When He Loved Me

The first time I saw Henry, the sun was shining on his face as if it was the sole intended recipient. His eyes were half closed in the brilliant light, his lips slightly parted in a grin that came from the pure joy of being young and beautiful and alive. With a rake of his long fingers through his blonde hair, he strode out of the university library with the loping, unstudied gait of a man who had never doubted himself. I think of this moment as I sit staring up at him on the beach.

Our wedding six months later was the day that I first met my brother in law, Michael, and his fiancé, Violet. She was the single most enigmatic and charming person I have ever met. Large dark eyes constantly wide with excitement and a full red mouth ever spreading into a smile were the only soft features in her otherwise angular feline face. She was everything I wanted to be – wealthy, polished, confident, striking. It was easy to see why everyone loved her, and why they were devastated when she died not three months later.

Henry was the one who had found her on the shore. She had apparently fallen from her horse (who hadn’t left her side, bless him) and broke her neck. Unable to move, she had endured a rain storm and cold autumn winds. By the time they had gotten her to bed, she was delirious and fading. I had come the next day by train to say my goodbyes. Michael refused to leave her side, while Henry could barely stay in the house. Only two days later, Violet was gone. Michael was predictably inconsolable. To distract himself from grief, he fixated on finding the braided gold bracelet she always wore, spending hours digging at the site of her accident. How funny to think that all that time, it had been in the house, right under our noses.

Henry had been like a sailboat that drifted further each day. Determined to be understanding and supportive, I found myself mostly alone in the large estate the family had summered in since the boys’ father had been a child. Little trinkets and framed memories were an insight into the brothers. In Michael’s room, drawings of leaves and animals were executed with skill while volumes of notebooks had been filled and stored alongside novels and classic works in the dark mahogany bookshelf. In Henry’s I saw old leather football cleats, rackets, pictures of friends and, rather than books, shelves full of trophies. I smiled with a quiet pride. Behind the dangling ribbons one photo stood out: a picture of Michael, Violet and Henry, all smiles and embraces. My heart ached to think that Michael would never have what Henry and I would share for decades to come.

It was not until dinner on the fourth night after her death that I began to see. As I refreshed Michael’s wine and Henry’s gin, Michael snorted and shook his head. Henry raised an eyebrow and asked if anything was the matter before taking a long draw from his glass. Michael smiled and indicated that he’d have a gin as well. I breathed a sigh of relief. These two hadn’t spoken or smiled in days, and if gin was the antidote to all that silent misery, I would administer it consistently and liberally. Making myself scarce so the brothers could bond, I began to ready for bed. Unable to find my book, I looked through my dresser, my bedside table and our luggage. Hoping it had accidentally made its way into Henry's dresser, I opened the second drawer.

As I sit here with my husband watching the tide come in, I can’t help but wonder what life would look like if I had just remembered that I left my book downstairs. Or if I had read a magazine I brought or sat down and had a gin instead of being the skittering mouse ever shuffling out of the way. Can a simple change like that really change your life? Can looking here instead of there fully halt the long, foreboding fingers of fate and lead you down a path into laughter and light? Or maybe it was just an eventuality, some kind of cosmic necessity to set everything that follows into motion. Maybe these choices, all these little mundane lefts or rights, are just an illusion, a torturous fantasy that distracts from the inevitability of what is to come, what in the end must come.

I don’t know much about such things but I do know I’d go straight to bed if I had it to do again. Because in the second drawer of the dresser, on top of Henry’s silk pyjamas, was a small bracelet, made up of delicately twisted gold cord.

God only knows how long I stood there staring, with a cold knot hardening and growing in my stomach before Henry walked in. I turned just in time to see his drunk smile fading as he realised what I had found. He moved so quickly he crossed the space of the entire room in two steps and had his hand over my mouth before I could say a word. The explanations were pouring out of his mouth 0 convince me. She was going to tell, he said, they had been lovers and sure he may have messed up but he couldn’t lose me, couldn’t lose his wife and his brother, and she was going to tell Michael and tear us all apart. Does someone like that deserve respect or love or even to live? Tears were streaming down both our faces, as I realised what he had done, and he realised what he had to do.

As I rest my head on the dock, he secures the final weight to my ankles, still muttering, still trying to convince me. The light of the dawn shines behind him, but now, his face is in shadow.