That’s the part that keeps me up some nights. Not knowing what she told him. Not being able to ask her. And not having the nerve to ask him.

I remember the way the kitchen light hit the notepad that day.

It was the same light that always came in around 10 in the morning. Linda sat there with her hands folded and said “She wrote it the day before. I saw it when I came to check on her.”

“Does it say anything else?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “That’s all there is. Just that one line about Mark.”

The words sit there unfinished like she got interrupted. But it was her calling me that morning. I can still feel the weight of that receiver in my hand. It was one of those old black ones with the cord that stretched across the counter. My fingers were still damp from washing the breakfast dishes when I picked it up.

Patsy said “The hydrangeas are showing that blue again this year. You remember the ones we planted together that spring?” Her voice had a little laugh in it like she was picturing the flowers right then.

I told her “Of course I remember. You made me dig the holes too deep.” She would have said something back but the line just went still.

The line still ends with “told him” and nothing more. That’s all I have left of what she wanted to say.