by Nikki Young
He never wrote the letter to find closure or to confess his sins or to admit his guilt in anything. No details about the accident and what he saw. It wasn’t about him and even in death he’s selfless. The letter makes me sick and pissed off; it’s given me nothing I was seeking from it.
Angry tears sting my eyes and run down my cheeks. I step out onto the patio of my house, the cold air hitting me as I feel my tears dry. With the letter clutched in my hand, I sit down and re-read it for a second time, but it only stirs the disappointment and hatred for the whole thing all over again. Not just the letter, but what I’ve lived through for the last nine years, the accident, all the death. This was supposed to be the catalyst that would correct my world. I hate him even more. I hate this letter. And I hate my life and what it’s become.
I step back into my house, the letter still in my hand. I grab my wine glass from the coffee table and stand motionless, unable to process how I’m feeling.
My emotions going through a series of highs and lows and when I walk into my kitchen, I’ve turned furious. I launch the wine glass into the sink. It explodes as soon as it hits the stainless steel basin. Shattering into a million pieces that scatter and fly all over my kitchen, the small amount of red wine left in the glass splattering the white cabinets and the tile floor.
I take it all in, the image far too similar to the accident and it breaks me. I fall to the floor, sobbing. Each sob comes out a strangled cry, unable to breathe and my chest closing in on me as I feel like my heart is literally breaking inside me. The letter lays next to me, I pick it up and in a fit of anger, I tear it in half and then again, tossing the pieces in front of me. I leave them lying among the shards of glass and wine.
Then I do the only thing I think will make me feel better. I drink myself to sleep.
Chapter Eight
I wake the next morning feeling worse than ever. My head is throbbing, my body aches, and when I look in the mirror it’s apparent that I’ve spent the last night drunk and sobbing. Red-rimmed bloodshot eyes, my nose is stuffy and the tip is a light shade of pink. I look like hell. And I feel like it too.
I can’t possibly go on like this and still function normally, especially since I have to be at work in less than an hour. I think I passed out sometime around two in the morning, but I can’t be sure. All I remember is reading the letter, finding it left me feeling worse than before; all my questions about Tommy’s death left unanswered and then I woke up in my bed feeling like I’d been hit in the head with a blunt object.
I shake my head and look at myself in the mirror one more time before getting into the shower hoping to wash away all this horribleness that won’t seem to stop. But when I emerge thirty minutes later, nothing has changed.
I dress quickly, despite knowing I’m already going to be late for work. I’ve missed my usual train and the bus is long gone too. I hate to drive, but at this point I have no other options.
Shockingly, I’ve gotten myself together in just under ten minutes, makeup, hair and all, and I surprisingly look presentable. I might actually make it to work at a reasonable time, that is, until I see my kitchen.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair as I take in the shattered wine glass, the red speckled cabinets along with the tile and the torn up letter. Guess this little fit of rage slipped my mind. How could I forget; it’s the reason I feel like shit this morning.
I take the broom from the hall closet and begin sweeping up the mess of glass knowing if I don’t I’ll come home to it and the remembrance of it all will return. Just as I’m about to sweep the torn pieces of the letter into the dustpan, I have second thoughts. I pick it up, setting it on the counter; choking back the tears that threaten. Swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat, I will not cry over this anymore. It’s over.
After vacuuming up what I couldn’t sweep up, I begin wiping down the cabinets and washing the floor. So much for only being mildly late for work, but I only have myself to blame for this mess. As much as I’d love to blame someone else… Carson, Jack, Tommy, anyone but myself, I can’t. I like to think I hate Tommy for leaving me like this, but it’s far from it. We all harbored these issues and they are slowly destroying our lives. This is my burden, my life and my secret that I have to carry. And after reading Tommy’s letter, it’s clear that I’ll continue to go this alone. The only connection left to all of this is Benji, and even though Tommy wants me to find him, I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I can let him see that I’ve failed, that I’ve struggled all these years without him—without all of them.
As I’m packing up my things to leave for the office, I catch a glimpse of the torn up letter and although I’m still angry and hurting, I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I gather up the pieces, putting them into a Ziploc bag, and I take it with me when I leave.
As I step out of the elevator, I plaster a fake smile on my face, determined to return to what these people think is normal. I’m tired of having to explain myself or claim to be fine every time they ask.
“Good morning, Claire,” I say, a cheerful disposition to my voice.
“Good morning, Campbell,” she says back just as cheerful and I almost tell her to fuck off. She isn’t a bad person quite honestly. She’s really a great assistant, a sweet young girl, who hopefully never becomes jaded and hurt by the cruelty that exists. I hope one day she doesn’t make a decision she regrets and carries a secret with her that eventually kills her friends and disrupts her life. It’s disgusting that I even think this way.
Before I can think anymore about it, I close my office door and when I remove my laptop from my bag, the ripped up letter comes with it. I look at it for a long second and decide right away that I can’t leave it like this. I grab the tape from my desk drawer and begin piecing the letter back together, smoothing the pieces and making sure each piece fits together as best as possible. I read each line again as I put it back together and I can finally read it without totally breaking down. To say, I didn’t shed a tear would be a lie, but at least now each word doesn’t make me sob like a baby.
