“How do you even know where she is?”
Carol didn’t answer.
“Carol.”
She looked back at me.
“I need you to forgive me before you find her.”
I felt a chill run through me.
“Forgive you for what?”
She swallowed.]
“Just promise me.”
“I already promised you I’d find her.”
“No.”
Her voice became barely audible.
“Promise you’ll listen to her.”
I stared at my wife.
For thirty-six years, I had trusted Carol more than anyone on earth.
But at that moment, for the first time in our marriage, I realized there was a part of her life I knew absolutely nothing about.
Before I could ask another question, a nurse entered the room.
She checked Carol’s medication and then gently told me I needed to step outside.
Carol was exhausted.
She needed rest.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I’ll be back.”
She grabbed my wrist.
“David.”
I looked at her.
“Find Anna.”
Those were the last words she ever said to me about her.
Three days later, Carol died.
I don’t remember much about the funeral.
People spoke to me.
They hugged me.
They told me how sorry they were.
Someone brought food to the house.
Someone else called to ask whether I needed anything.
