Letters From The Ledge

by Meyers, Lynda

  “Yeah, so?”

  He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. “I’m going to teach you some things. Come on.” He put his arm back around her and they started walking again. It surprised him how good it felt to have her under him like that, like an old-time warrior who could cover her with his shield.

  “Do we have to walk like this?”

  “No, but it’s better if we do. This way it looks like we’re in our own little world of private jokes. I promise I won’t kiss you again though. That was just for effect.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious! Normally I would’ve asked first.”

  “You would’ve asked first.”

  “That’s what I said, yes.”

  She shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  Brendan told her what it was about the guy that made him nervous. They walked and talked and he pointed out the kind of people he would watch out for and why. Then he showed her those he wouldn’t worry too much about. Often they were the opposite of how she would have chosen.

  “That’s why you’re afraid, Sarah. You’re afraid of everyone, all the time, and you don’t need to be. You just need to train yourself to be alert and watch for the signs.”

  He taught her about putting on a ‘game face’ when she walked alone and how the crappy people preyed on those that looked weak and afraid, especially women.

  “Are we back to evolution again? Survival of the fittest?”

  He laughed. “Something like that.”

  Sarah got more of an education in that hour-long walk than in the whole three years she’d lived in Manhattan. When they ended up near her apartment building she took her arm out from around his waist.

  Brendan let go of her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She pointed up at the building. “This is me. Can I have my biology book?”

  He looked up and then scanned the streets to figure out exactly where they were. “This is where you live?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Um…I don’t know. It’s just kind of funny that we happened to end up right at the door to your building, don’t you think?” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at his feet. They’d been talking and laughing for the last hour and suddenly he was at a loss for words.

  Sarah laughed. “Weird, huh? My friend Jillian wouldn’t say it was weird. She says everything happens for a reason. Kind of like karma I guess, only God stuff.”

  They were both silent for a minute, then ended up trying to talk at the same time. Brendan stopped and let her go first.

  “I guess I’d better go in. My parents like us together for dinner if possible.”

  Brendan thought she was joking, but her face said otherwise. “Are you serious? Your family eats dinner together?”

  Sarah nodded. “More often than not, yeah.”

  He blinked a few times. “Any other ancient practices you guys follow? Foot binding? Arranged marriages?”

  “Ha ha.”

  “You have brothers and sisters?”

  “Yes. No. Well, I had a brother, but he died.”

  Brendan’s head shot up. “Really? When?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had cancer. That was why we moved here. To get him the best treatments.”

  Suddenly the dog thing made more sense. “Wow. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. He was a great kid. He was very brave, even up to the end.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Christopher.”

  Brendan didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’d better go in.”

  “Ok. See you later.” He started to walk away.

  “Brendan?”

  He turned slightly. “Yeah?”

  “I still need my books.”

  “Oh! Right. Sorry.” He slid her stuff out of his backpack and handed it to her. He’d only gotten a few more steps before she called his name again. He turned around and kept walking backwards. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  “No problem.” He smiled and pulled one hand out of its pocket long enough to wave before she disappeared inside.

  After Brendan left Sarah at her building, he walked down the street talking to himself. He made a mental note of the sizes and distinctions of the buildings on that side before rounding the corner. They actually lived on opposite sides of the same block. What were the odds? Granted, city blocks were large, but still, she said she’d watched a guy almost jump off his penthouse balcony. Was she watching him at night? Not possible. It was just too weird to be true.

  He went home and was headed straight for his room when his mom stopped him.

  “Hey there! Where’s the fire?”

  He tried to keep walking and blow her off. “No fire, I’m just–I gotta go work on something.”

  “Well, come in here for a minute. I want to talk to you.” She was sitting on the couch sipping a rather large snifter of thick brown liquid. It was early yet. She was probably just getting started.

  Brendan sighed and stuffed one hand in his pocket, fingering the joint and calming at the thought that it wouldn’t be long. He sat down on the edge of one of the opposite couches. “What’s up?”

  “You look different.”

  “Yeah. I uh–I cut my hair.”

  “Well, yes it looks nice. I’ve always liked you with short hair. But that’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” He hadn’t lit the joint yet, so that couldn’t be it.

  “I don’t know. There’s just something different about you. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Nope. Same old me.” Brendan sat tapping his fingers on his jeans. “Is there something specific you needed to talk to me about?”

  “I was out shopping a little while ago.”

  Brendan looked sideways in the direction of his room. He needed to go look for Sarah’s building. He needed to calm down. He needed to be able to light that joint. “Yeah? And this is news why?”

  “Very funny Brendan. No–I saw you.”

  His head twisted back toward her. “You saw me? You saw me what?”

  “I saw you with a girl.”

  So that’s what this was about. She had to pick now to act like a mother? “Oh! Right. That’s Sarah. She’s just a friend.”

  “Do you always walk arm and arm with your friends? You two looked pretty intimate.”