As I read it again, with all my questions about Tommy’s death unanswered, I make a decision that’s probably going to come back to bite me in the ass. But I’m certain it’s the only chance I have to find out what might have led him to write this letter, and what I can only assume, led him to kill himself.
I find myself in Jack’s office, my posture already defensive. I’ve never been intimidated by him, unlike everyone else in the office and with what I’m going to ask him for, I know he’s not going to happy, especially since I can’t give him an explanation.
I blew past his assistant, who at this point in my career, knows better than to stop me. I think she’s even more terrified of me than she is of Jack.
“What do you need, Campbell?” he asks without looking up from his computer. I actually let out a sigh of relief. This is the Jack I know and it makes this all so much easier. The formality to his tone, all business-like and ready to handle things as my boss and not my brother.
“I need to leave today,” I say and he still hasn’t looked up. “Like now,” I add and he finally stops what he’s doing to hit me with a stern look.
“No,” he shoots back and returns to his computer.
“What the fuck, Jack?”
“Campbell, you’re the one who wanted a professional working relationship with me. And my answer is no. It would be no if anyone who works for the company came in here without an explanation as to why. So, no.”
“Ugh…” I breathe out not wanting to do this, but it’s probably my only chance to get out of here without telling him what the hell I’m doing.
“Jack, I need you to be my brother and not my boss for just a second and not question me on this. Hopefully someday I’ll be able to fill you in on what the fuck is going on, but until I can sort that out myself, it’s better that I don’t say anything.”
He stands up, and if I were anyone else it probably would’ve h
ad me holding my hands up in defeat and running away. Jack’s tall, around six-three, muscular and in a suit with a harsh look on his face, can be seriously unapproachable, scary even. He’s known for being a hard ass, which is probably where I get it from too. Our mother is pretty much the same. But in this instance, and after growing up with him, it doesn’t work on me.
And even when he raises his voice, it booming through the expanse of his office, I’m not shaken.
“What kind of fucking explanation is that?” he demands.
“It’s not. It’s all I can give.” I shrug my shoulders as if we’re just having a casual conversation.
“Campbell,” he starts to say and then stops. He runs his hand through his hair and lets out a long sigh. “You took two days off without an explanation and I let it go. You showed up to work yesterday, detached and looking like shit, and I brushed it off. And now you storm in here and inform me that you’re leaving for the day when your work day began less than an hour ago.”
I interrupt him before he can say any more, blurting out, “Tommy killed himself,” but my voice lacks the sympathy it should have when discussing the death of a friend. This is what I’ve created with Jack, a formal, emotionless relationship that is built around our mutual drive to make his company better. It has never had anything to do with our personal lives, our family or our sibling connection. Except right now, with what I’ve just told him, I’m certain I’ve crossed that line.
He’s speechless and a whole series of thoughts are running through my head. I wonder if he’s questioning my callous delivery of the news or if he’s wondering why I care since I haven’t spoken to Tommy in nine years. Or worse than all of these, is he thinking about everything that occurred with my group of friends that he’s always been in the dark about?
Obviously, my parents and Jack know that Sam died in a car accident and that Kelly killed herself, but they have no idea my involvement in any of it. My mother, never being one to pry and my father just following her lead, never asked why I left school or what happened to my relationship with Benji and Tommy. I think my family just assumed Benji and I broke up, and since I shut down after the accident, no one bothered to ask. The same with my friendship with Tommy. After leaving Ann Arbor, it wouldn’t be all that strange to lose touch with someone considering we were several hours away from each other. I just let them believe all of this. The truth was far too vile to share. Just the thought of telling Jack now makes me sick to my stomach.
“Holy shit, Campbell,” he eventually says, his eyes wide, as he steps toward me. In a moment of panic, I step back. I don’t want him to touch me, not that he’s tried to hug me in at least ten years. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did,” I respond, coldly. “Please don’t ask me any questions and for the love of fuck, don’t try to hug me.”
I watch him swallow hard and nod his head.
“So can I go?” I ask, my arms now folded across my chest, my eyes focused on his.
“Yeah, of course. Take as much time as you need,” he tells me, his voice taking on that quiet quality you find when people talk about death. Yet in my case, a person dying seems to be a regular occurrence.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself to be appreciative. Not that I’m not, it’s just I’ve been emotionally detached for so long, it’s hard to make it realistic.
As I’m walking out of his office, Jack calls my name and I turn around to face him. “Campbell, I know I told you before, but you can talk to me.”
“And I told you before, I can’t.” The way it comes out is harsh and I immediately regret it. He’s trying to help, yet I know there’s nothing he can do or say to make this any easier. “Sorry, Jack,” I apologize. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to, but right now, I just can’t.”
