—1—

Dave finally gets home, throws his keys angrily on the table by the door, and tosses his bag absently on the couch. He’d worked really hard to get this home. Dave and Dawn Weller were planning on trying for their first child while up at North Point, but that won’t happen now. Dave wasn’t very sure of whether or not he even wanted kids. They had been together for a solid 6 years before he folded and decided to propose. Marriage had just seemed such a formality, a bunch of pomp and celebration for something everyone already knew: Dave and Dawn loved each other. Immensely.

        In the end, he supposed he would go through all the ceremony for Dawn, though she too largely felt it was just a formality. At least, that’s what she said. Inside, he knew Dawn had that part of her that most girls do. She deserved it, after all, to be the center of attention and have her special day. She was a pragmatist, but she could still have a magical evening. The perpetual smile plastered on her face the day of their wedding was proof enough. It was an effort, but he also put up a happy face, though he didn’t feel any different. He was just happy that Dawn was happy. What did it matter to him if others knew about their love or not? What mattered to him was her and only her. He loved… loves her still. She was, is, and always will be everything he has ever cared about.

        They had been married for almost three years. They had their fights, of course, some more intense than others, though Dave has never had to sleep in the proverbial doghouse. Sometimes it would take days for either one of them to cool off and come to a nice simmer where they could talk it out together and cap the resolution with a night of make-up sex.

        Dawn had started talking about children somewhere at the start of their second year together as husband and wife. Somewhere, rattling around in the recesses of Dave’s brain, he knew that kids were in their future, but the first time she brought it up, it struck him in the face as if she just dropped that early-relationship-taboo bomb by saying “I’m pregnant.”  That was the point, though; she wasn’t… and wanted to be. To Dave, that was just as bad. His response wasn’t very eloquent: “I don’t know…” and left it at that. He mulled over the idea for weeks but didn’t mention anything to Dawn, who also kept mercifully silent on the subject.

        He had hoped the subject was dropped, but it wasn’t Dawn who nagged him about kids, it was his brain. He couldn’t focus at work, and in the dizzying moments staring blankly at his computer screen, he fought with himself. Of course, kids would be great… but the responsibility… the cost… the smell. He found himself looking at other couples pushing their strollers or wrestling with a rambunctious kid on the cusp of throwing a fit. The more he observed, the more nervous he became on the subject. He paid close attention to the kids he observed and often imagined himself in the struggling parents’ position.

        He had to admit it, though… those kids were cute.

        It wasn’t until a month or more later that Dave realized he already resigned himself to the idea. He wasn’t making up his mind, it was already made. He was observing these parents and their kids like research and finally realized he was no longer analyzing, but hoping.

        Almost 6 weeks after Dawn brought up the idea of kids, he had an answer for her.

“North Point” was a nickname the locals gave to the artsy little town tucked away in the northern Irish mountains, named for the tall, narrow mountain pointing directly to the north star like Titan’s finger. Dave and Dawn had vacationed there for their honeymoon and immediately fell in love with the place. They spent two weeks trying every café and restaurant they found, and there were a lot. A map of the entire town could be drawn on a single napkin and that made the both of them love it all the more. The shops were a little on the expensive side and it was clear that tourism was the main source of revenue for the little town, but souvenirs were hardly necessary to remember the place.

        It was Dawn’s idea to try for their first real souvenir at North Point. Dave imagined what it would be like to make love with that incredible backdrop; curvaceous green mountains and soft fog wrapping around the foothills. His member did a little more than just a hop, skip and a jump at the thought. Which inevitably lead to what Dave and Dawn called their “practice run” quickie. As far as he could tell, that was the moment he fell in love with the idea of having kids, as long as it was Dawn that would have them.

They were set to stay in North Point for four weeks, but their time was literally cut down to two. Sometime during the end of their second week, they were walking down one of the few streets in the quiet artsy village, just exploring and window shopping as they had done once or twice already, until a stranger approached them, asking for the time…

Having been knocked out from a glass bottle to the head, Dave suffered a concussion, but when he came to, he found his wife lying next to him on the street; a swarm of people around them, speaking in heavy Irish accents muttering something about an ambulance.

That was four years and one week ago.

Dave walks into his bedroom alone.

        Newspaper clippings having to do with their attack remain crumpled and taped up on his bedroom mirror. He had read them over and over again, he practically new them by heart.

        Oh, God I miss you, Dawny. I miss you so much… Why did I ever leave you?