  He shook his head in protest. “It’s not like that. I was just showing her around.”

  “Brendan. I may be old, but I’m not dead. It was written all over your face.”

  “What? No!”

  Ginny smiled triumphantly. “Ok. Whatever you say.”

  “Hey, can we change the subject?”

  She sighed heavily. “Sure.”

  “I need my birth certificate.”

  He watched her face turn to shock. “Why?”

  “Passport. I got my pictures done but now I need to go do the actual application.”

  “What on earth do you need a passport for? Is there something I should know?”

  “I already talked to dad about it.”

  “Well how about you talk to me about it? Where are you going?”

  Brendan started to rub his legs. “Can we talk about it some other time? There’s some stuff I really need to do.”

  “You want your birth certificate, I want details. What are you and your father cooking up now?”

  “We have a deal. Business school in the fall, but I want to spend the summer in Europe. Take my camera, travel, see the world a bit–it’s a graduation gift.”

  “Ah yes. You tapped into his love of traveling.” She looked offended. “Very smart move, Brendan. Does this ‘Sarah’ girl know you’re leaving?”

  He scrunched up his forehead. “No. And if she did she probably wouldn’t care. I told you, we’re just friends.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  “Can I go now?”


  She huffed, obviously frustrated. “Fine, Brendan. Go. Far be it from me to want to be involved in your life a little!”

  “So, my birth certificate?”

  Ginny looked out the window. “I’ll find it. Don’t worry about it.”

  He left her sitting there, sipping her brandy and looking hurt. He could hear the characteristic clink of the glass bottle topper as he shut the door to his room. Leaning back against the door, he pulled out the joint and finally lit it, taking a couple of long, slow drags, then slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, arms resting on his knees.

  She’d been drinking more lately, and hiding it better. Addiction was a slowly growing tentacle and he could feel its grip tightening on his own heart. “Hereditary predisposition” was what they called it in health class. Whatever it was or wasn’t, he couldn’t afford to end up like either one of them.

  Then the realization hit, quick and dirty, like a sucker punch below the belt: their crutches had different names but they were made by the same company. It was enough to make him snuff the joint right back out in the ashtray. There had to be a better way, but Tess’s next letter was waiting, and he was going to need some stability. He picked the butt back up out of the ashtray and brought it with him onto the ledge, just in case.

  It was strangely comforting, sitting out there when he read her letters, like she was hovering nearby, reading the text over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. Being out there and trying to imagine her, to relive her decision over and over again, had become more of a routine than a personal agenda. It was a way to feel her. To connect to the unseen presence he still felt when he concentrated on her face.

  He pulled out the envelope and slit the top with the blade he’d grabbed on his way out. It reflected the light just right and the sight of it caught him up short. He rubbed one of the bare spots on his arm, realizing he’d already planned out where the next cut would be. He was in trouble, and he knew it.

  He’d always wondered about people like him–sitting in the middle of the tracks while the train barreled toward them. He’d always figured they were too stupid to see it coming, and if they didn’t get out of the way then they deserved the hit. But he realized, with absolute clarity, that everyone saw it coming. Some people just chose to ignore the whistle.

  The first page was a poem. His gut ripped open as he read it, feeling each word like a blade across soft tissue. He lit the joint and began to cry. Strapped to the tracks. Helpless.

  Emptiness

  My heart’s name is poison

  It eats the shards of brokenness

  And feeds on the hard tack of long suffering

  Days without number

  And deeds without names stalk and plague

  Reaching about like blind guides

  Latching onto the first signs of movement within the darkness

  Bleeding and then lapping up their own blood

  Hungry reminders of untold emptiness

  Never full

  Searching

  Finding pain where comfort should be

  Dear Brendan,

  Sometimes I imagine my life like a novel. What if my destiny is to be a master painter, whose paintings can actually change the souls of those who look at them long enough, but the dark forces of evil in the world have kept me imprisoned and tortured so that my gift languishes in the darkness of my own fear and brokenness? There must be a happy ending there somewhere–a gallant knight who comes to rescue me from my chains and sets me free to fly above the dungeons that have walled-in my gifts. Gifts that once belonged to the light, a long time ago. As I fly above the darkness, those gifts are given back to the light, and all is well in the world again. Evil is conquered, but not without a fight. Never without a fight.

  For a long time I thought you were my rescuer Brendan, but you can’t be that anymore, and once I’m gone you’ll see that eventually. The angels will rescue me now. They can help me to fly. They can take me places that you and I can’t go.

  I know you. If you’re still reading these letters then you’re holding on too tightly, but I want you to be free. At some point you’re going to have to let go. You can fly without the angels. You always could.

  You have so many amazing gifts. Share them with the world. Share them with other people. I promise, you won’t regret it.

  Love,

  Tess

  Brendan looked out across the sea of buildings. It was still light. He could tell which building Sarah lived in, but it no longer mattered. So what if it was him she’d seen? So what?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You want answers?”

