by Kay Kerr
Love, Erin
6 October
Dear Rudy,
People are weirdly attracted to grief. Not their own, but other people’s. They want to be near enough to feel and see it, without any of the repercussions of experiencing it for themselves. Like, Jessica Rabbit and Pointy Kathy are SO into talking about you and your anniversary and how tragic your death was, it’s like they have the hots for your ghost, but they never seemed interested in you when you were alive. I remember Pointy Kathy once saying you looked like you needed a good wash. No offence. I guess I don’t really have to say that, it still feels weird not to, though.
I want to have a bit of a break from swimming around in it, my grief, but there’s always a reason for someone to bring it up. Jessica Rabbit was talking about how she would totally die if someone leaked her nudes online, and then acted out this whole dramatic apology for being insensitive and using the word die. It was strange. All of it feels strange, like your anniversary woke me up and now as I’m looking around, nothing really fits right with me. The girls at school definitely don’t fit right.
It’s frustrating that the one person I want to talk to about all of this is the one who is at the heart of all of this by not being here. You. It would be great if you could send me some kind of sign. I wish ghosts were real. I wouldn’t be scared—I’d be thankful to be able to relay some of the strangeness that’s going on to you and I’d ask for your help. I’d also ask you to haunt a few people for me, just for fun. I don’t want to be one of those people who say: ‘I had a brother; he died when we were young.’ I’ve heard a few older people say that, and it makes it sound like they lived in another time or place, like their sibling died from cholera or something. I don’t want to be in charge of making sure Oliver turns out all right either. That’s too much responsibility, and I’m barely able to work on making sure I turn out okay right now. I don’t even know if I will. I do know there’s one place, and one person, who is kind of making all of this feel like it’s going to be okay. It’s Robins, and Aggie.
I had to buy some new clothes at Robins today, because that one outfit I’d been wearing for every shift is now on sale and we’re not allowed to wear sale products. That’s a big ask for casual staff, especially those that are saving for Schoolies. I guess that’s only me, though. Aggie pulled all these pieces off the racks and hung them up in the change room, like she was preparing for a runway show. She looks through racks of clothing like she knows exactly what she is looking for. Not like me. I just kind of browse. By the time we’d gone through all the new stock there was a change room full of clothes for me and one for her. The clothes were hung in outfit order, with accessories draped over the hangers. I’d never organised things at Surf Zone like that, but I liked it.
She pulled me by my arm and said, ‘We’re doing a costume montage—get your butt in here,’ which is a thing from movies I guess, but it didn’t feel like she was ordering me around, it felt like we were sharing a joke, and it felt nice.
I would never have picked any of the things Aggie had hung up for me, but I trusted her enough to give them a try. The opening riff of ‘Cherry Bomb’ blasted from the store speakers. It’s one of those old-school rock songs Aggie loves, and she was whooping and cheering. I was wearing denim capris and a striped T-shirt with no shoes, and the Runaways made me feel like I was untouchable. I did a quick strut around the shop, after checking there were no customers. Aggie had her first outfit on and she joined in. She was wearing a floral poncho that I’d never seen before, except when she got close enough I realised it was actually a midi skirt we’d got in last week. Wow. If something comes in and it’s a skirt, it stays a skirt to me. To Aggie, though, it’s a top or a poncho or some fabric to be used to make a scarf or whatever she feels like it might be, and it’s that easy. She played some air guitar that would have impressed Joan Jett herself. It’s funny how the same hairstyles come around every thirty years or so, because mum had a similar mullet to Joan Jett in her high school photos. Maybe I’ll be due for one in another decade.
When we got back to the change-room mirror Aggie tucked in my T-shirt and rolled up my jeans. With a quick flick she handed me some lipstick so red it looked like paint. Then she pulled her curls up into a high ponytail, readjusted her poncho that was actually a skirt and took a selfie of us in the mirror. She said she was going to buy the poncho skirt. I’m glad. It looked amazing. She said, ‘Wear your op-shop boots and that look is a 10.’ She’s right, it would be. I agreed it wasn’t bad. Then she said something I think was so important I’d like it emblazoned on a T-shirt.