She had been stabbed three times while he was unconscious.

        You must’ve put up a good fight… You never were one to back down from them. Dave puts on a grim smile. Remember that one we had a few months before we left for Ireland? That was a good one… wasn’t it? I bet you gave that bastard a run for his money. Why else would he… why else would he have had to… Oh God. Why wasn’t I there for you… Why wasn’t I strong enough to defend you?

        Cycles of thought like this usually spiral into endlessness for Dave. Unanswerable questions plague him in a losing battle with rhetoric until his own logic sputters and dies, leaving him in a tearful stupor on the floor; usually with some poorly crafted furniture jabbing him in his back. The idea that he puts up with the discomfort in his back as a means of punishment has crossed his mind on a number of occasions, but he quickly pushes those thoughts to the side, though not too far. He likes those thoughts to be within arm’s reach.

For most people there’s usually a kind of catharsis that comes with tears, a kind of release that enables you to take a breath, much like a doctor smacking a newborn in the ass to force it to breathe.  Dave, on the other hand, has found his tears stifling. They suffocate him until his body can no longer take it. Dave shambles into the kitchen, grabs a few beers, and passes out on his couch, drunk and feeling more alone than ever. Typical. Days like this, he will be trapped in the labyrinth of his guilt for several hours, and those are good days.

        Unwilling to go to work, he calls in sick and decides to play hooky for a while. Knowing what he is going through, his supervisors give him leave without a hitch.

        As the days go by, Dave keeps reliving the incident in his head, along with Matt’s words that echo somewhere in the back of his mind telling him “it’s been four years, Dave. It’s time to move on.” He knows Matt’s words make sense, but he can’t understand why he doesn’t understand them. Coworkers like Matt are a dime a dozen and as Dave has found, their words are even cheaper.

        The phone rings.

        Dave answers groggily, and listens to the third phone call he has received demanding overdue payments. This one was from his gas company. The one before was his cable bill and the one before that was from his Blockbuster membership. Three Blockbuster boxes lay haphazardly near his TV; “City of Angels,” “You’ve Got Mail,” and “Anastasia” (that one was for the kiddies… that he would never have). Dawn was a huge Meg Ryan fan.

Defeated, Dave decides to pay his bills, if only to shut up the phone calls so he can be alone with his thoughts unscathed.

        He walks over to his mailbox, and pulls out a wad of mail that must have been as thick as a phone book. Bundling all his mail in his arms, he nudges his mailbox shut, and waddles carefully back inside. He plops the entire bundle on his dining table, some pieces fall to the floor, but nothing of noticeable interest, mostly junk mail and useless ads. He sorts through all his mail, throwing all his junk mail to the ground, and putting his bills in another pile. Personal mail from co-workers expressing their concern forms yet another pile on the table. He even notices what he assumes to be a letter from Matt.

        E-mail, guys. Look it up! He thinks to himself.

        Dave goes about the daunting task of cutting checks, stamping and self-addressing envelopes. After finishing that, he balances his checkbook, and goes about reading his personal mail. All of which basically say the same thing, wishing him well and missing him back at the studio.

        It’s a wonder anyone bothered to write me at all.

        Finally he reads the message sent from Matt. It of course did contain an apology, but also yet again pressuring Dave to throw his hat back into the dating ring. Dave grimaces. Having finally read everything, and set his financial affairs in order, he goes about cleaning up, making sure to throw all his postal garbage into the paper recycling bin. Dawn usually gets mad if he forgets the recycling.

        As he picks up all his junk mail off the ground, he notices a small beige note from the U.S. Postal service asking him to pick up a small package that couldn’t safely fit in his overcrowded mailbox. Tossing it on the table, he throws the rest into the little green box labeled: “Paper.”

        Returning to his dining table, he grabs the little note and looks at it more closely. Caressing his unshaven chin, Dave looks at his watch and sees he still has time to pick up the package if he felt like it. Realizing that all this busywork has kept his mind off Dawn, he decides to give himself a break. For the first time in a long time, Dave feels somewhat rested… and even happy. He grabs his keys and looks at himself in the mirror.

        If I’m going to go out, I might as well shave.

        Finally, after a week and a half, Dave cleans himself up.

The day was still young with the sun hanging high and clear of clouds. From inside the post office, Dave could see a small group of kids argue over who gets to go down the slide next in the playground outside, sending a painful and familiar ripple of regret through his body. In the basketball court beyond the playground, the older kids, high schoolers most likely, continue their savage ballet of sweat and quick movements.

