Cerulean Blue

Cerulean Blue

March 14, 2008

Cerulean blue.  That was it, her mood this evening as she arrived at the cabin.  Just like the sky, so peacefull yet so melancholy.  How can grief be beautiful, she thought.  How can she feel anything, today of all days.  The letter still folded in her jacket pocket, rubbed on the edges, would soon look like the snowflakes she remembered making as a child,. Each life, each snowflake, each child so different from another.  She thought she would be over this fifteen years later.  Fifteen years, two grandchildren, an adoption, and fifteen more years at a job that left her cold most evenings, not of sadness but of boredom. 

She shouldn’t have cleaned out the room.  That is what started this whole charade.  Walking out to the dock with the letter in one hand, deep in the pocket for protection, and a cup of steaming coffee in the other, Lynn sat at the end, dangling her feet just above the surface.  It was cold but the freedom of swinging her feet just above frigid waters served to awaken her senses.  Feeling anything at this point was a bonus.

Fifteen years ago, when he died, no one wanted to clean out the room.  Lynn and her husband, on the occasion of their impending adoption, the mother heavy with pregnancy, had to finally make the move.  They gingerly stacked each book, trophy, comic book neatly in boxes.  Clothes were picked through and sent here and there, a few prized possessions wrapped around breakables in the keepsake box.  Neither had the nerve to go through everything, feeling it was a breach of privacy to the dead.  They simply placed the books, unexamined, among other items and taped up the boxes. 

Writing his youngest son’s name on the top of each, Tom stored each box in the attic for safe-keeping.  Lynn watched him, knowing or thinking she knew how difficult this was.  It was still so  raw to both of them, just two years afterward, and she knew he was fighting back the guilt, of welcoming another child in this home, of excitement, downright giddiness at the prospect of a new life in that room where the other ended.  The paint job haphazardly done just weeks after the incident still left shadows, if only for Lynn and Tom. 

A new coat of paint was planned, maybe three or four to wash away any memories of the past.  The color was up to the baby’s sex and only God, the sonogram lady and Amanda knew that.  She wasn’t letting on at the request of the new parents.  They had fallen in love with this baby already, or at least with the idea of a baby they both could share in raising, from as close to the beginning as nature would allow.  They both feared knowing it was a boy would somehow make this a more difficult transition. 

Lynn sipped her coffee, back in the present day, overlooking the bluest of blue all around her.  The lake and sky somehow not knowing where one ended and the other began.  She wondered sometimes where she ended and began as a parent or if she did, end that is.  Did God know this child they are raising needed them and that they would never have taken this step if Tom’s son was still alive?  He would never have gone for this, already feeling he had to compete for the affection of his parents with his older siblings.  Or perhaps, he changed his mind a bit too late and sent this child of theirs as a gift, an apology of sorts, or to give Lynn a chance to be a mother to an infant.  These questions have resurfaced on and off since their daughter came into their lives. 

It was this very daughter, twelve years later, who started the ball rolling.  This is why she had come to this silent retreat.  She and the letter she couldn’t bear to read.  The letter her daughter found while rummaging through the boxes, trying to learn about this brother she’d never meet. 

She thought back to this past December when her daughter brought her a book and showed her the letter, folded again and again, smudged and nearly breaking at the seams.  She told her mother she had read it and thought it would answer some questions but Lynn didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to waste the final communication while sitting in the den with the television on.  It required a certain ceremony, a reflective mood, a moment to savor the last words of this boy she called her own. 

Tom didn’t have any interest in reading it, not until she read it and prepared him.  She knew he felt immensely guilty for so many things, for his choice of first wives, for not knowing, for not understanding him, for not listening to her, for so much.  And yet, he had finally found peace, had formed a story around which the events to follow were somehow God’s plan or at least God’s response to a foiled plan by one of his lost children.  Somehow, not having given birth to him, she had been left out of the sorrow others showed for the family, the real mother and father.  Not really, she thought, but it felt that way then.  She felt the need to justify her position as his other mother, his caretaker, his confidant. 

He did confide in her, and she had listened.  Like Tom, she thought things were better, thought she had gotten through to him.  She feared what was written in this letter, but she needed to know what was going through his head.  Her daughter had told her the date on the letter,  that date forever etched into her memory, scratched upon her heart with a rusty nail.  She feared upheaval just as Tom did, but she also felt she owed it to his son, no, her son, to listen one more time.  She started to pull out the letter but stopped.  The wind picked up and she feared the wind would pick up this fragile piece of history and send it far away from her, like he had been sent by his own volition.  She feared he was watching and changed his mind, not wanting her to read what he had written, in his moment of weakness, or perhaps his moment of strength when he finally felt he could go through with his wishes. 

She pocketed the letter and stood up to watch the water ripple as wind pushed it along toward the island.  These ripples.  The result of his actions really did leave ripples.  How many teens has she spoken to, urged them to talk to someone, not make a permanent choice that would leave their families in sorrow and anger forever?  How many times has that same decision been the last thing she would do, no matter how desperate she felt, for the memory of what it leaves to those in the wake of this decision?  He probably saved people from her telling of his story, but not himself, not in time. 