‘We look amazing. We are amazing. If something makes you feel good you should wear it, really. People want to make us think liking clothes is frivolous and unimportant, but it’s an art form as much as painting or writing or singing. Clothes are our armour.’
With each outfit I tried on that felt more and more true. As the playlist flicked over to Fleetwood Mac, all of a sudden I was feeling amazing in a fringed maxi dress and a cardigan covered in parrots. Aggie made everything she tried on look like it belonged on a stage, like the outfits were costumes for a singer or an actor. She taught me some dance moves I can’t even describe, and she bought the skirt. I bought it all. I didn’t even think of my budget, and the huge hole I’d ripped out of it buying clothes designed for women at least three times my age. It felt easy, being light and free for a little while, in a small way that probably sounds like nothing to anybody else. I hope you don’t mind I wasn’t thinking about you then. I still miss you most minutes of every day.
Love, Erin
10 October
Dear Rudy,
Do you think people should be friends because they have a lot in common, or because they’re different and they complement each other? Damo and Tom and Matt and your whole group—you all seemed really alike. You talked the same and dressed the same and made the same annoying jokes. It looked like it worked for you, from the outside anyway. You should see them now, Rudy. It would break your heart in two. They were at the memorial, even Tom, and they were barely functioning. You’re the one who seemed to get them to talk about their feelings, so without you there to help them process this loss, they’re like the statues from the witch’s courtyard in Narnia, petrified into stone.
The three of them stayed away from our house for weeks after you died, but when they finally came over I think it was hard for Mum and Dad to let them leave. They slept on the floor in the lounge room for what felt like forever, but was probably less than a week. Damo couldn’t look any of us in the eye, and Tom kept finding reasons to walk past your room. Matt’s machine-gun laugh seemed to slip out of his mouth whenever he started to feel sad or uncomfortable. We all pretended not to notice. I still can’t tell how anyone is doing. I hope they got to wake up and feel their bodies exhale the next day too.
Dee and I are so different, and I think she’s drawn to girls like Jessica Rabbit because of that. I don’t think Dee and Jessica Rabbit are alike at all, but they’re more alike than Dee and me. Their brains are anyway. Sometimes, like today in Maths, when I’m talking to Dee it’s like I’m speaking Japanese and she’s speaking French, but we don’t know it. We’re looking to each other for understanding and it’s just not translating at all.
Dee was telling me how she was going to borrow Jessica’s sister’s ID so she can go into the city with them and do karaoke at some club. I asked why you need to be eighteen to do karaoke.
‘You don’t. It’s a bar so you have to be old enough to get in. I’m going to go big and do my best Gaga.’ Dee said that while miming a high note with a pretend microphone and a flick of her hair. Just like she ridiculed Pointy Kathy so much for doing. I didn’t mention that. But I did ask for clarification on what the set-up would be like, so I could imagine it and think about whether it’s something I would ever want to do.
‘Is it in a separate room or in front of everyone? It sounds really embarrassing.’
Dee didn’t take it well. ‘It�
��s in front of everyone and I’m actually a pretty good singer so I don’t think it’ll be embarrassing at all. Thanks for your vote of confidence though, Brain.’ She spat out my nickname like it was a rotten berry.
Dee isn’t a very good singer, but I guess I should have reassured her that she is, because my silence was interpreted as an attack. She snapped at me, ‘Just because you’d be absolutely terrible at it, doesn’t mean I would be. I know how to have a good time, maybe try it some time.’
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know. But she’s going to karaoke to sing bad songs in a mediocre way anyway, and I couldn’t think of anything worse.
