Letters of Faith, page 1
T Bell
Letters of Faith
Copyright © 2023 by T Bell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Parts of this book were originally published on Kindle Vella.
Cover: Ya’ll That Graphic
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To Brynn for always being my sounding board—I think I owe you a hundred boxes of Kleenex at this point.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by T Bell
Chapter 1
Georgia
14 Months Ago
My heart thunders in my ears. There’s noise around me, but it’s muffled like I’m underwater. Someone is trying to talk to me, but I can’t focus on processing the words when five are already stuck in my brain, refusing to move.
“There’s nothing we can do.”
Those words keep bouncing around in my mind, inflicting pain each time they hit. I need to process them because once I do, we can devise a plan.
Yeah, that’s what I need—a plan. A plan can fix anything because I refuse to accept that nothing is left. There has to be something. God works miracles all the time. He can do that here, too.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing more we can do for your husband.” The doctor’s voice is raw, laden with the emotion he’s trying to hold back. It’s a good thing, too, because there isn’t room for another person’s breakdown here.
I’m losing my mind—that has to be what’s happening. I’ve gone too many nights without sleep, and now I’m hallucinating, living my worst nightmare.
Looking up, I see the doctor’s face filled with the same emotion as his voice, and I know I’m not hallucinating. This is my real-life nightmare.
Pity sparkles in his eyes as concern wrinkles his brow.
I can handle a lot of emotions, but pity and hopelessness are not two of them.
Fire burns through my veins.
I don’t want his pity. I want him to help my husband. I want him to take away the cancer that’s ravaging the fit and healthy man I love. I want a lot of things. I don’t want pity. Pity is for those who have given up, and I refuse to give up. If this man won’t help, I will find another doctor who will.
Nate is too good of a man to be gone from this world. He has to stay.
I need him to stay.
Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, my hands shake as I pick up my phone, intent on finding another oncologist within this city…or country…or world, for that matter. This time, it will be someone who won’t give up on us so easily.
Before my thumb can make it across my screen to unlock my phone, fragile fingers circle my wrist.
I stare at them a moment, remembering how they used to look so muscular and defined from years of physical labor. Now, the skin sags from radiation and chemotherapy. The bones beneath are visible, moving as the grip on my wrist tightens a little more and squeezes just enough that I know he is trying to comfort me.
Guilt hits me square in the chest.
I should be comforting him, not the other way around.
The pressure of his hand stays, and I know he wants me to look up. If I do, though, I will lose it. I’m barely holding on.
His hand travels down to my fingers, and a light tug is all it takes for me to relent. I drag my eyes up from his hands to his forearms and over his bicep, taking my time as I make my way up to his face. Every time I look at him now, I have to steel myself. Fear takes over whenever I see his sunken cheeks and the blackness beneath his eyes.
Nate’s always been able to read me, but I don’t want him to take on the burden of my fear.
I need him to focus on getting better.
One more inch and our eyes meet. The steely gray of his is enough to break me. They used to be so vibrant and full of life, but now they are dull and tired.
I lay my head on his chest, hiding the shimmer in my eyes from him, but he sees me. He wraps his arms around me and holds me when I should be holding him.
“Georgia, I’m tired.”
The tears slip from my eyes, down my cheeks, and soak into his t-shirt, making it impossible to hide now. A sob croaks out of my throat—raw and unbidden.
I know what he’s trying to tell me, but I can’t accept it. I don’t know how to live life without him. We had so many plans. We were going to buy a farm and start a family. He’s only thirty. He can’t leave me.
I don’t understand what God’s doing here. Why would he let me love this man and take him away?
“You…You can’t…You can’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
His coarse fingers run over the silk of my hair in tender strokes meant to soothe me. My breaths come in shallow gasps, a crushing weight on my chest. It’s a pain that will be there long after he is gone.
“Georgia, I promise I will always be with you even after I close my eyes. I need you to promise me something, though.” He pinches my chin and tilts it up so I’m looking at him again before he continues, “I need you to promise you won’t be mad at God for this. I can’t leave here knowing that will happen. So, I need you to promise me that no matter what, you won’t think that this is a punishment for something you’ve done wrong. I know you, and I know that at some point, you will question that.”
The air in the room is non-existent. My lungs squeeze as I try to drag in a breath. Nate is asking for something I’m not sure I can promise. Mainly because it already feels like a punishment.
My heart throbs with each beat, and the underside of my jaw goes numb. I have to get out of this room soon.