Breathing in a deep, icy breath she resolved to remember everything she felt, right this minute.  Was it guilt, no, not really? Peace? Perhaps, Or maybe it was just acceptance that what is done is done and nothing she could do would change things.  There is peace in that, at least.  Knowing nothing she does now can change things.  Would these feelings change if she read the letter? When she read it? 

Feeling as if she were about to say goodbye all over again, she took one more look at the ripples in the lake.  No matter what, she was forever changed by the events that began that day, bad and good.  She raised a daughter, well, was raising one.  Her child knew the effects of ending one’s own life.  She couldn’t help but pick up on that.  Siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, all sharing a story of a boy who thought no one liked him, and a funeral packed with grieving kids.  Ripples, and more ripples times fifteen years and only God knew how many people have heard the story, repeated it to others. 

Delaying the inevitable, Lynn refreshed her coffee, put on her sweats and a t-shirt of his that she brought from the keepsake box, his high school football jersey.  She lit the fire, found her down blanket he used to sneak off with when she wasn’t looking, saying it wasn’t as heavy as his comforter.  She brought it to the cabin years ago so it wouldn’t remind her so much of him. Now, holding it, being warmed by it was0, to embrace his memory.  She took a sip and glanced at the clock.  Six thirty five.  Fifteen years ago and right about now. 

It was darker than she remembered but then, she was in the car on the way home from work, speeding and knowing it was already too late.  It was the longest ride home, not one to be forgotten. But she wasn’t here to relive the after effects, she was there to understand the boy before he decided to end it all.  She was here to let him say goodbye, in his own way. 

She delicately unfolded the letter, trying not to inflict any more wounds in the fragile paper, in her fragile heart.  The date, there it was, March 14, 1993.  Pencil, erased over and over but still legible.  She made her eyes blur to postpone the moment, on more second. 

Deep breath.  Ready.  Exhale.  Here goes.

As she read, it became evident that so many conflicting messages were crossing paths in his mind, his hand wasn't fast enough to write them all down.  "Dad, Lynn, I hope if you read this, I will be around to explain.  I'm just trying to figure out things.  I can't keep living like this. I have tried to think of a way to fix things but no matter what is done, someone will get hurt. I can't live with myself either way. I can't fix this. She doesn't know how to fix it or even if she wants to.  I don't want her to but if she doesn't, I'm screwed.  Either way, I am. You guys shouldn't have be burdened by this knowledge.  I don't want you guys to put up with my mistakes either-its not your job.  I can't go to the pastor about this or he'll tell you guys and I'm not ready for that either.  I don't know even know who to pray to anymore.  I don't know if he's listening and I don't know if God or you will forgive me if I just take myself out of the picture. Which Hell is worse, the one I'd be living in or the one I might end up in if I can't stay here anymore. I've done ya'lls list of pros and cons and nothing works.  I don't know what I'm going to do yet but if I get frustrated enough to do myself in, I hope you can understand someday.  I hope that you guys can forgive me.  This isn't your fault.  I want you to know what is going on but I can't.  I promised and I don't know what she's going to do either.  I don't want to dissappoint you but I probably have already.  Love you guys."

She had built herself up for an answer to the riddle of her stepson.  And now, she was seeing things his way.  Nothing she could do could change things.  He was gone.  She had an empty place even her daughter couldn't fill.  Her husband, too, had raw places, though hidden to the world, would still blister at times.  He was on the way and she vowed she would share his son's last letter.  Now, she wondered if it would help to know how much he suffered.  He wasn't some impulsive kid being selfish, some vengeful kid putting an exclamation point at the end of a high school relationship gone sour, he was in pain.  What could they do? Find the girl, grill her about whatever this choice was that he couldn't make or didn't have the right to make. 

Lynn wasn't sure it made her feel better to see it that way.  For fifteen years, the held onto a little blame that the girl broke up with him and he was impulsive.  To blame her was easy, but even then it wasn't right.  Lynn just stared at the letters, uneven and messy, scrawled as if in a hurry to get it all out before he lost the nerve. He was on that ledge but he hadn't decided yet.  Not yet.  All the "if only's" were as lame as well-meaning mourner's pointing out their fortune in still having one son alive, as if that alone would be balm to their wounds.  Then there were those who had the nerve to mention the fate of those who kill themselves, as if any good Baptist doesn't worry about that anyway, for a plethora of minor sins. If only they weren't Baptist, would he have felt less judgment, more openness to talk to clergy? No one truly knows, save perhaps God and her stepson.  Neither were here to talk. 

Startled by the doorbell, Lynn snapped out of her memories and back to the present.  "Who is it?"

"It's me, Lynn, I left my keys at the house." 

Lynn opened the door, relieving Tom of a few grocery bags as they walked toward the kitchen. 

