by Lori L. Otto
“You keep saying ‘a’ god. Do you believe in more than one?”
Another interesting question. “I… I don’t know. I believe in a higher power, Will. I call it a god because I don’t really know any other word for it. When it comes to faith, there aren’t a whole lot of options in the minds of most people. You believe in God, or you don’t. So I believe in a god, who may or may not be someone else’s God.”
My brother looks very confused.
“You’re a Polytheist?”
“Whoa, little brother,” I laugh. “Did your dad teach you that word?”
“No, I learned about it in a mythology book I found. So, you believe there are other gods?” Maybe I haven’t given Will enough credit. Maybe he’s applying himself more than I realize.
“I don’t believe that my way of thinking is the only way of thinking, so I’m tolerant of others who do worship other gods, be it one or many. For me, though, if I had to give myself a name, I’d say I was a Deist. I believe in one higher power that created the world. I hope that there’s some sort of happy afterlife, but I don’t really know. No one in this life really knows.”
“Unless you believe the Bible.”
“Right,” I say. “And it’s perfectly fine if you do. I think the most important thing to take away from this conversation is that it’s all about your own personal relationship with God. Or gods. Or not,” I suggest, trying to let him understand that he has choices, but that he has to form his own beliefs. “I’ll still love you, no matter what, as long as you live your life honorably and do your best to not hurt others.”
He smiles, looking unburdened. “Do you pray?”
“Yes, I pray.”
“Do you think your dad prayed, at the end?”
“No. I don’t think he had a change of heart at all in those final moments. But I prayed. I don’t believe that we were put on this planet to live solitary lives, and I firmly believe the actions of others play a part in peoples’ destinies, on this planet and beyond. I believe other people are put here to help us, and to guide us in our paths. Honestly, Will, I didn’t always believe in God. When I first had this conversation with my dad, I walked away thinking he was right. But then I really got to know another person in my life who showed me there was something more.”
“It was Livvy, right?”
“It was you, Will. It was the friendship you showed me when my dad was sick. I had some really bad days. I’m sure you remember them. But I’d come home from the hospital, and you’d be here with a mitt, a ball, and a smile. After five minutes of playing catch, my spirits were lifted. I don’t think I ever would have gotten through those months, or the months after he died, without your friendship. Someone put you on this planet to intervene in my life. It wasn’t random. You reminded me that I had something to live for. And I always wanted to make sure you felt the same way.”
“I’m glad you’re my brother,” he says.
“Me, too. Do you feel better about things?”
“I feel better about questioning things,” Will answers.
“I never believed in blind faith,” I admit. “I don’t think that’s in our DNA. But be your own man. You don’t have to believe what I do, or what your father does. But it’s important to believe in something. It’s important to feel convictions about something. Don’t spend your life in a fog. I don’t think you’ll be satisfied.”
“I know what I believe right now,” he says.
“What?” I ask, anxious for his personal philosophy.
“I believe I need to know what happens next with Zaphod and Arthur.”
“Maybe you’ll end up worshipping the Almighty Bob,” I suggest in jest.
“Who’s that?”
“Book five,” I tell him. “Keep reading.”
After he leaves, I finally settle in with Livvy’s eleventh letter. Ungrateful, it says at the bottom. Once again, when I think I could just set the note aside without reading it, I’m intrigued enough by the footnote to keep going.
I love you, Jon.
I have never been made to feel so ungrateful as I did the day that you scolded me for the things I said to my father.
I’ve told her before, I can’t make her feel things. It’s in her power to feel however she wants, and if she felt ungrateful, that was her conscience stepping in and trying to talk some sense into her. Lord knows I couldn’t.
The reality check was worse than a slap in the face would have been. Physical abuse would have been preferable than listening to you reprimand me for the horrible things I said to him. But I know you’re above that, and I know, for me, getting over a face slap would have been much easier than facing what I’d done.
Getting over that day shouldn’t have been easy for me, and it wasn’t.
Because my father is a gracious and loving man, he easily forgave me. I was thankful for that, but it took weeks for me to forgive myself. There are still days that I look back and remember the look on his face. On those days, when I wish I could just forget those moments, I address them head on. I make myself suffer a bit, and then work on forgiveness once more. It’s a never-ending process. I’m not allowed to forget, but I can forgive.
The process gives me perspective, though, and it makes me appreciate everything my family has done every time it happens.
In kind, it makes me appreciate you, too. Thanks for being honest enough with me to tell me how you felt; to tell me the truth as you saw it, because I know you saw it more clearly than anyone did. You changed me that day, and every day since, I’ve strived to be someone my parents would be proud of. Maybe in the details of my actions, they would scrutinize me and even be disappointed, but in the larger picture, I think they’d be proud of the person I’m changing into every day.
If her parents are proud of her betrayal to me, then I’ve underestimated them all.
Every day we’re apart, every day you don’t speak to me, you lose a little bit of me. I’m afraid by the time you decide to let me back into your life, you won’t know me at all. It’s a silly fear, isn’t it?