  “I think I’m entitled.”

  “You want answers?”

  “I want the truth!”

  “You can’t handle the truth!”

  - A Few Good Men

  Brendan got up in a daze and wandered out to where the bottle of brandy sat, still on the table with its crystal top laying next to it. His mother was gone. Probably sleeping it off, but at the moment he didn’t care.

  He took the cut crystal bottle, left the lid, and headed for Ginny’s office, swigging directly out of the bottle as he went. The stuff hit his gut with a burn that seemed to turn acid against the rawness that was already eating him a live.

  He knocked on the door. As it creaked open, he found it empty and neatly arranged. He pulled open one of the filing cabinets, but none of the drawers held anything that looked even remotely helpful. He spent over an hour reading through every important-looking folder in the place, and learned a fair amount of information that might prove useful in the future–like the financial records for the private investigator his mother apparently kept on retainer. His father really was kidding himself.

  The only cabinet he couldn’t get into was a locked one in the corner. He searched the desk drawers for all the usual places people hid keys. Nothing. Finally he reached his hand up under the middle desk drawer and there it was–stuck to the bottom with some kind of tacky putty.

  “Bingo! Real smart mom.” He took another large mouthful of brandy and saw the bottle in his hand–her bottle, and swallowed with some difficulty. Then he pushed the bottle away from him as if it were poison. He wanted to wretch right there, but the key was burning a hole in his hand. He had to know what was in that filing cabinet. If the private investigator’s records weren’t locked up, what else was there that was worth protecting?

  The key fit easily into the lock, allowing access to two smaller drawers stuffed with rows of neatly arranged file folders containing the usual bullshit. Life insurance documents, the deed to the apartment, bank records, tax returns. By the time he got to the back of the second drawer it was beginning to seem pointless.

  “Why do people hide this stupid stuff?” He pulled out an unlabeled file containing a picture of his mom as a teenager. She was pregnant. Now in her mid-forties, there was no way this had been him. “Unless of course they’ve got something really good to hide…”

  Maybe a brother or a sister he never knew about? A scandalous teen love child she had to give up? The rest of the file looked like legal stuff–adoption papers, signed by Virginia Campbell–and pictures of another woman. Then a birth certificate.

  He scanned it quickly to find the sex and identity of his mystery half-sibling.

  “New York State Department of Health…Certificate of live birth…blah blah blah…Infant: Brendan Cole Foster. What?” A brother named Brendan? How bizarre was that? “What, you felt guilty giving up your mistake so you named me Brendan too? Did that make you feel better, mom?”

  He kept on reading the document. The mother’s name was listed as Gina Marie Foster. Father: John Doe. “What the f-” He kept reading. It was signed in nineteen eighty nine–the year he was…

  Brendan dropped into the chair. He looked again at the infant’s name and then the birth date. May 1st, 1989. His stomach was playing tug-o-war with his diaphragm. He started thumbing through the other pages in the folder until he came to
it–a certificate of adoption, dated three days after the birth certificate. A new birth certificate was attached to the adoption papers, renaming him Brendan Cooper Evans and listing the father as Frank Cooper Evans and the mother as Virginia Rose Campbell.

  “You can’t do that. That can’t be legal.”

  He rubbed his temples. It didn’t make sense. Nothing was making sense. What happened to the baby that his mother had been carrying?

  “Oh my God!”

  Brendan looked up and found his mother staring at him from the doorway, one hand clasped over her mouth. His eyes were glassed over with unshed tears, his resolve like pure hardened steel. He could feel the anger welling up, and he desperately needed to cut, but he had to hear this out. He had to know.

  “Did you have something you wanted to tell me–“MOM?” Or maybe I should call you something else. What would you prefer? Liar? Imposter? Pretender? Fraud? Go ahead–PICK ONE!!!” He screamed so loud she shook with the shock and fear of it all and started to crumple in the doorway.

  Brendan pushed away from the desk and stalked over to her with the file folder flapping in his hand and shook it, leaning over her and yelling.

  “What the hell is this? Who the fuck am I!”

  He stood over her for a full minute more and when she didn’t respond he took the two birth certificates and threw the rest of the file folder at her, scattering its contents and walking out of the room. As he crossed through the house he could hear her crying but he no longer gave a shit.

  As he passed through the living room he pulled some cognac off the wet bar and headed for his bedroom, slamming the door to his destination. He ripped out the cork with his teeth and sucked down a huge gulp, which sat teetering on top of the brandy, anxious to make a reappearance. He sat down on the floor and rolled a joint. Once he’d taken a few drags he started to calm down and laid the two birth certificates side by side in front of him. His eyes started to cross as he stared from one to the other, studying the names and dates, transferred so flawlessly. If he’d only ever seen the one where he was renamed he wouldn’t have even suspected. Cooper was his father’s–was Frank’s middle name, so it made sense they would change that to match. A perfect plan–neat and tidy and no one the wiser. Just like always.