Lynn knew he noticed her swollen eyes.  She didn't try to hide at as she usually did after a sappy movie.  This wasn't a time for deception.  Enough of that had happened already, not that it had been intentional. 

"You read it, right?  Did it make some sense, you know, did it change anything for you? I was just wondering on the way here if anything could make me love him more or be more pissed off at him for giving up like that.  I just don't know if I can get back on that roller coaster again.  Should I read it or can you paraphrase?" 

"Do you want me to paraphrase...no, don't answer that." Lynn took his hand and led him to the living room.  "I want to ask you something first.  Is there anything you would like to read in this letter that will make you more at peace with what happened? Is there anything you can't bear to hear?"  If it were her, and this were her own birth child, nothing could have stopped her from burying her head in the letter and devouring every word.  But he was not one to dive into emotion without first testing for depth.  He was a "toe's first in the shallow end" kind of swimmer.  She dove in, even if the cold and chlorine would make it painful.  Perhaps if her stepson had been a girl.  There she went again.  What if...if only...She brought herself back to her husband's furrowed brows.  After an uncomfortable pause, he startled her when he began to talk again.

"I don't know what I think about this.  All the way here, I wondered which would be better, impulsive act or pre-planning and coincidental timing.  I don't know.  I mean, your dad died instantly and never had a chance to say goodbye.  Your stepfather died slowly with cancer.  My mom died out of the blue.  Nothing changes though.  They're all gone now, either way.  Either they suffer if it's slow or we suffer if it's unexpected.  I wouldn't have wanted to know that he suffered, I guess.  Well, I hope he didn't do it to make us pay for something we did, either.  I hope he didn't do it over a girl-what a waste, you know?  You read it, what did he say?" 

"Do you want to read it?"

Tom sat on the couch, knees wide apart, elbows resting there and hands holding his head, trying futilely to keep  it from falling through the earth.  So much was buried so deeply for so long. He just sat there and shuddered, Lynn looking on, weighing the options of letting him be or holding him.  What to do?  Its like that last week of his life, all the questions they had as parents.  Do we discipline him, take away the car or something or do we have compassion?  Do we let him run all over us or do we push him to do right?  She couldn't push Tom, now, to be ready.  "Come with me."  Lynn led him toward the water, pocketing the note gently before wrapping herself in the folds of her step-son's blanket.  She walked with her husband quietly down the long wooden pier and they sat at the end, in the dark.  She reached over to wrap the blanket around his shoulders as well as her own.

"Tell me about it, not in his words but just tell me what he wanted us to know." Tom reached for her hand and squeezed.

Lynn remembered each word but said only, "Tom, baby, he said he was sorry.  There were impossible decisions and he didn't have the power to make them on his own but didn't want us to be ashamed of him.  Baby, I think this world was just too much for him." She had a feeling he wasn't ready for the rest.  Like a child asking about where babies come from, a good parent should offer a little at a time-just enough but not too much.  They just aren't ready yet for the whole truth.  She wasn't so sure she was either, come to think about it.

And so they stood, looking at the lake, now dark as oil now that the sun had set.  They stood together, sharing the knowledge of the last words in a book they both thought they'd finished so long ago.  About that time, it occurred to Lynn that, like her husband's son, her son, they both stopped short of the end because it was just too much for them to bear.  Now, though, with the letter, with his last words, perhaps his book is not finished.  At least, not until those who knew him have written the last words to their own stories. Holding the blanket close to her with one hand, she reached the other into her pocket and felt the worn edges of the letter.  I was enough to know his words were close to her.

Lynn and Tom were still standing barefoot, Tom's shoes in his hand and feet dripping on the wooden planks of the pier.  They were sharing a rare moment of silence.  It was broken with their daughter's voice. "I was worried about you guys. Everything okay?"

Lynn reached out toward her adopted daughter, "Sure babe, we're fine.  Thank you for letting us read it in our own time.  I'm so proud of you."  She ran her hands through her daughter's hair, catching a tangle and making her daughter roll her eyes in return.  "Baby, you know, you are almost the age he was when things starting getting really rough for him, though we didn't see it back then."  She looked at her child intently while Tom held back, just watching this exchange.  "If you ever think this world is too much for you, come to us, or someone you trust.  I can promise you that the world would be so much less without you." 

"God, Mom, I know that already.  I'm not going anywhere.  Especially when I'm absolutely starving.  What is for dinner?"

Lynn squeezed her daughter's hands firmly and then enveloped her up in a mother hug, while she tried to memorize every little smell, sound, sensation of that connection. She knew it could be gone in an instant, like the cerulean blue sky changed to black with the setting of the sun.  Tomorrow, they would worry about what to do next about the letter, the girl, and whatever came of this mysterious choice she had to make.  For now, they had a hungry teen to feed and listen to.  This time, she was planning to savor every word that comes out of this child of her heart if not her blood, this child who was entrusted to two parents who didn't think they deserved a second chance. 


SWPoet