Three Hearts. Lost Love. One Impossible Choice. - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "Dear Missing Friend"

BOOK EXCERPT

Letter from Michael

Faial, Azores

December 17, 1856

Dear Cathy,

I could see the masts of the Bark Neva against the sky as I searched Greenport for you. They followed me up and down the streets, provoking me each time I encountered another blind alley. The lads in the tavern said the Neva was looking for a crew. I tried to duck the sight of the vessel while looking for you. The tall masts jutted behind every landmark I passed. The dead ends accrued as the possibilities of finding you shrank daily. Finally, my feet steered me up the gangway. I boarded the vessel and spoke to Captain Conklin about signing on.

It was so familiar and right. What a fool I was ever to doubt this is where I belong. Though I was never the reader you were, I eventually read the seaman’s bible, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale, like a good whaler. Your old friend Melville could explain our plight better than anyone: “As for me,

I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” It was not until we were halfway to the Azores Islands that panic overtook me. By then, it was far too late.

I have done it again. When the next step eludes me, and my head feels like it will burst from frustration, I run. I ran to the sea, the gold rush, and away from the one chance I had to find you. I should have stayed in Greenport and secured some labor. Undoubtedly, a hint of you would have emerged if I had just bided my time. What truly galls me is that I walked right into a trap. I went back on my promise to you and did as your brothers predicted, becoming a whaleman again.

My misery is almost unendurable. If you were alive and waiting somewhere for me, your presence on earth would be manifest in some way. I feel nothing. I am living in this hell of stench, blood, and oil from carcasses with no escape. No one owns the sea, but the opposite can be all too true.

That I ever thought of this life as freedom was a delusion. I could accuse Melville of perpetrating it, but I needed no help to believe. It was always a way to punish myself, for what I cannot say. Maybe it was for reaching for the North Star of home, feminine warmth, beauty, and comfort. They are so far beyond my grasp that I cannot believe I ever possessed such a dream. Would God smite me with this much contrition if you were among the living?

Your loving husband,

Michael

Letter from Catherine

129 Cedar Street

New York City

March 27, 1869

Dear Ellen,

It took far too long for me to appreciate this, but I would not have survived without your unquestioning help, support, faith, and love. I took these gestures from you for granted, as though they were my due when they were outright gifts from your bountiful and generous heart. I came between you and your brother and then asked you to betray your blood for my sake. It was so unfair to you, and not only did you not punish me for this low sin, but you stayed loyally by my side.

I did not deserve your sisterhood, but always cherished it. Putting myself before you I something I will always regret. I was so blessed to have you in my life. If I could go back, I would throw my arms around you daily, kiss your cheek, and say, “I love you.” Dear Ellen, let us part on these words as none more need to be spoken. Your warm smile shines on me still.

Your sister,

Cath