“You used me.”
“Yeah,
yeah, I did.”
For the last time
I give her what she wants.
The gate slams shut.
Finished.
Final.
Forgotten.
AUGUST
I heard it
from Beatrice,
from the morning paper,
from Asher on the other end
of the phone.
But I first heard it
from my mother,
who said simply
late last evening,
“Oh, Jamie, did you hear?
A couple of hikers
found a girl in the forest
dead.
Erica something—
oh yeah,
Sinclair.”
Today
I don’t cry
like I’m supposed to.
I didn’t cry
when I first heard that
Dad passed away too.
Mom still wipes tears away
every November 5th,
but of course she doesn’t
talk about it.
She’ll grab her briefcase with the
intention of leaving for work,
but she always stops at the
front door.
She’ll slump back to her room
and won’t appear until supper.
So now
I feel insensitive.
My best friend is dead
but I don’t even
cry about it?
What comes out
of my mom’s mouth
just doesn’t seem possible.
It can’t be,
Erica can’t be…
Tonight
is all wrong.
Ten o’clock
glares from my clock.
Tick, tock
Tick, tock
The minutes take too long.
My bed’s no good
for sleeping in.
I walk to Mom’s room,
sneak in her closet,
and bury myself
in a nest of blankets,
curling my arms
around that old hatbox.
Some type of poison
leaks into the night
that makes me think
of words like bells
ringing
ringing.
I used to think
if you want to die,
just fall asleep.
Bark and branches
wrap
her porcelain
body
like a Christmas present.
Ribbons of blood flow
between trees.
Flesh melts
and decays into
nobody.
Skin cold, knife sharp,
slashes hugging
her wrists.
“Jamie. Jamie.”
Mom nudges me awake.
My eyes flutter open
and she comes into focus.
She reaches for the hatbox
and takes off its cover.
I watch in awe
as she leafs through the photographs.
“I see you’ve found my secret stash.”
She sits down beside me.
Her lips curve
into a weary smile
when she spots a particular
picture.
“I love this one.”
She holds the shot of our family—
our whole family—
at a county fair in Ohio.
“I remember that,” I say.
“It rained on and off the whole day,
but it was still so much fun.”
“And I kept saying,
‘Richard, honey, let’s leave. It’s freezing.’”
“But Dad and I refused to go—”
“—until you rode the Magic Dragon.”
We grin at each other
until the moment turns gray.
Mom looks grief stricken,
and I can’t help
but feel the same.
“Oh God,” Mom says,
running her hand through her hair.
“It’s so hard sometimes…”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can you stay home today?”
Sometimes
speaking
is as essential
as breathing
but far harder.
It’s tough
to put emotions
into neat little sentences.
But sometimes
when there’s no pressure,
there’s no one asking
“Are you okay?
Would you like to talk about it?”
talking
is just as easy
as breathing.
She doesn’t pry.
I tell her everything.
The service is held
in the Greenwood Catholic Church,
which I’m sure Erica
would have hated
but probably anticipated.
I abandon the azure morning
and step through the grand double doors
into a swarm of darkness.
The black
of Chris’s stiff suit.
The black
of Beatrice’s knee-length dress.
The black
of my mom’s stilettos.
The black
of Grace’s running mascara.
The black
of Asher’s ponytail
hanging down his neck.
They stand together,
Erica placed
center stage.
Some part of me thought
Erica would be by my side
as if we’d watch another’s funeral.
I even scan the crowd
for her eyes, her hair, her voice—anything.
But she’s not settled with the living;
she’s ashes in a faux wooden box.
I feel as if this
has only now
proven to be
real.
Then
I dreamt of
an exclusive connection,
a special bond,
a real, public relationship.
I dreamt of
being a shoulder to cry on,
armor to wear.
Someone to rely on,
not someone to be tricked.
Now
I’ve given up on dreams.
I simply want
to survive this death,
to survive my hurt.
Survive this feeling
that I could have done
something more.
Right before
I slide into the passenger’s seat
of Mom’s Lexus,
Beatrice tugs at
my shoulder,
clutching Erica’s ashes
in her other arm.
“I’ve got something for you.”
I shoot a glance at Mom.
She turns the ignition off.
We’re on
my schedule today.
Beatrice leads me to her sedan
and opens the back door.
“I don’t quite know what to do with this.”
She stares down at the ashes.
“I guess I’ll just wait until
someone from Social Services
gets in touch with me.”
“Here.” Beatrice lifts another box
off the seat,
one of cardboard and masking tape.
“I think she wanted you
to have this.”
“Are you okay?”
Mom asks
on the drive home.
For once,
I don’t offer the
automatic answer,
the one that’s easy for
the
person asking
to endure.
Enough
of these questions.
They splatter like paint,
and cover up memories
with a thick layer of
mystery.
Enough.
I can’t stand wondering
what she was thinking,
had she been thinking
about me? Asher? Chris?
About anyone?
Anything?
Did she bring me close,
then push me away,
with her thoughts only focused
on what she would do
once I left?
Once she was able to
do what she wanted.
The cardboard is so worn that it might as well be
made of paper. It’s only about eight inches deep but feels
heavier than a small box should. I tilt it to the side. I’m
caught off guard when I see her all-caps handwriting
JAMIE’S.
