by Brad Listi
“Sounds like a plan,” said Lynch.
“No, it doesn’t,” I said.
We laughed again, briefly. I tried not to wince. Lynch cleared his throat and slid out of the booth, excusing himself to the bathroom. I leaned back into my seat, resting my head against the window, and looked out to my left, through the tint, into daylight. Cars and trucks were rolling by. People were headed off in every direction. The sun was beating down, and the sky was blue. Another blazing sunny day in the high country. I whistled through my teeth—a long, soft-dying note—and stared out at the hills and the trees. Betty came by with the check, and I handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She filled up my mug and thanked me, told me to be good, to stay well, to take care of myself. She told me to stay awake. I smiled at her and told her that I would.
“You do that, sweetheart,” she said to me. “You be careful on the road.”
And then she winked and walked away.
I ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it into my coffee. And then I lifted my spoon and stirred.
Epilogue
December 31, 2000
Los Angeles, CA
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Anaciello,
I’ve been meaning to send this letter for a while now. On any number of occasions I’ve made the attempt to write it, but every time I’ve done so I’ve found myself frozen, unable to get the words out. I suppose, in retrospect, that I just wanted to make good on the moment, to come up with some sort of definitive statement, to somehow say all the right things. Thinking about it now, though, I’m not so sure if that is even possible. I’m not so sure if fully defining a situation like this is something that can be done. And so with this in mind, I’m just going to do my best to speak as plainly as I can here. I’d like to say a few words about my relationship with your daughter and what she continues to mean to me.
I dated Amanda during college for a year, as you’ll probably recall. I met her at a party in Boulder early in the fall semester, and we went on our first date the following weekend, down at this restaurant off of Pearl Street called Potter’s. I remember being a little nervous going into it, but Amanda didn’t really seem fazed. She was talkative right out of the gates, funny and completely composed. She handled the conversation throughout much of the early going, and by the time we got to the restaurant, I found myself feeling much more at ease. Looking back on it, that was always one of my favorite things about your daughter—she really had a way of making people feel instantly comfortable around her. Didn’t matter who it was or where they were. She could always find a way to talk to people in a manner that made sense to them. I remember, for example, how she absolutely owned our waiter at the restaurant that night, even going so far as to con him into bringing us each a free glass of wine with our meal. I just sat there laughing to myself, stunned by the entire transaction. We were both underage at the time, and the guy didn’t even appear to be in a good mood. But Amanda charmed him senseless in a matter of minutes, and what’s more, she made it look easy.
It’s also worth mentioning that later in the evening, when it came time to pay the check, I reached down into my back pocket and realized that I’d forgotten to bring my wallet with me. Somehow in my rush to get out the door, I’d forgotten to grab it off my desk. It was awful. I remember sitting there, terribly embarrassed, trying my best to act normal, debating back and forth about what to do. Amanda, of course, read right through me in a matter of seconds (another thing she was great at). She demanded to know what the matter was, why I was acting funny, and she wouldn’t let up until I told her. So naturally I came clean, lowered my head and admitted that I’d forgotten my wallet, that I had no credit cards, no money, no cash. I stuttered and told her that I was sorry, that I didn’t know what else to say. And of course Amanda thought that was hilarious. She threw her head back and laughed, slapped the table and told me I was an absolute moron, that I didn’t know how to impress a lady. And then she pulled out her purse and paid for dinner without a second thought. As a matter of fact, I think she put it on your credit card.
Sorry about that.
Our relationship, just so you know, was filled with funny times like that. So many good times. So many laughs. Too many to keep track of, really. It’s been amazing this past year, how often I’ve found myself hit with memories about her that I didn’t even know I had. Nine times out of ten, the recollections are good ones—some laugh, some inside joke. Epic conversations. Comic misadventures. Trick-or-treating for beer. Getting a flat tire up in Telluride. Throwing spaghetti at the television set.
