When he finished, he stepped back.
The drawing was crooked.
Uneven.
Childish.
It covered a ridiculous amount of an expensive motorcycle.
Hammer stared.
The eleven bikers gathered closer.
Nobody laughed.
One older rider removed his sunglasses.
Another wiped his eyes and pretended something had gotten into them.
Noah asked:
“Is it bad?”
Hammer looked down.
“No.”
“It's perfect.”
Rachel began crying again.
Hammer reached inside his vest.
He removed a sealed envelope.
Her name was written across it.
RACHEL
Daniel's handwriting.
Her husband’s handwriting.
Rachel did not take it immediately.
Some grief arrived all at once.
Other grief waited inside an envelope for eleven months.
She reached.
Hammer held it for one extra second.
“He told me something before I give you this.”
Rachel looked at him.
“What?”
“He said you'd be angry.”
A tearful laugh escaped her.
“He knew me.”
Hammer smiled.
“He said you would ask why he didn't tell you.”
Rachel nodded.
“Yes.”
“He gave me an answer.”
“What?”
Hammer’s expression softened.
“He said because you had spent fourteen months helping him die.”
“He wanted one thing that wasn't another job he handed you.”
Rachel's face crumpled.
Hammer continued.
“He said you carried appointments.”
“Medication.”
“Insurance.”
“Pain.”
“Fear.”
“His mother.”
“Noah.”
“The house.”
“Everything.”
“He said this promise was something he could carry without asking you to help.”
Rachel lowered her eyes.
That sounded like Daniel.
Infuriating.
Loving.
Wrong and right at the same time.
She opened the envelope.
The first line blurred.
She wiped her eyes.
Then read.
Rachel,
If Hammer actually gave you this instead of losing it in that vest, please tell him I am impressed.
Rachel laughed through tears.
Hammer groaned.
“He promised me there were no insults.”
She continued.
I know you are angry.
You should be.
I should have told you.
But cancer took enough of our conversations.
I did not want every remaining hour to become planning for the things I would miss.
So I made one plan without you.
Forgive me eventually.
Not today if you don't feel like it.
That would be suspiciously reasonable.
Rachel pressed the letter against her mouth.
Noah moved closer.
She put one arm around him.
The letter continued.
I met Ray the day Noah was born.
You know part of that day.
The fear.
The surgery.
The twenty minutes when neither of us knew if you and the baby were safe.
What you do not know is that I spent three of those minutes sitting on a stranger's motorcycle because I could not make my legs stop shaking.
Ray did not know me.
He did not promise me a miracle.
He simply stayed beside me.
Sometimes that is the kindest thing one person can do for another.
Years later I learned he had lost his own son.
That is why I chose him.
Rachel stopped reading.
She looked at Hammer.
His face changed.
He looked away.
That was it.