I lock myself in my bedroom.
We have a staring contest, the box and I.
I’m scared of the unknowingness, yet intrigued
by another piece of Erica left to be uncovered.
The box taunts me.
Enough.
A half empty pack
of Marlboros
is what I see first.
A symbol of
the poster girl of smoke.
My sketch is
folded into fourths
and decorated with
creases and rough edges,
opened and closed
repeatedly by her fingers.
I caress the worn edges.
Hiding
beneath
lies her brown leather
notebook,
held together with a sliver
of thin rope.
There it is.
Fifty pages of
Erica Sinclair.
She left
a dot of paint
on earth’s canvas
in the most
immortal way:
words in ink.
I guess that’s how
she planned it.
Now her soul
sits in my bedroom.
What should I do
with the notebook?
Did she want me
to read it?
Is this my final chance
to know her?
What lies in these pages?
Poems of hardship?
Stories of death?
Words holding
candor
with a shaky breath?
Do I want to know?
I open
to the first page.
My heart leaps,
my fingers quiver.
I spot nine letters
jotted together
with thick black marker.
Publish Me.
I take a walk
but leave my sketchbook
at home.
My thoughts are too heavy
to carry anything else with me.
Once more,
even in death,
Erica does not ask.
She demands, expects.
Why should I publish this for her?
She used me—she hurt me.
She doesn’t deserve it.
I keep on walking,
not sure where
I’m going
until I turn around
and wander into the forest.
I drop to the ground,
unable to walk farther.
I don’t want to see
what became of that spot
the place where…
I lean against
the rough bark of the nearest tree
and close my eyes.
Could I kill the last
part of her?
No matter how much
I love her
I don’t want
to be her.
I don’t want
to hurt.
The journal
Taunts.
Frowns.
Glares.
It
burns
a hole
in my bedroom
where it sits,
waiting
to be read.
Will its contents
scar me
or cure me?
Leave me
feeling better
or worse?
The infinite possibilities
make my stomach turn.
I pick up the journal
and run my fingers
down the spine, over the leather,
then,
finally,
through the pages.
ERICA’S JOURNAL, FIRST POEM
To Fly
The world feels like air
when I escape the pressure of the sun.
Wide and rich and free.
At night, fantasy seems to unfold
and the world is open to interpretation.
Maybe I’ll become nocturnal.
I can use the deep night sky
as the foundation
for my own world.
The moon and stars
will be my scenery
and the forest
will shield me from reality.
I close my eyes and
feel the cool wind against my skin.
My mind fills
with dreams of a sleeping sun,
not ready to rise.
Oh please, someone,
grant me the power to fly.
I’m curled up in bed,
back against the wall,
eyes glued to
the last stanza.
To fly…to fly.
Why do her words sound
more genuine on paper
than they did from her mouth?
She hurt herself far more
than she ever hurt me.
She was so jaded, so bitter,
she let that eat away at her.
I’m not sure if that’s her fault
or everybody else’s.
Everyone who ever bruised her.
Oh please, someone, grant me the power to fly.
Maybe
I can.
I knock on the front door.
A young girl answers.
She looks younger than me—maybe eleven.
She crosses her arms and
blows a pink bubble from glossy lips.
“Who are you?”
Who are you?
“Um, my name’s Jamie.
I’m…I was Erica’s friend. Where’s Beatrice?”
Bubble gum girl closes the door.
A minute later, it swings open again.
Beatrice is in the doorway
dipping a fork in a takeout carton.
“Sorry to disturb you during dinner.
I should have called…”
Mouth full of white rice, she says,
“It’s just leftovers. Whatcha here for?”
“I’ve got something to ask you.”
My stomach twists. I bite my lip.
“I want to talk to you about Erica’s ashes.”
She sticks the fork in the carton.
“Why don’t you come on in?”
Beatrice and I walk to the living room.
We both take a seat on the under-stuffed couch.
I touch the polyester cushions.
I’ve never been this close to Erica’s world.
She never let me.
“The ashes are apparently my responsibility.
The state will cover all of the expenses,
but I need to decide what to do with them.
If you have an idea, by all means, tell me.”
I rub my fingers on the fabric.
“You know that box you gave me.
Her journal was inside, and as I read par
ts of it
I felt like…like I was in her head.
As if for the first time I knew
exactly what she meant.”
I stare at Beatrice. She’s tapping her foot, casually eating.
I don’t want her to decide Erica’s fate,
she barely cares, for God’s sake.
“I’d like to spread her ashes in the forest.”
Beatrice looks at me.
Why would you want to do that? her eyes ask.
But it doesn’t really matter.
She now has the opportunity
to let Erica go.
I stand in the forest
with a backpack strapped
over my shoulders,
my flashlight shining
on the dark earth.
I don’t have to do this.
I could scatter her right here.
That’s all I signed up for.
But I’ll let her fly—
not because I have to
but because I want to
and having power over that decision
makes me want to climb.
My fingers curve along the lowest branch.
The rough bark cuts my skin.
Deep breaths...now jump!
My legs hug the tree trunk.
I pull myself up, then rest.
Remember Me Page 5