Silly because you don’t think it’s true, or silly because you don’t think I’ll ever let you into my life again? If it’s the latter, it’s not silly at all, Liv.
I’ve never taken you for granted, Jon. I never will.
We aren’t finished.
Ungrateful
Not wanting to dwell on her letter, I go back into my brother’s room.
“Hey, about our conversation?”
“Yeah?” he asks, putting the book down.
“It’s about your dad. I was thinking…”
“About what?”
“I know your dad hasn’t done a whole lot for you to make you proud to have him as a father.” Will shakes his head. “I don’t have high opinions of him, and I know I’ve voiced that to you more often than I should have.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Regardless. Harboring the negative energy toward him doesn’t help,” I explain. “It hinders you from believing he could change, and although we haven’t seen it yet, it doesn’t mean that it won’t happen.”
“It won’t.”
“Well, when did he start talking to you about God?”
“He’s talked about God for as long as I can remember. I think he only uses Him for forgiveness, you know? Like, he thinks he can get away with these things because he prays to God and confesses his sins. I know it says that in the Bible, but that’s one reason I don’t really believe in that. It seems false.”
My brother keeps surprising me with his insight. I’m so happy I get to spend this time with him and learn more about him.
“Yeah,” I admit softly. “But look at Mom. She’s been sober for a few months now. That’s change. That’s change that I never thought would come, either, but it has. And I have to support her and keep trying to encourage her to work for her sobriety. It’ll always be a struggle, but I think it’s important to accept that people can change, and to forgive them for what they’ve done in
the past. It could still happen for your dad. It may not be something you can realistically hope for, but you know what? If you believe in prayer, it’s definitely something you can pray for. I always do.”
“Thanks, Jon,” he says.
“No problem,” I respond, giving him an encouraging grin as I start to leave the room.
“Can you forgive Livvy? Can she change?” he asks me, surprising me once again. I stop with my back to him, trying to formulate an answer for him.
“I don’t know, Will. I don’t know that I believe in her anymore.” When he doesn’t respond, I turn around to see if he heard me.
“I believe in her, Jon. I can pray for her.”
“Don’t waste your prayers on her,” I murmur quickly, spitefully.
“I think she made a mistake, that’s all,” he says.
“Have you been talking to her?” I ask, starting to get angry.
“No!” he says defensively. “But she loves you, Jon. I don’t know what I believe about a whole lot of things, but I do believe that.”
“Blind faith,” I mumble, dismissing his declaration.
“You don’t believe in blind faith,” he reminds me. “I’ve seen factual evidence. So have you. If you love her, you’ll forgive her.”
“Then by the process of deduction, I guess I don’t love her, because I won’t forgive a girl who won’t even apologize for what she did wrong.”
“If she’s not apologizing in all those letters, what’s she doing?”
“Manipulating me,” I tell him. “Which is probably all she’s ever done.”
“That’s not true,” Will says.
“You don’t know her,” I argue.
He frowns at me, and I think I’ve won the argument. I turn to leave once more.
“If you think she doesn’t love you, Jon, then you don’t know her. And if you say you don’t love her, then I’m not sure I really know you.”
I glare at him hard, but he stares right back at me. “Go read your book.”
“Go read your letters,” he calls after me as I return to my room. “Harboring negative energy toward her doesn’t help!” he says loudly, provoking me to slam my door.
How dare he throw my own advice back at me!
INTERVENTION
After three days, I’m sad to say that I’m elated to see a letter from Livvy in the mailbox when I get home from work. As much as I want to detach myself from her, these notes are somehow tethering me to her in an unhealthy way. I know this, and still, I can’t wait to read tonight’s submission.
I love you, Jon.
When you see this one, you won’t have a corresponding memory. I experienced this without you, and I never told you about it. I never told anyone about it. In fact, I’ve lived the past 14 months denying that it ever happened.
But it did.
When you broke up with me, I thought my life was over.
So she does know I broke up. That’s good to know.
Do you remember when you told me the world didn’t revolve around me? And I returned that I did know that, and I tried to explain that my world revolved around you?
I didn’t realize she was talking about the breakup last year. That telephone call was so difficult. I was so mad, and she seemed clueless to the reasons behind my anger. The conversation ended horribly. I asked if she was finished ranting, she said sure, and I said goodbye. For hours, I’d thought about calling her back to end it differently–better–but I realized there’s no good way to end things.
She’d tried to call me many times after that. She left me messages, but I deleted them without listening to them. I needed some perspective, and I knew I wouldn’t get it if I had to listen to her crying or pleading with me.
This sounds familiar. For 11 letters–now 12–she’s pled her case with me. Not in any way I would have anticipated. Her case consists of compelling memories of when we were good together, but still… she has yet to apologize.
After the fourth message I left you went unreturned, I raided our medicine cabinet and I locked myself in the bathroom while my parents had taken my brother to the zoo. I was supposed to go with them, but I told them I wasn’t feeling well.
What, she’s telling me she tried to kill herself? This is manipulation at its worst. Come on, Livvy. Let it rest.
