Free The Letters by Suzanne Woods Fisher

testing before she could allow herself to feel relieved.
    Each time the phone rang, she jumped. And each time it turned out to be someone other than the doctor, she became more and more irritable. Like now. Caller ID showed it to be Charles’s office. She hadn’t seen Charles since the day he left. He had called a few times, but she had never picked upher phone. The messages he left infuriated her—patronizing, with avuncular concern.
    Slowly, she got up from the wing chair she’d been sitting in. The pain from the incision made her wince a little as she rose to her feet. In the kitchen, she filled the teakettle and put it on to boil. The phone rang again. Maybe Charles was finally feeling remorse and regret over his impulsive behavior. Maybe he wanted to come home. She hurried to the phone and picked it up without looking at Caller I.D. “Hello?”
    “Hello, Mrs. Stoltz, I’m calling for Robyn Dixon.” Robyn Dixon, Charles’s attorney, daughter of Henry Dixon, who handled their living trust. Henry was semi-retired and had passed many of his clients on to Robyn. She was representing Charles in a malpractice suit, the first he had encountered in twenty-five years of neurosurgery. “Ms. Dixon would like you and Dr. Stoltz to meet her at the office tomorrow afternoon to go over some initial paperwork for the—”
    “For the what?” What did Charles want? A divorce?
    “Legal separation,” she said. “Two o’clock, tomorrow afternoon. Do you know where the office is? Shall I send a car?”
    To make sure I get there? “No. I can manage just fine.”
    Softer now, the assistant added, “Mrs. Stoltz, would you like to have your attorney present? I could call your attorney and set it up.”
    Delia swallowed. She thought Robyn Dixon was her attorney. “Yes. Please call Henry Dixon and tell him I will require his presence at tomorrow’s meeting.”
    She could practically hear the whirl of confusion in the assistant’s mind. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate—”
    “My teakettle is whistling.” Delia put the phone down on its cradle and stared at it for a long while.

    The next day, just two days after the lumpectomy, it took Delia most of the morning to get ready for the two o’clock meeting. She wanted to look her best, her absolute best, and she was determined to keep Charles from learning of her surgery. She had warned Dr. Zimmerman’s office to keep this private, and even had the surgery done using her maiden name, just to avoid any chance that someone might recognize her name and inform Charles. She had all kinds of feelings about Charles—deep anger, betrayal, even hatred. And love, yes, love. How could you shut that off after twenty-seven years? They had raised a wonderful child together. She didn’t know what she wanted from Charles today, but not pity. Never pity.
    She allowed herself an hour to get to Robyn Dixon’s office and was grateful for the extra time when she noticed the fuel warning light for her gas tank. She sighed. She pulled into the gas station and stared at the pumps for a while, trying to figure out which buttons to push. As busy as Charles was, he had always taken care of these little things for her. He didn’t want her to ever pump her own gas.
    Suddenly it all seemed too much. Too much to deal with, too much to figure out on her own. She was trying her best to put up a brave front, but it was too hard. Everything was too painful. A tear rolled down her cheek.
    Now she knew what she wanted out of this meeting today: she wanted Charles to stop this nonsense and come home. She didn’t want a legal separation or a divorce. Tears came faster now, streaming down her cheeks, one after another after another. Her face would look red and puffy for this meeting. And she had worked so hard to look good today.
    “Darlin’, can I help you with something? Are you having trouble with that pump?” A woman fit the gas nozzle intoDelia’s car and pushed the right button to start the