An hour later, I’m parked a few houses away from Tommy’s house wondering just what the fuck I think I’m doing. I know exactly how this is going to play out, but letting this whole thing go without a possible reason isn’t something I’m comfortable with.
I exit my car; the walk to the front door of the house is long and my heart begins to race before I have even pressed the doorbell. I wipe my hands down the front of my pants and prepare myself for what’s to come. Shit’s about to get real.
As soon as Samantha opens the door her demeanor shifts and she looks like she’s about ready to punch me in the face or call the police.
“You’re not welcome here,” she growls as she attempts to close the door. Against my better judgment, I shove my hand against the door and force it open.
“No!” Samantha shouts and while it should affect me, it doesn’t. I’m used to people yelling at me in my line of work. It’s rare for me to startle anymore. “You can’t come here! You don’t get to come to my home and upset me and my family.” She’s crying now and I feel so horrible for what I’m doing. She doesn’t understand why I’m here or have any idea who I am. She knows what she’s created in her mind, and it’s not even close to the truth.
“Whatever you know, it’s not the truth,” I tell her, my voice almost pleading.
“I know nothing,” she spits out as she wipes at the tears on her cheeks. “He told me nothing. You were a secret I found out about by accident and the more I asked the more distraught he became.”
It’s becoming difficult for me to hold back the tears as I watch Samantha sob in the doorway to her house, confused and grieving, and all the while believing that it’s somehow my fault. And maybe it is.
I’m starting to believe it myself. Three people dead, all with a connection to me.
“He wasn’t in love with me. He told you that, I’m certain he would have,” I respond.
“He did. Many times, but why else would he dream about you, call your name in his sleep, write you a letter and insist I deliver it?” Her tone is filled with hatred and hurt. I want to be able to explain it all to her, but it’s not my story to tell alone.
“Then please believe him, because it’s all I can give you too. I can only tell you he wasn’t in love with me. There’s so much more to it than that, but it’s complicated.”
“I’m not going to do this with you anymore. You’re vague and you’re upsetting me. My son is inside and the last thing I need is him seeing his father’s mistress or girlfriend or whatever the fuck you are arguing with his mother.”
“I’m none of those things!” I shout and I instantly cover my mouth with my hand. I didn’t intend for it to come out that loudly. My voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m a childhood friend. We grew up together.”
She shakes her head; her tears now dry, but her pain still visible on her face. “Please go,” she begs. “And don’t come back.”
“Wait,” I call out, my hand on the door once again. “Can you tell me one thing?”
She rolls her eyes, a hand on her hip now, the door propped open with her foot. “What?” she utters clearly annoyed.
“How did he die?”
“He killed himself,” she states very simply, and it confirms what I always suspected. “At first I thought it was a drug overdose,” she pauses as if she’s thinking about what happened. “He hadn’t used in years. Five years to be exact. He stopped when he found out I was pregnant. And I really thought things were changing, that the baby would be what he needed to get well.” She stops again and shoots me a filthy look. “Why the fuck am I telling you this? I don’t owe you anything.”
“You’re right, you don’t,” I say attempting to appease her, but desperately needing her to keep talking. “Why did you think it was a drug overdose?” I ask even though I know it might be the question that causes her to slam the door in my face this time.
“Tommy was a heroin addict, but like I said he’d been sober for five years,” she says as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I found him with a needle in his arm on our bathroom floor. He was already dead.” She covers her face with her hands and I see the tears spill out from underneath. “But then I found the note he left. I
t wasn’t about the drugs, it was about ending his life.” She again wipes her hands under her eyes, the tears streaking through her makeup.
My heart breaks for her and their son. A tragedy that could have so easily been avoided and right now I can’t do anything but blame myself. What if I had come back into his life? Would he be dead right now? Would we have been able to salvage what was lost, correct each other’s wrongs and be there for each other? A secret so great, so debilitating that it’s ruining lives.
“You need to go, Campbell,” she asserts, my name falling from her lips like a swear word, cruel and unforgiving. Her arms are now crossed over her chest and she’s ready to close the door.
“I’m sorry,” I admit, not entirely sure what I’m apologizing for; the amount of things too large to even list, but they still run through my head. “I hope one day I can find you the closure you need.”
She just shakes her head and closes the door.
I never expected her to even speak to me, but to know how things ended for him doesn’t make it any easier to cope with. But it makes his letter scream at me loud and clear. What I didn’t think I could do, is exactly what I need to. This cycle of death and avoidance can’t continue.
I need to find Benji.
Chapter Nine
Despite leaving the office several hours ago, I’m on my way back. This whole situation has spiraled faster than I could have imagined and I’m now going to need more than just today to sort it all out.
I know I have a million things on my calendar over the next week, so I’m returning to take care of handing off clients and making sure meetings that are scheduled have someone present.
As soon as I step off the elevator, Claire greets me with a series of missed calls and all the information I asked her to pull regarding my clients and closings I have over the next three days. I can’t put these off and I know, without my presence, there’s a possibility things won’t go the way I planned.
