July 27, 2015: Monday
Dear Brian,
Do you remember when you used to take Simon and me to the park a few blocks away from the apartment? The last time you took us was mid-March, a few weeks before you left for Iraq. A biting chill still hanging in the air, Mom made sure we bundled up in multiple layers before taking a step out the door. We were hyper and giddy, stomping through melting snow, kicking at stubborn pieces of ice that hung over curbs and refused to crack. We were there for hours and only came back when it got too dark to see each other. Mom was totally freaking out, about to call the cops—the whole deal.
When we trailed into the living room, tracking mud on the carpet Mom inherited after Nana passed away, she hardly noticed the mess. At any other time she probably would have grounded us for life for ruining her mom’s favorite rug (“It’s just an old mat,” we used to mutter behind her back), but she didn’t say a word about it. Lips pursed, Mom looked too livid to speak; but once she opened her mouth, I was quickly disillusioned. Red splotches blossomed on her cheeks, like the roses you, Simon, and I used to by her for her birthdays. Hazel eyes, alight, glared at you. Meanwhile, Simon and I tried to slink out of the room and away from her fury unnoticed.
“Stay where you are,” she had hissed without looking down at us, and the two of us froze in an instant.
While we were sent to our room to “think about what we did,” you had to feel the brunt of Mom’s anger for another twenty minutes of “lecture time,” which—of course—amounted to about an hour of “normal time.” Finally let go, you stormed into our room, threw off your dark blue sweatshirt, and flopped down onto your bed.
I don’t remember anything else—don’t know which sneakers Simon had worn, which hat had warmed my ears, what color Mom’s patterned shirt had been. But that sweatshirt stuck in my mind, probably because I know how much it meant to you. It was always your favorite.
I’m guessing you’re wondering why I’m bringing that up now; it seems kind of random, I know. Well, after we’d heard of your fate in Iraq, that sweatshirt disappeared, along with everything else you owned: your clothes, shoes, old school notebooks—it all vanished. For the first few days, weeks, even months, I’d searched fruitlessly for something—
anything—that might remind me of you. No such luck, though. By the time we’d lived a year with the knowledge that you were never coming back, the only bit I had to remember you by was that neatly-made bed sitting untouched in my bedroom.
Sometimes, years later, as hard as I’d try, I wouldn’t be able to recall your face. On rare occasions I’d wonder if you were ever actually real at all and not just some imaginary friend I once got a bit too attached to. That is until I’d walk back into my—our—room and see your old bed shoved into the corner by the window. In some ways I wonder if it would have been better if you
were just a figment of my imagination. See, if that were the case, it’d mean you left because I grew up and not because you died.
But anyway… The first summer that I couldn’t go to camp, I bought myself that notebook plus a deck of cards. Pretty much the whole two months found me shut up in my room playing Solitaire and then writing about it in my notebook. The entire summer oozed past, and believe me I wasn’t the least bit sorry when school started again. When we were asked to write about our summers, I embellished on all the details about my “amazing vacation to California.” My teacher loved it, gave me an A. To some extent I loved it, too… wished I could have actually
had a vacation like that, though.
That’s when I decided I liked to write stories. After all, fiction was so much easier to deal with than reality. For the next summer I knew exactly how I wanted to spend my days: writing stories. Of course, pretty soon the novelty of the whole idea wore off; and I was left, once again, with disappointing reality. Writing—two months of nothing but writing—was possibly the most boring way to spend summer vacation.
By the time next summer had come, I worked out a plan. I could get a job and even save up money for me and Mom. Thrilled at the idea that I could somehow help Mom out at the same time as giving myself something to do, I explained the plan to Mom. I’ll tell you this much: she didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm for the idea. No, I was
too young, she said.
Too old to go to camp but too young to work. What did that amount to? Apparently, I was just the right age to sit home all summer and stare at my wall. That’s pretty much what I did for three summers.
Well, this year I decided I wouldn’t sit home for eight weeks with nothing useful to do. If Mom still wouldn’t let me get a job as a busboy or something, I would just have to find something to do at home instead. While Mom was either locked in her room or out of the house trying to hide from painful memories, I would go through everything—
everything—and completely organize all our boxes and boxes of junk. Either Mom would love it, or she’d hate it so much that she’d agree to let me get a job just to get me out of the house. It was a win-win situation.
For two weeks now, I’ve been working through the closet in my bedroom, searching through all the stuff that collected dust in those boxes. I found some pretty nasty stuff back there, all piled underneath smelly clothes that I’d forgotten about. I even found an arts and crafts project I created in Kindergarten, made of raw, glued-on macaroni. Written in tight, neat print that must have belonged to my teacher were the words “a huge rocket ship.” No matter which way I turned it, though, I couldn’t figure out exactly
how that noodly mess amounted to an actual picture.
