White Noise, Part III

As the title suggests, this is the third, and final, part in a series. Here is Part I, and Part II

Thomas was twelve now.

Sam sat in a lawn chair on the lengthening grass of the sidelines and watched him kick the ball around with his team. He was good at it, soccer. He had his mom's long legs and uncanny ability to duck and dodge.

Sam leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands fall between them. He absentmindedly twisted the thin silver band still wrapped around his finger. A constant reminder of the one thing he wanted to forget, yet wanted to hold on to forever. He had tried to take it off, but he always felt guilty.  Like she would somehow sense it and never come home.

It had been an odd morning, the day she left. Sam woke to her phone buzzing on the night stand opposite his. In the grogginess of sleep he had called for her to turn her alarm off; he didn't need to be awake yet.

She didn't answer.

He reached over, expecting to find her shoulder but his hand met a cool sheet. He sat up and reached over to turn her phone off.

7:00am

Shuffling out of the bedroom, he peeked into the bathroom. Maybe she's up early today. Not in the bathroom. He poked his head into the kitchen. Maybe she's decided to make breakfast for Thomas. Not there either. And the coffee wasn't made. The coffee was always made.

He scrunched his brow and yawned. Strange.

He looked into the garage; her car was still parked. He gazed out the patio window into their big backyard. The leaves of the old maple were starting to turn a yellow-brown. Fall was just around the bend. Sam's favorite season. Her least. She hated that everything was dying and that there would be a chill in the air that would only progress.

"Daddy?" came a small voice from behind him in the living room.

Sam turned to see his four year old, dirty blonde hair standing on end, Spider-Man pajamas, clutching that blanket he still insisted on carrying around.

"Daddy I'm hungry. Where's Mommy?"

"I don't know bud," said Sam.

The two made their way into the kitchen to fix some cereal; Sam's specialty. He set his son and the well-loved blanket on the counter while he fished a box out of the Lazy Susan.

"Ah, how about some Life?" he said, turning back around.

Thomas was distracted. He had found a piece of paper on the counter and was looking for a pen so he could draw on it.

"Whatch'a got there, bud?" said Sam, gingerly taking the sheet from his boy. He turned it over so he could read it.

I'm sorry. Take care of Thomas. Take care of yourself.

"Daddy, can I draw on that please?"

Sam sank to his haunches, feeling like the blood had left his body and his heart had somehow jumped into his throat. He read, read, and re-read the note. Turning it over a half a dozen times to check for something else. Anything else. That was it? That was all she had to say?

After ten years and a beautiful child. All Sam got was three sentences.

His mind was brought back to the present when he heard some kids yelling behind him.

"Lemonade and cookies for sale! Please buy some!"

He got up out of his lawn chair and made his way back to the fold out table that held the cold lemonade and half-burnt cookies.

"Want some lemonade?" asked one of the young boys eagerly, excited for a customer.

"Yes, and two cookies, please."

The boy poured him a Styrofoam cup of lemonade, spilling on the table and the grass beneath, then grabbed the top two cookies and held them out to Sam.

"That'll be five dollars," said the boy.

"Kinda steep, don't you think?" chuckled Sam, opening his wallet.

Out fell that old postcard, folded into quarters and nearly in four pieces from being unfolded and re-folded so many times. He squatted down and unfolded it, just one more time.

On the front was a fading picture of the Amalfi Coast. A beautiful scene; full of bright colors and a breathtaking view of the ocean. On the back was a faded message. One that held little meaning to Sam anymore.

I knew you'd be worried. I'm fine. Don't try to find me. - Kate

Sam stared at it for a minute. Eight years he had been carrying around this postcard. Eight years he had been hoping against hope his bride would come back to him. Eight years he had been a single dad to their child; the one they had promised to raise together. Eight years he had been telling his son that someday,  maybe, his mom might come back. Eight years he had cried nearly every night, wondering where she was and why she left him. Left them. Eight years.

"Do you have five dollars or not?" asked the boy, impatiently holding the sticky cup and crisp cookies.

Sam handed him his money and took his snacks.

He went and sat back in his chair and watched Thomas. He was a good boy. He was smart. Not the smartest kid in school, but he did well for himself. He was good at soccer. He had a lot of friends. And he was growing into a fine man with a strong jaw.

Sam was proud. Of himself and of his boy. He was proud of them for surviving.

As he watched his son and sipped his lemonade, he made a decision. He took the last swig of his drink and stood up. He reached into his pocket, into his billfold, and he took out that old postcard.

He stuffed it into the sticky cup and walked over the plastic trash can near the parking lot.

One deep breath. Then two.

He threw the cup and the postcard into the trash can, telling himself it was time to let go. It was time to stop living in the past and to move on with his life. He turned around to leave.

He made it about ten steps before he turned around and ran back to the trash can. He leaned over it and dug a little bit, searching for the sticky cup. He pulled out the old postcard, now damp with lemonade. His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly.

He dried it off as best he could with the hem of his shirt, making a note to lay it out properly when he got home.

He put it into the breast pocket of his button up flannel.

He had waited eight years already, what was eight more?