entertains, educates & inspires marriages
Find Marriage Answers
read
When I’m Gone: A Novel Excerpted from Chapter 4 of When I’m Gone: A Novel, a fictional novel about a husband who begins receiving letters from his dead wife, which raises questions.
Lake Union Publishing
A widowed husband deals with the passing of his wife through letters he begins to receive from her after she's gone.
“ So, before I get all mushy on what has probably already been a supermushy day, I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t want to leave you.”
|
The following is an excerpt from "When I’m Gone: A Novel" by Emily Bleeker
He couldn’t put it off any longer. With shaking hands, Luke sat on the edge of his bed, his back to the mirror, and unfolded the spiral notebook paper. At the top, written in what was undoubtedly Natalie’s handwriting, it said: "The day I’m buried."
Underneath was a block of writing, the looping letters so familiar it was like she was whispering in his ear as he read.
Dear Luke,
Or maybe I should say "Dearest Luke" or "To my loving husband, Luke," or should I go casual and say, "Yo, Luke!" I’m not sure how a dead lady addresses her husband. If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Or you’re snooping around my stuff, found my private journal, and decided to read it. Which, if that’s the case, shame on you! But I’m guessing I’m dead, because you’re not really the nosy type.
First let me say—I love you. I love you and our children more than I could ever write in words. The idea that you are living and I am not makes me want to throw up, like when we had that horrible stomach flu right after Clayton was born. It makes me angry and jealous and a bunch of other really ugly emotions. So, before I get all mushy on what has probably already been a supermushy day, I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t want to leave you.
I feel pretty melodramatic writing you a letter to open on the day of my burial. According to Dr. Saunders I have a pretty decent chance of beating this thing, but you know me: I don’t trust doctors. No harm in starting this journal, you know, just in case. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing; maybe this will be my first step toward finally writing the novel dancing around my brain for the past ten years. They say write what you know, right? Apparently I know cancer and we are not friends.
First day of chemo tomorrow. I’m so nervous. No, it’s not about the hair thing even though I know I whine about it enough. I’m less worried about losing hair and more worried I’m going to lose myself, become one of those hollow chemo patients I see sitting in Saunders’s waiting room, skin and bones. Today there was a girl who threw up right there in the waiting room after her treatment. It was probably one of her first times because she still had her hair, or maybe it was an awesome wig. Note to self, ask where she got her wig.
You want to know the worst part? The nurses acted like it was no big deal, like cleaning up vomit off the waiting room floor (and walls and chairs) was normal in an oncologist’s office. Come to think of it, there’s no carpet in Saunders’s offices at all. Maybe they had to hire steam cleaners one too many times so they decided linoleum was more cost-efficient?
Anyway, enough about that. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow. Tonight I hope you give our kids an extra hug and kiss from their mother. I don’t think you should tell them about this yet. It can be quite scary to think your mom is writing you from heaven… or wherever I am. I know when Tangerine went belly-up in the fishbowl, you told the kids, "When you die, you die." I’ll be honest—I thought it was a bit cruel. I wonder if you think I’m gone forever now? Worm food, fertilizer, pushing up daisies, taking the big nap. Well, wherever I am, I love you. I miss you. I’ll write again tomorrow.
Love,
Natalie
Luke smoothed the creases in the page against his thigh. He didn’t know what to think. Reading the note, he heard her voice in his head, just like she was sitting next to him. He thought it would make him sad, but somehow, it didn’t. The letter made him feel warm in his midsection. It made him want to hang up the funeral suit instead of burn it.
Emily Bleeker is a former educator who learned to love writing while teaching her students’ writer’s workshop. After surviving a battle with a rare form of cancer, she finally found the courage to share her stories, starting with her debut novel, "Wreckage." A fully recovered "secret writer," Emily now spends her days wrangling four kids while planning out plotlines and writing about the people in her head. She currently lives with her family in suburban Chicago. Connect with her or request a Skype visit with your book club at www.emilybleeker.com.