I want you to know that these are the kinds of things that I recall most often about your daughter. These are the memories that live on with me. I remember how contagious her laughter was and what an amazing way she had with people. I remember what a terrible driver she was and how she would never come close to admitting it. I remember how bawdy her sense of humor was and how much fun she could be at a party. And every time I do, it makes me smile. It’s pretty much guaranteed.
At the same time, these kinds of memories are bittersweet for me. In remembering the best of Amanda, it’s impossible not to be somewhat saddened by it as well. I sit back and think of the way she lived, what a force of nature she could be, and her manner of death becomes all the more tragic and perplexing. I imagine that this is a pretty common paradox for all of us who knew and loved her.
As you probably know, Amanda and I broke up back in 1997, after about a year or so of being together. This, for the most part, was my doing. Like any breakup, it was complicated and difficult, a matter of bad timing more than anything else. I was young and noncommittal, not quite sure of what I wanted, and I did a poor job of handling the situation. I communicated badly—or maybe I failed to communicate at all. I didn’t listen well. I didn’t do the right things. And Amanda was heartbroken. I never intended to hurt her feelings in any way, but it happened. And I am terribly sorry for that.
With this in mind, I’ve spent a lot of time this past year wondering if my actions back then might have in some way played into Amanda’s decision to end her life. I’ve spent a lot of time mired in guilt and hypothetical thinking, trying to come to grips with the situation and its possible implications. It seems likely that everyone who feels Amanda’s loss has gone through a similar kind of thought process this past year, wondering if there was anything they had done (or not done) or said (or not said) that may have contributed to her death, or if there was anything they could have said or done that somehow would have helped prevent it.
Obviously I sit here today wishing that I had the answers for you. I wish so badly that I had the wisdom on hand to fix this situation, to somehow make it all make sense. But I don’t. The questions that lie at the heart of this experience are beyond my understanding right now.
That being said, I’d like to offer up a few simple thoughts that will hopefully do some small bit of good. First and foremost, I want you to know how much I loved your daughter. I want you to know how deeply sorry I am for your loss and how much I’ve been thinking about you this past year. Amanda’s death was great shock to us all, and the sense of personal loss that I feel in her absence is difficult to describe. She will always be greatly missed.
In response to this tragedy and its resulting grief, much of my time this past year has been spent in a dual state of contemplation and motion, as I’ve been trying to untangle the contents of my heart and come to terms with how I really feel about things. I’ve been interested, as silly as it might sound, in trying to figure out what everything means.
And as far as that goes…well…the best I can tell you at this point is that I’ve come to no conclusions. I’ve had no grand epiphany or definitive success of any kind. But then I guess that shouldn’t come as any big surprise. I’m human.
Along these same lines, one of the things that has brought me the greatest amount of comfort recently has been the idea that nothing in this world has any inherent meaning, that nothing means anything until we ascribe meani
ng to it in our minds. If this holds true (and I tend to believe that it does), then maybe my quest to uncover some kind of underlying explanation for everything isn’t as fruitless as it can sometimes seem. Maybe the answer is that there are no answers. Maybe instead of looking for certainty and exactitude in the universe, I’m better off trying to build meanings within myself that give me and those around me the greatest possible sense of peace and happiness, and letting that alone serve as my guide.
And so in writing this letter today, I suppose that this is what I’m attempting to do. I suppose that I’m making a humble effort to imbue your daughter’s death with a little bit of light. I suppose I’m writing to let you know that I am committed to ascribing the tragedy of her passing with a deeper and more positive meaning. And I’m convinced that if enough of us do this we can transform the pain of our grief and the legacy of her loss into something that comes close to being as beautiful as she will always be.
Please know that you and your family are forever in my thoughts and prayers. I sincerely hope that this letter has brought you some small measure of comfort as we head into the New Year. And I wish you peace.
Wayne
BRAD LISTI is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Southern California. He has been a contributing writer to Stuff Magazine and Blender, and worked for several years in film development. He teaches English at Santa Monica College and lives in Los Angeles with his dog.