I saw something just above my late husband’s right ear that wasn’t supposed to be there. I pulled back. “You never had tattoos,” I whispered to him. “I would have known…” You don’t miss a tattoo on a man you’ve shared a bed with for 42 years. But Thomas’s hair had never been this short before… had he purposefully worn his hair longer to hide it? Why would Thomas do that? What could be so important that it needed to be permanently marked on his skin? I don’t know how long I stood there staring at my husband’s body, wondering what secret he’d been keeping from me. It felt like no time at all before I heard the muffled voice of the funeral director from beyond the door. You don’t miss a tattoo on a man you’ve shared a bed with for 42 years.
I glanced at the door, then back at Thomas. My time was almost up, and if I didn’t copy those numbers down now, they’d disappear into the ground with him forever. I took out my phone, smoothed back his hair once more, and took a photo of the tattoo. The knock at the door came softly, then the doorknob clicked. I tucked my phone away and fixed Thomas’s hair. “Are you ready, ma’am?” The funeral director asked. “Yes,” I replied, staring down at Thomas. If I didn’t copy those numbers down now, they’d disappear into the ground with him. I sat at the front with my sons and their families for the entirety of the funeral service. I don’t remember what was said, and I don’t remember crying. All I could think about was that tattoo. “Mom, are you okay?” Daniel whispered once it was over. I looked up at him. For a split second, I thought about telling him what I’d seen. Then his wife, Sally, moved to my side. “Of course, she’s not okay, Dan,” Sally said. “Come, Margaret, let’s go outside and get some fresh air.” For a split second, I thought about telling him what I’d seen.
That night, I sat in my too-quiet home, staring at the casseroles on the counter. I opened the photo on my phone, then slowly typed the numbers into my GPS app. The map blinked, then loaded. A red pin dropped at a location 23 minutes away. I zoomed in and stared at the screen. It was a storage facility. A red pin dropped at a location 23 minutes away. I shook my head. This couldn’t be happening. Thomas didn’t keep secrets! He was the type of person who kept receipts in labeled folders and had a system for his sock drawer. He told me when he bought new underwear, for Pete’s sake! That was one of the things I had loved about him — you always knew where you stood with Thomas. I stared down at the red pin on the map. Except, apparently, you didn’t.
This couldn’t be happening. I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I searched for the key to that storage unit. I opened his dresser and rifled through his clothes. The smell of him was still caught in the fabric, but there was no key. Then I went through his coat pockets. I found receipts, a gum wrapper, and a pen from the bank. I opened his briefcase next and gasped. A key lay right on top of his laptop! I searched for the key to that storage unit. I lifted it out, and my heart sank. It was just the key to Thomas’s desk in the garage. At 1:15, I climbed into the attic in my nightgown and bare feet, pulling the cord for the light. I hadn’t been up there in years. “Margaret, you’ll break your neck up there,” he used to warn me. Then he’d head up and do whatever needed doing. I stood in the middle of all those boxes we’d accumulated together over four decades.
There weren’t nearly as many boxes as I thought there would be. It was just the key to Thomas’s desk in the garage. I opened Christmas bins, old tax boxes, and everything else in between. I found nothing. There was just one place left to look. Around 2 a.m., I went into the garage. He’d always insisted it was his space. “Don’t reorganize it,” he would say. “I know where everything is.” His tools hung on a pegboard exactly where he had left them. His workbench was clean. His desk sat against the far wall. There was just one place left to look