Dee doesn’t mind if she’s bad or mediocre at something—she’ll try it anyway. Even if it’s in front of a lot of people. She does high jump at sports days and never makes it over even the lowest height. She hits the bar and flops on the mat and laughs and laughs. I feel embarrassed for her, but I know she doesn’t care. I picture myself doing the same thing and I want to curl up in a ball of shame just at the thought. But I’m not laughing at her or thinking she’s silly, I’m just wishing I had more of a stomach for those kinds of things. If my threshold for embarrassment is really low, hers is exceptionally high.
It’s just hard to feel like someone is really my friend when I don’t really want to do any of the things she wants to do. I feel like I am theoretically friends with Dee at the moment, but I am not that keen on putting it into practice.
Love, Erin
16 October
Dear Rudy,
Dr Lim says I can stop writing you letters now. She thinks I’ve made progress since your anniversary in feeling my feelings and all of that, but I don’t want to stop so I’m not going to. It was only a suggestion on her behalf anyway. I’m going to stick with the original plan of writing until the end of the year, and I’ll see how I go after that. I do love a plan, after all. There’s something about writing these letters that is like releasing a pressure valve, and Dr Lim said it’s the writing part more than the ‘talking to Rudy’. I’m not sure. Do people even keep journals anymore? Is that a thing? I can definitely get behind the ‘buying new stationary’ part at least.
Our session today felt more like I was hanging out with a friend than seeing my psychologist, and it hasn’t felt like that in a really long time. Seeing her forces me to spend a lot of time wading around in my past and sometimes it starts to feel like I’m poking old bruises, trying to remember how I got them. It’s helpful, of course, to look back and assess and make sure I don’t remake the same mistakes, but sometimes I just want to sigh and start looking forwards for peace. So today we didn’t talk about the past, or you, or the accident or the anniversary or being autistic or anything like that. We talked about my future. I’ve got no idea what that is, but it was nice to talk about it anyway.
Afterwards I stopped in at the antique centre for a browse. I don’t think the owner recognised me, or if he did he was polite enough not to mention the coat incident. I didn’t feel the need to smell the old clothes today. I wanted to buy myself something, a ‘making it through the year’ present. I had a look at the old jewellery, I tried on a few things, but I decided not to pick anything from that cabinet as I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway. I considered the pretty little red typewriter that came in its own case, but it was too expensive. In the end I picked a lamp. It isn’t the biggest or the prettiest lamp. It is actually quite plain. It is blue and brown pottery that reminds me of the ocean, with a little white shade. It makes me think of you, but it makes me want to look forward too.
I find it hard to reconcile some things, like how you always said the future was going to be ‘fucked up’ and now you don’t get a future at all. It’s like, you knew the world was getting darker and grimmer, but you never questioned for a second that you would be around to see it all happen. I try not to think about the state of the world too much, because things like climate change and political corruption stress me out so much I have trouble falling asleep. It feels like I need to stay positive about my own future. So that’s what I’m focusing on. It’s weird thinking of my future without you, Rudy.
Love, Erin
20 October
Dear Rudy,
I need to get this off my mind. I think some people think you killed yourself and it makes me really mad. It’s not something that anyone has actually said, but it’s the looks, you know. And the way they ask ‘how are you going?’ with their eyebrows raised as if they really want to ask if I’m going kill myself too. As if I’m going to talk to the vice-principal or the neighbour or the woman at the petrol station about my dead brother who they think killed himself. I’ve got a psychologist and parents and friends for that, thanks. Sometimes I think they ask so they can tell other people that they asked and that I said ‘fine’, but they didn’t think I looked fine, not really. Like asking the poor girl with the dead brother how she is going is some kind of act of charity that they deserve a pat on the back for. What a joke.
I remember the police officers who came over after the phone call. I hated them, even though they were nice. I’d been lying down, frozen and not crying, and I heard them at the door. When I walked out into the lounge room Mum was sitting on the couch with her face in her hands and Dad was next to her with his arm around her shoulder. The female police officer saw me first, she turned to look my way, said a short ‘hey’, and then the air compressed back to tense silence. Dad told me to sit down.
