Cogent

SIX

Carter,

I'm going on trip. It's not exactly a 'save the world' kind of thing, but I'm helping some people. They have great hearts, and they deserve to be protected. I can't tell you right now where I'm going, but when I get back I'll tell you everything. I'm sorry that I can't be more specific so that you don't worry, but trust me, I'll be safe.

If you knew where I was going, I know what you'd say. This is reckless of me. I'm taking too many chances. I can only do so much for these kids and it's not my job to 'fix' them. I know you love me, babe. But you've got to understand something. You're right.

I'm sure you're thinking oh-my-god-where-is-Lenny-what-the-hell because I would never, in a million years, have admitted that you were right about me, and especially not about this. About my work. Here's the thing though, mister smarty-pants: you being right means that I've got to do this. It IS reckless, and it IS taking too many chances and I CAN only do SO much for the kids. But 'so much' means a lot more than nothin' my friend. Whatever I can do, I will do. That's my job. That's who I am.

You're supposed to love me for that, remember? You promised.

I'll be back. That's what this note is for. To tell you that I'll be home soon. And to remind you that you owe me a meal when I get there because I'm cancelling our plans. I know, I know, you hate it when I don't give you notice. You're such a planner. But I love you for it, just like...you know. Oaths. I hate repeating myself.

See you when I get back. Don't be mad.

-Lenny

Carter ran his thumb over the two smiley faces she'd drawn next to her hastily scrawled yet painfully neat signature, his hands trembling. This was what had been stuffed behind the picture frame he had taken from her house that day. Not a suicide note. It was the opposite of one.

Carter took in a shaky breath, his eyes falling closed. When he found the letter, he'd been horrified. So horrified, that he almost hadn't opened it.

He'd worked so hard to convince himself that her death was something else—an accident, maybe. But that was a delusion. There was no way what happened to Lenny was an accident. Yet it couldn't be a suicide either—at least, that's what he'd been so sure of until he found her letter to him. It had been carefully folded and shoved behind the backing of the picture frame until it bulged. She knew he'd find it, if he looked. And Lenny knew that he would look. She knew Carter better than anyone.

Taking a long breath, Carter read the letter again, and then again, his vision starting to blur. It wasn't a suicide note. Lenny hadn't planned to kill herself when she wrote it. She'd been so very alive instead, so hopeful, so determined. Those were not the characteristics of someone ready to end their life.

Carter sat motionless on the kitchen counter next to the fridge in his kitchen, his thigh pressed up against half a dozen dirty coffee cups and a stack of dinner plates from the week before. Lenny would have teased him about the mess if she was there. She used to call him a 'man-rat' because he had always been a little lax when it came to washing dishes.

Clearing his throat, he lowered the letter and slowly looked around the room. The black and white tiles, chalky wallpaper and stainless steel appliances were all a blur of dark and light shades of gray. He couldn't make out any distinct lines, just a bunch of hazy shapes. Slowly, he slipped from the countertop and slid down the front of the cupboards until he was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He wasn't crying. He was mourning.