Excerpted from "When I’m Gone: A Novel" by Emily Bleeker. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2016 Emily Bleeker.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. With shaking hands, Luke sat on the edge of his bed, his back to the mirror, and unfolded the spiral notebook paper. At the top, written in what was undoubtedly Natalie’s handwriting, it said: "The day I’m buried."
Underneath was a block of writing, the looping letters so familiar it was like she was whispering in his ear as he read.
Dear Luke,
Or maybe I should say "Dearest Luke" or "To my loving husband, Luke," or should I go casual and say, "Yo, Luke!" I’m not sure how a dead lady addresses her husband. If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Or you’re snooping around my stuff, found my private journal, and decided to read it. Which, if that’s the case, shame on you! But I’m guessing I’m dead, because you’re not really the nosy type.
First let me say—I love you. I love you and our children more than I could ever write in words. The idea that you are living and I am not makes me want to throw up, like when we had that horrible stomach flu right after Clayton was born. It makes me angry and jealous and a bunch of other really ugly emotions. So, before I get all mushy on what has probably already been a supermushy day, I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t want to leave you.
I feel pretty melodramatic writing you a letter to open on the day of my burial. According to Dr. Saunders I have a pretty decent chance of beating this thing, but you know me: I don’t trust doctors. No harm in starting this journal, you know, just in case. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing; maybe this will be my first step toward finally writing the novel dancing around my brain for the past ten years. They say write what you know, right? Apparently I know cancer and we are not friends.
First day of chemo tomorrow. I’m so nervous. No, it’s not about the hair thing even though I know I whine about it enough. I’m less worried about losing hair and more worried I’m going to lose myself, become one of those hollow chemo patients I see sitting in Saunders’s waiting room, skin and bones. Today there was a girl who threw up right there in the waiting room after her treatment. It was probably one of her first times because she still had her hair, or maybe it was an awesome wig. Note to self, ask where she got her wig.
You want to know the worst part? The nurses acted like it was no big deal, like cleaning up vomit off the waiting room floor (and walls and chairs) was normal in an oncologist’s office. Come to think of it, there’s no carpet in Saunders’s offices at all. Maybe they had to hire steam cleaners one too many times so they decided linoleum was more cost-efficient?
Anyway, enough about that. I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow. Tonight I hope you give our kids an extra hug and kiss from their mother. I don’t think you should tell them about this yet. It can be quite scary to think your mom is writing you from heaven… or wherever I am. I know when Tangerine went belly-up in the fishbowl, you told the kids, "When you die, you die." I’ll be honest—I thought it was a bit cruel. I wonder if you think I’m gone forever now? Worm food, fertilizer, pushing up daisies, taking the big nap. Well, wherever I am, I love you. I miss you. I’ll write again tomorrow.
Love,
Natalie
Luke smoothed the creases in the page against his thigh. He didn’t know what to think. Reading the note, he heard her voice in his head, just like she was sitting next to him. He thought it would make him sad, but somehow, it didn’t. The letter made him feel warm in his midsection. It made him want to hang up the funeral suit instead of burn it.
Emily Bleeker is a former educator who learned to love writing while teaching her students’ writer’s workshop. After surviving a battle with a rare form of cancer, she finally found the courage to share her stories, starting with her debut novel, "Wreckage." A fully recovered "secret writer," Emily now spends her days wrangling four kids while planning out plotlines and writing about the people in her head. She currently lives with her family in suburban Chicago. Connect with her or request a Skype visit with your book club at www.emilybleeker.com.
Excerpted from "When I’m Gone: A Novel" by Emily Bleeker. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2016 Emily Bleeker.
Leave a Comment
|
|
|
|
threshold | life | money | sex | blog | married life social network | partners | directory | wine club | podcasts | newsletters | subscribe | advertise | contact us | press releases | archives | privacy policy
Copyright © 2023 Hitched Media, Inc. All rights reserved. | hitched - entertains, educates & inspires marriages |