His voice was stern, but not in the loaded way he talks to me when I’ve done something wrong. It was quivery, more vulnerable. I sat on the end of the couch, with my bum barely touching the cushion. I can’t recall the conversation because my mind was a blur, but I remember the police officer saying there would be an autopsy to confirm the cause of death, but she also said the words ‘head injury’ and ‘drowning’ as well. They left pamphlets for grief counselling and then they were gone.
Later, maybe it was days or perhaps weeks, the autopsy found MDMA in your system and the cause of death was ‘drowning’. I didn’t know much about MDMA, but I’ve read a lot about it since that day. It’s a synthetic drug that acts as a stimulant and hallucinogen.
So you were off your face doing something rash, and you fell in. Maybe you thought you could fly. You did something reckless and now it can’t be undone.
We all have to live with the finality of your reckless thing. The reckless thing is a stake in the ground and our lives now exist in two parts—one before the reckless thing and one after it. It could have happened with any of the reckless things you’ve done. Those things could have ended like this, but they didn’t and instead you’re the drug kid who killed himself instead of the silly boy who just wasn’t thinking things through. I know the how and what of it, but not the why. Why did you take that drug? Was it a regular thing? Maybe it was a fun thing you did for a kick, or maybe it wasn’t really something you thought about at all.
Mum said something today about how ‘we’ll never know for sure’, and just like that, it all came tumbling out. I told her everything Tom said about how he was supposed to be there with you, but he’d left you for a Tinder hookup instead. I let it be his fault. I didn’t put my energy into making it palatable, I put my energy into making sure I remembered all the details.
She stood there with her mouth wide like a goldfish and she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. A couple of tears popped out of her eyes, like she was evicting them more than feeling upset, and once they were gone she didn’t cry any more. She said it wasn’t Tom’s fault. She said it was nobody’s fault. I promised her if I ever try MDMA I’ll make sure I’m not anywhere near a body of water. It didn’t seem to make her feel better. Maybe I took the easy way out only telling Mum and not Dad, but I know she will tell him in a way that is good for him.
I’m going away for a couple of nights with Dee and some of the girls from school. Jessica Rabbit and Pointy Kathy and another friend of Kathy’s. Mum thinks it’ll be good for me to have a
break and so does Dee. I don’t know what’s good for me so I’m giving it a try. We’re going to Byron Bay, which is a place I know you loved, so if they’re hoping I won’t think about you they’ve picked the wrong place. It’s a bit of a Schoolies trial run I suppose, with all of us girls staying together in an apartment. Hopefully no one snores or sleeps with the light on. I’ve written a list of things to take, so I’m going to go and get packing.
Telling Mum about Tom was the only thing about the accident that wasn’t in the past, so now that it’s done things feel more final than your funeral ever did. Weird. I’m not mad if people think something that’s not true about it anymore though, so this letter has definitely helped. Thanks.
Love, Erin
29 October
Dear Rudy,
Holidaying at Byron Bay seems to be another one of those things that is good for some people, but not for me. It’s another thing I enjoyed the anticipation of, only to be let down by the real thing. It doesn’t feel good. I just got home from the trip with Dee and Jessica Rabbit and Pointy Kathy and one of Pointy Kathy’s friends from netball whose name I can’t remember so I will just call her Netball Emu because she looked a bit like an emu, in her tall gangly way. She also talked a lot about netball. I took the weekend off work for it. It means I will have to work an extra eight hours somewhere between now and Schoolies, and I can’t say it was worth it. Not even close. I’m trying to think of a single reason the trip might have been good for me, and all I can think of is I’m glad what happened happened there and not at Schoolies, because I’d rather a ruined trial run than the real thing. It’s all swirling around inside my chest so I’m going to ‘write it out’ and see if that helps to draw it out of my body. I hope so.