The week before that I worked through four boxes of Simon’s stuff. See, before Simon left, he and I figured out that Mom had taken all your stuff and hid them from us. After Simon died though before the funeral, I stuffed all his junk into some empty cardboard boxes that were stored in the back of my closet. If I didn’t, I knew Mom would take his stuff, too. And then I’d start to think that I was an only child, the only proof to refute that being the two extra beds that Mom never bothered to get rid of. Though I’m sure she noticed Simon’s stuff going missing, she never confronted me about it, just like I never confronted her about your stuff. Anyway, I went through those few boxes in the first week, organizing them, folding up the clothes, and all that.
But anyway, you’re probably still wondering why I started off this letter talking about something I remember from years ago.
Last night, Mom went out. I don’t know where she went or why because once I realized she never answered my questions anymore, I stopped asking her where she disappeared to all the time. While she was gone, I snuck into her room, figuring I could work on cleaning out her closet when she wasn’t there to notice. What I found in there completely rocked me. I’d thought maybe Mom had thrown out all your stuff; but there it all was, piled neatly in three boxes all labeled, “BRIAN’S STUFF.” They were taped up as if to make sure no one would ever peak inside without her knowing. As if she wanted to completely forget that you existed but couldn’t bring herself to dump your possessions outside on the sidewalk where the rest of the junk went each morning.
After I got over the initial shock that some part of you still existed in the apartment, I hauled all three boxes into my room. Hurrying to the kitchen to grab a knife, I returned to my room and made sure to lock the door. I didn’t want Mom to walk in before I could “hide the evidence.” Then, one by one I stabbed into the duct tape and flipped open the lids.
The first one was filled to the brim with pictures and albums. On top lay one entitled “My First Baby Book” and, in scrawled penmanship, your name. That one I opened first. The very first page had a picture of you as a newborn, still in the hospital, cradled in Mom’s arms. Behind her stood Dad, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Both smiled at the camera with twin expressions of ecstatic euphoria. You were their first kid, after all; and they probably assumed they would start a perfect, little family. How quaint.
The next few pages were written in one of two different handwritings, prattling on about your hair color, eye color, and “firsts.” After those pages were many others, but to be honest it wasn’t all that interesting. No offense. Skimming through the rest, I replaced the book in the box and dumped out the others. Albums—all albums that had pictures of you in them. So many memories chucked down the drain just because Mom didn’t want to have to be reminded of you. All of a sudden, seeing all of these, I couldn’t imagine I’d ever forgotten your face!
Apparently, Mom had gone about all of this in a totally orderly fashion because these boxes were already well-organized. When I opened the next one, I found all your old school notebooks and report cards and text books. These were the books that I vaguely recalled being strewn across the desk in our room; I’d never given them a second thought, but now I wished Mom hadn’t taken them. Just another piece of you she had hidden for so many years.
The last box, which I got to only about an hour later, was easy to identify. Folded neatly, shirts and pants made the sides of the box bulge. Not wanting to cause a mess of your old clothes, I carefully reached my hands in and pulled out a few bits at a time. For a moment there, breathing in deeply and closing my eyes, I got the sudden compulsion to slip on something from one of the piles and play Make-Believe again. Then, the moment passed, my eyes opened, and I reminded myself that fourteen years is too old to be pretending.
Instead, I peeked into the box to lift out the last remaining pile. At the very bottom, folded just as perfectly as all the rest, lay your favorite sweatshirt. Aside from being a bit faded with age, it looked the same as when you used to wear it. That’s when I remembered the time that we went to the park. Closing my eyes again, I hugged it right to my face and breathed in as much as I could at once. A blast of Mountain-Air Freshness hit my nostrils, a vaguely familiar scent shooting pangs of grief through me. It hurt—it hurt so bad.
And all of a sudden my shoulders were heaving. All of a sudden my throat began to close up, stinging. All of a sudden my cheeks were wet with long-suppressed tears. The whole time all I could think of was your scowl as you tore the sweatshirt off your back for the last time. Because it
was the last time—that I remember, anyway. After that I never saw it again.
About ten or so minutes later, I heard the front door open and Mom’s distinctive footsteps clicking against the wooden floor. Quickly, I stuffed your clothes back into the box, cleared away the rest of your old junk, and shoved the three boxes deep into my closet. Then, tugging your sweatshirt over my head (even though outside the weather sweltered), I strode from my bedroom, the epitome of defiance shown in my every step.
When Mom saw me, she smiled, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Then, frowning slightly as if she couldn’t quite place something, she opened her mouth—to ask if I’d changed something about myself, most likely. I watched realization dawn over her hazel eyes, and her mouth snapped shut.
Good, I thought bitterly.
Serves you right for hiding it from me for all those years.Neither of us uttering a single word, I turned and walked out of the kitchen. Slamming my door as loudly as I could (in case my vexation wasn’t already obvious enough), I crawled on top of your bed. As my eyes closed, I pressed my nose into the material of the sweatshirt to pretend it was just like the old days. Like back when your smell still clung to the sheets.
Curled up on your bed like that, I fell asleep for a few hours. By the time I woke up, it was already late into the night. Since I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep, I figured I’d write this letter.
I just wanted to say thanks for giving it to me—because I know it was your doing. I figure it was your way of letting my know you’re okay with my wearing your favorite sweatshirt. So thanks. It means a lot to me.
Love Always,
Ben