a gash on the skin. I hope your heart heals knowing this regret will stay with me forever.

I gently placed the letter on the table, my breath whistling shallowly out of my agape mouth. The words were strung together in sentences I had seen before, expressing feeling I had felt before, hurt I had healed from before.

I heard quiet footsteps approaching, and I glanced over my shoulder.

‘I was going to wait until I finish, but I think we should talk now.’ Jane’s voice was nothing like I had ever heard it before. It had lost the enthusiastic infliction that I had grown used to, replaced with a hard, cold quality that seemed to pinch the air around us.

‘What’s going on, Jane?’ I asked cautiously. ‘What was on the video?’

Jane’s deep brown eyes stared straight into mine. ‘You, Arial. You were on the video.’

‘W –what?’ I stammered. My cheeks started to burn, and I looked away.

‘Arial, it’s you. You’re the one who’s leaving the letters here.’

‘What? That doesn’t make any sense…’ I stammered, rubbing my throbbing head. My eyelids were weighed down by sleepiness. Why was I so tired?

‘In the morning. You come here, cry, leave a letter. Don’t talk to anyone. Go home.’ She gently touched my arm. ‘Is everything okay?’

My head throbbed. The letters –I wrote them? And I had been coming to the café every morning and leaving them there, then going back to bed and forgetting it ever happened.

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ I started. ‘When would I have –’ My breath caught in my throat. It all came flooding back to me. The smell of chlorine. The limp body and salty tears running down my face. The letters had been written by me, in an attempt to express my feelings and let go of the past. They were coming back now –the wound I had dressed but never properly healed –on the one-year anniversary of when everything happened.

Of when I made the fatal mistake of leaving a child alone by a poolside.