        Fiddling with the small package notice, Dave tries to think of someone he knows that would actually send him a package. Reading the notice yet again, he confirms what he already knew; the package had no return address or a name of who it was from. Grimacing, he tells himself that he will find out soon enough. But for the moment, the post office line moves at a pace that only a snail could envy.

        “Next…” an Asian woman calls from her station. Dave walks up and puts the notice down in front of the lady whose nametag reads Tamira.

        “Just picking up a package.” Dave says, returning the smile already given to him.

        “No problem, just a sec’ please.” Tamira turns around and heads into the backroom, rummaging through what looks like row after row of cubbies that contain packages of all sizes. Feeling somewhat like a child at Christmas, he shuffles in place like the suspense is killing him.
        After a few minutes, Tamira returns to her station with a small envelope in hand. Dave hides his grimace with a bland face and pays for the “special delivery.”

        “Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.” Tamira says with a festive smile and expressive eyes that arch up in happy little folds. “Next please…”

Dave awakens from his thoughts, and with package in hand, heads back out to his car. Starting the ignition and turning on the air conditioner, he turns to the small envelope and decides to check it out while resting with the refreshing cool air, in a shaded spot, on a pleasant warm afternoon.

        The envelope appears old and wrinkled, much like old parchment but obviously manufactured. The handwriting addressed to ‘David Weller’ is fanciful yet familiar. On the other side of the envelope is an unbroken red wax seal reminding Dave of his time in North Point with Dawn. He had wanted to buy a wax seal, just for novelty purposes, but the set he wanted was just too expensive.

        Curious, Dave looks at the seal more closely. The seal depicts a large church with a backdrop of soft looking mountains, forests, and even a vaguely formed river.

                Just like the one I wanted…

                        Upon closer inspection, he notices some lettering around the oval display of the seal. Two small words arch around the top and one word arches along the bottom.

        “North Point,” Ireland.

        Dave puts down the envelope and takes a moment to stifle a yell. He rubs his eyes tightly and tries to adjust his sight to the bright sunlight breaking through the leaves outside. After taking a few short breaths, he picks up the envelope and checks the lettering again. Sure enough, he had read it correctly.

        Twirling the envelope around, he eyeballs the fanciful handwriting on the front, pondering its familiarity. After a few moments, the handwriting’s familiar strokes and bold arches begin to form more clearly in his mind. There is only one place he had seen such handwriting… it’s his wife’s.

        Dave drops the envelope without thinking, guns his motor and heads home. He has to be sure. On his way home, he repeats to himself that it was just his mourning for Dawn that made him make such a connection. Any number of people could have gotten that same seal he had wanted. Or perhaps this is all a sick joke, someone’s idea of getting back at Dave for four years of complaining and whining about his dead wife (a twinge of pain flies through his body in regret). Whatever the case, he almost succeeds in convincing himself it’s a complete hoax by the time he reaches home. He even determines to not open the letter.

        Rummaging through his dresser drawer, he pulls out an old Nike shoebox and throws it on his bed. Inside are dozens of letters the two had written to each other, but Dave was looking for only one.

About six years previous, Dawn had taken a calligraphy class and had practiced it by writing a letter entirely in calligraphy. She had always thought that handwriting could be art if you let it. Each letter and each carefully constructed word would be a work of art all on its own.

She was such a beautiful person.

        Dave finds the letter. Disregarding the note inside, he turns to the front of the envelope he received it in. Comparing the two styles of handwriting, he looks at both samples of handwriting, comparing every loop, every curve, ever slash and dot and finds what he had fears (or hopes?) most. They are exactly the same.

        Oh my God… what if she’s still alive… and I just left her in Ireland! What if she’s still ALIVE!

        “No… that can’t be… she came back to America… I attended her funeral,” Dave mutters to himself, trying to maintain some kind of grasp on reality.

        Afraid of what he would see, he paces back and forth, wondering if he should open the letter.

        There is only one way to end this… I have to open it. Whatever it says, I have to know…

        Nearly pouncing on the letter sitting on his bed amongst others, Dave breaks the seal and almost rips the letter open. Inside is a single piece of yellow stationary paper… scented paper. The sight of two simple words make Dave’s heart drop. In his mind, he rereads the words again and again, trying to fathom what it all means.

Printed in Dawn’s simple style, the yellow scented paper reads: “Help me.”