I thought I was having a stroke the first time my face went numb. It was the day I found out about Nate’s cancer. I was at work when Nate called me. It was supposed to be a regular follow-up. It wasn’t supposed to be this.
After I got the call, I hid in the bathroom stall while I cried. When my face started to go numb, I called my family doctor, and she examined me. She explained that it was a panic attack, not a stroke. They’ve happened often since then, but I’ve never let Nate see them. My poor husband has enough worries. I don’t want this to be another one.
So, with a panic attack filling my chest with pressure, I do the only thing I can to escape—I lie.
“Okay, Nate. I promise. If that’s what you need from me, I promise.”
It’s a promise I won’t be able to keep in two months when my husband is gone, and burning anger eats at my soul, but it’s one I make now to keep at least one thing easy for him.
______________________
Two hours later, all remnants of the panic attack are gone, and I’m walking back to Nate’s room in the hospital—composed, ready to pretend I’m not breaking.
Earlier, the doctor said Nate would go home on hospice because there’s nothing left for us to do except make him comfortable. We’ll spend one more night here and go home tomorrow to face this.
The thought makes my throat ache.
I don’t want to do this—none of it is fair.
Why Nate? Why the best man I know?
If I sit in those thoughts too long, though, I start to get angry—at the world and God—and that’s not a place I can let myself go.
Standing outside the doorway of Nate’s room, I steel my expression before stepping through the door. When I hear his voice floating through the room, I pause, staying behind the curtain separating the hospital bed from the door, adding an extra layer of privacy for families.
“I’m worried about her, Gray,” Nate says, lowering his voice as if speaking those words aloud pains him.
They hurt me, too, because I thought I was doing a good job of hiding the weight on my shoulders, but I failed if he’s calling Grayson instead of talking to me.
Grayson, Nate, and I met in elementary school, and there was a time in my life when I thought I would marry Grayson instead of Nate. We were ten the first time I noticed how handsome Grayson was. He was my first crush.
Then high school came, and I realized that Nate was the guy you relied on, the one who took you on dates and made you feel special, while Grayson was the kind of guy who broke your heart because he was broken himself.
Nate and I started dating my senior year of high school, and I never looked back. It was the best choice I ever made, and even if someone had told me then that I would be facing losing him ten years down the road, I would still choose this life with him again.
He must have Grayson on speaker because I hear his strong voice come across the phone and say, “She loves you, Nate, and she’s worried about you. It’s hard to think you have your whole life ahead with someone, only to be told you have months instead of years. Man—you’re my best friend, and I’m not dealing with it well. She’s your wife. Let her cope the way she needs to.”
“It isn’t coping when she refuses to face reality.”
My stomach churns. Is that what Nate thinks I’m doing? Doesn’t he realize I spend every day thinking about what comes after him—planning ways to convince myself to keep breathing without him?
Reality is all I’m thinking about, but reality sucks.
“She has the town. They all love her. She won’t have to go through this alone.”
“Listen, I need to tell you something before—well, you know,” Nate says.
Guilt eats at my stomach for listening—invading Nate’s privacy. It’s something he hasn’t had a lot of in recent months. I step back to retreat out of the room but run straight into the nurse coming in to check vitals. She squeals as I squish at least three of her toes. I’m busy apologizing when I hear Nate tell Grayson he will call him back later, and then he’s calling my name.
With heat flooding my cheeks and the nurse beside me, I pull the curtain back for my husband to see me.
There’s a grin on his face—just like there always is when he looks at me. I want to bottle the memory of that smile up and keep it forever so I never lose it. That’s what I’m afraid of the most—forgetting things about him. What if I wake up one day and forget how he smells or how it feels when his lips press against mine?
Placing my hands behind my back, I try not to look guilty.
“Where have you been?” Nate asks as the nurse pokes around him, checking his blood pressure and listening to his lungs.
“I needed some air, so I went for a walk outside of the hospital.”
His smile drops, and he lowers his brows, glowering at me—it’s a new look for him. “Georgia—you’ve got to have some self-preservation. This isn’t Middle Creek, where you can wander at all times of night, and no one will look twice at you. I can’t come to your rescue right now—and that kills me—so can you just use some common sense here?”
My head jerks back as if he slapped me. Nate has never talked to me that way. Even when we’ve argued, he’s always been the calm to my storm, but this is anything but calm. His jaw is clenched, and when I look up at his eyes, there’s life there in the form of anger.
I step aside as the nurse speeds out of the room, quick to no longer be a part of this conversation. My bottom lip trembles, but I tuck it between my teeth, refusing to let him see it.
