Purpose by Kristie Cook

wanted to leave. A very big part.
    I inhaled deeply, telling myself I could do
this. I gathered the luggage and forced myself up the stairs. I
rummaged in his bag for the keys, taking time to feel each of his
belongings my hand came across, trying so hard to remember his
face, to feel his presence. Once I stepped inside, I didn’t have to
try. I could barely punch in the security code for the alarm, my
hands trembling and tears blurring my vision.
    The memories of our unplanned honeymoon—so
long ago now—flooded over me as soon as I entered the kitchen. We’d
cooked so many meals here together, listening to U2, Nirvana and
Smashing Pumpkins, the only three CDs that had been in the Ferrari
at the time. Sometimes he’d taken me in his arms and spun me around
for a short dance as we waited for the sauce to thicken or water to
boil. I remembered him chasing me around the island with lobsters
in his hands before he dropped them in the big pot of steaming
water. My eyes traced over the crack he’d left in the granite
countertop the day we had to leave and tears streamed down my
cheeks.
    I dropped the bags and stumbled through the
unchanged family room into the master bedroom. It looked exactly
the same, with a colossal bed and dresser in the main part of the
room and a chaise lounge and little table in front of the sliding
glass doors, which led out to the screened-in balcony. Everything
was white, with splashes of jewel-tone colors in the fabrics and
decorations, making it feel like a tropical island. He’d named it
the Caribbean room.
    My breath caught as I remembered our first
night here. He was so happy I loved the place as much as he did.
And so loving and gentle as he took me for the first time.
    I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. When
the racks of pain subsided, he swam into my vision. I saw clearly
his beautiful face with the sparkling eyes, smelled his delicious,
tangy-sweet scent, felt the electric pulse as he touched me, heard
his lovely voice say, “I love you, ma lykita ,” as if he lay
right next to me. He felt close again. So close . And just
like that first night at the safe house, I felt his presence
in the world. Really felt it, like a nearly tangible energy
reaching into my chest, surrounding my heart and filling my
body.
    I knew again, really knew he was still
alive. Any doubt had been erased. He lived…somewhere.
    I pulled the bedding into me and sobbed
harder, clinging to it as though it were him, wishing like hell he
would just come back to me.
    When I felt like I had no more tears, I
pulled myself out of the bed and examined the house. Mom had hired
a management company to care for it and everything seemed to be in
working order. I figured Mom had called to let them know of my
pending arrival once she realized I’d headed to the Keys. With a
push of a button, the hurricane shutters lifted and I went out to
the balcony. I curled up in the chair Tristan always sat in,
pretending I sat on his lap again, snuggling against his chest
instead of the cushion. And I bawled.
    It was a horrible, heart-wrenching day and
night. But definitely not the worst of my life. In fact, I relished
the agony because it made me remember. And remembering made me feel
so close to him. I let the wounds open widely. I welcomed the pain
when I saw the cracked headboard, a consequence of our heated
passion. I embraced the burning throb as I stood at the shower
door, reliving some of my favorite memories.
    “Baby, I feel so close to you now. Please
come to me.” I moaned myself to sleep, curled in a ball on our bed, my hand clutching the pendant as a lifeline. My old
memory-dream played throughout the night and I savored every
moment, knowing how important it was to hang on, even in my
dreams.
     
    The next day came slightly easier and I knew
this was the right decision, coming here. After ignoring this place
for so long, it gave me what I’d needed all along—real memories, a
place he had been, where I could physically