I sat on the floor and poured out the contents of seven medicine bottles next to me. I had Trey’s allergy pills, three over-the-counter pain killers, Mom’s migraine meds, Hydrocodone Dad had left over from a knee injury and some anti-nausea tablets. I started crying as I sorted the pills into patterns, and the colors began to blur into captivating shapes. Every time I shuffled them around, attempting to make them lose their order and beauty, they formed another shape that inspired me. At first, I was angry, until I saw the gift that was being presented to me.
Remember the paintings I did in that time period? How they were unlike anything I’d ever done before? That’s why. I took what I saw in the bathroom that day when I was at my lowest point, and I painted.
I’d taken seven pills: one of each.
A lump grows in my throat. Manipulation or not, imagining a world without her is more than I want to think about. It’s one thing for us to be apart. It’s another thing for her family to be without her, for the world to miss out on the amazing talents she has. I read on hurriedly.
After two manic hours of painting, I felt sick to my stomach. I was sweating and my heart felt like it was going to burst from my body. I forced myself to throw up. My parents came home and found me in the bathroom. All evidence of the pills had been hidden away in my bathroom drawer, so they just thought it was a bug. I couldn’t walk to my bed, and I thought about telling my parents what I’d done. My dad carried me to my room, and when he saw the painting, he cried. He called it poignant. Painful. Hopeless. He didn’t call it beautiful.
I knew I had painted something special that day. I knew I wanted to do it again, and if that meant hitting rock bottom again another day and taking another handful of pills, well… that day, it made sense to me.
God, Liv. That never makes sense. That’s never the answer, baby. I have to set the letter aside for a moment. Thank God she’s okay. I can’t even imagine what the last year of my life would have been like without her. I don’t allow myself to try, picking up a sketch I’d started last night and studying it intently.
It’s a sketch of her. I did it from memory, and it looks just like her. She’s painting in the picture. I’d tried to imagine her with a natural smile and glow on her skin that I used to see so often, but I couldn’t envision it in most scenarios. The only way I could capture that vibrancy was to put her behind a canvas with a brush in her hand. She was always happiest when she was painting. It has been so long since I saw that particular glow. That happiness. That aura. I missed Livvy the artist, and wondered if she’d ever get back to the thing she was most passionate about. I had hopes that it would be easy for her, but after seeing her first painting after months of taking a break, I was scared for her. The ‘muppet’ painting lacked substance.
Something awakens in me. Somewhere along the way, painting came second to me. I was what she was most passionate about… and I think that shift must have changed her. I made her happy, yes, but I was never able to bring out in her the satisfaction that painting brought out in her. I sigh involuntarily, letting that sink in. Did I do this to her? Was she so weak in knowing herself that she allowed me to steal what was most important to her?
Shit.
It took me a week to get up the courage to take more pills. The second time, I only took five. I didn’t want to end up vomiting again, because I knew I’d raise suspicions in my parents. Again, the painting came easily. What I produced was even better than the first. Even I could see the differences in my work. There was a depth and mood that I’d never been able to capture before. I sat in a stupor for an hour after I completed the second one. At least I think it was an hour. I really don’t know, because my parents struggled to wake me ho
urs later. I’d collapsed on the floor.
Shit, Liv! I am not worth it. No man is worth it. I feel awful.
I was scared that time. The first time, my body was rejecting the medicines. The second time, it just tried to absorb them. I’m confident I would have woken up on my own at some point, but I wasn’t sure I would be so lucky the next time.
There wasn’t a next time.
I take a few calming breaths. The fact that she’s sending me these letters lets me know she’s okay. Or what if she’s not? What if she wrote these long ago, and is having someone mail them? How do I know for certain that she’s alright this time?
Something had changed in me, and I thought it was an altered state caused by pills that weren’t meant for me, but when I produced the third and fourth paintings, I did them under the influence of water and breakfast cereal. That was it. And they were even better than the previous two. I was grateful. Instead of crediting the drugs, I knew that it was my understanding of a wider range of emotions that guided me to complete that series. I was without you for that period of time, but Jon, I couldn’t have created them without you. You showed me how to feel things I’d never felt before–when we were together and when we were apart.
You don’t realize what you’re doing to me now, Jon. Your absence is palpable. It’s everywhere. Your absence is always present and it hurts like nothing ever has.
And I’m okay. I’m painting.
We aren’t finished.
Intervention
I read over this letter a few times, trying to figure out if this one is a cry for help. She says she’s okay. I don’t think I believe her, though. I’m sure on those days when she’d self-medicated, if her parents had asked her how she was, she probably would have said that she was okay. It worries me.
I pick up my phone and stare at her number programmed in it. I can’t believe how far down my Recents list it is. It’s been nearly five weeks since her graduation. We’ve surpassed the span of time of the last breakup now. Last time, though, I had the chance to see her while we were apart. I sat at the cafe across the street from her school twice, and I walked by the art room one Thursday night, too. I knew she was coping. I knew she had the support of her friends and Donna. That gave me peace of mind.