“Nate,” I start, but my voice wavers, a mixture of anger and sadness. I clear my throat and try again. “I heard you talk to Grayson, and I know you think you have to worry about me, but you don’t. I’m fine.”
The lie is bitter on my tongue because I’m the furthest thing from fine, but, like he always has, Nate sees right through me.
A heavy sigh leaves my husband’s chest, then he scoots over in his bed and pulls the blankets back.
“Come here, Georgia,” he says, crooking his finger and calling me to him.
My stubborn streak is tempted to hold out for a second just for spite. Then I remember that we are living on borrowed time, and it has me rushing over to crawl under the blanket with him—needing to memorize how it feels to have his chest pressed against my back and his arms wrapped around me.
His hands smooth down the length of my hair, and I close my eyes, cataloging this moment.
“You don’t have to lie to me, pretty girl,” Nate whispers against my head, “You’re not fine, and I know that because if the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t be fine either. You’re going to have to let it out sooner or later.”
Shaking my head, I squeeze my eyes tighter.
Denial—that’s the first stage, right?
“When I’m gone—”
“Don’t—don’t say that,” I interrupt.
“Listen to me,” he says, tugging my shoulder until I turn so that I’m facing him.
There was a time when he would have simply lifted me, but these days, he can hardly walk alone, let alone pull me to him.
When I’m facing him, and we are chest to chest, he begins again, “When I’m gone, I want you to keep living. You’re not dying with me—even if it might feel like it for a while.”
“You’re asking for a lot today,” I say, burying my head into his chest.
He drops a kiss on my forehead, his lips paper dry against my skin. “I know I am—but you can do it, Georgia. Life will go on even when I’m gone. Don’t be afraid to live that life.”
“I am afraid.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted it aloud. I had hoped by doing so, some of the weight would finally lift off my chest, but it’s still there, digging in and making it hard to breathe.
“It’s okay to be afraid, pretty girl. I’m afraid, too, but you have people on your side. Let them in, okay?”
“Any other requests?” I ask, sarcasm oozing out of my voice.
Nate chuckles, shooting me a grin that makes my heart flutter. “Maybe, but I can’t tell you about them yet.”
A smile creeps onto my face for the first time all day, and I pat my hand against his chest. “Just make this one easy, okay?”
Nate’s grin is sneaky as he says, “Love is always easy.”
Chapter 2
Georgia
12 Months Ago
The phone in my hand rings once, twice, maybe more—I’ve lost count.
There are people in front of me, all vying for my attention, needing me to make decisions, but I can’t—not without him. Why can’t they all leave me alone? Shouldn’t my heartbreak warrant me some semblance of privacy?
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I shouldn’t have to do this.
Over the last year, people kept telling me to have a little faith—everything would work out if I had a little faith—and I did, but what about now? What do I do now?
I want to rage and scream and throw things—demand someone, anyone, fix this, but I can’t because I’m supposed to be the strong one—the one that people are looking at to hold myself together.
Strong.
I hate that word. I don’t want to be strong. I want to lay in bed and not move until I can breathe again because right now, there’s a crushing weight sitting on my shoulders that I’m going to crumble under. What I don’t want to do is make this phone call.
“Hello.” The voice comes across the phone, gruff and familiar, and I’m grasping onto that familiarity with both hands, like a lifeline pulling me back from the sea, even as I protest at the idea of having to say it—to be the one to tell him.
A sob wracks my shoulders as I open my mouth to say the words.
Two words.
That’s all I need to say before someone else can shoulder this burden with me, but once those words are out, there’s no taking them back.
It will be real, and I’ll break someone else with them.
I can’t—I can’t do this.
“Georgia, are you there?”
I’m paralyzed. My mouth disconnected from the part of my brain that tells it to speak.
Tears run down my neck, soaking into my shirt. I need a breath—one breath, and then I’ll be able to say it. I try sitting up straighter to pull air deep into my lungs, but nothing happens.
I try again, a squeak slipping out between my lips, but the air still won’t reach my lungs. Black dots swim in front of my eyes, and fear starts to replace the paralysis. My fingers ache from clutching the phone to my ear, but I might throw it against the wall if I don’t.
A man’s voice calls my name over and over again from the phone, begging me to respond.
Someone needs to take the phone from me and just tell him.
Can they not see me struggling?
The person on the other line is yelling now, but I don’t care. I’m past the point of caring because all I can think about is how I lied to my husband.
