heartbreaking, but I could never
hate
her. She should know that.
She
wished she knew what was going through
my
mind? She was the enigma, and she had been since she moved away.
I was tempted to put her fears at ease once and for all:
Not only could I never hate you
, I might say,
I could never even not love you.
But she had a boyfriend. And I still didn’t know what she wanted from me. I was afraid of sending her running again, before we even laid eyes on each other.
I had to err on the safe side.
A lot of things have gone through my mind, but hate isn’t one of them.
Anyway, so much has changed since we last saw each other . . . You’ll probably see me tomorrow and wonder why you ever cared what I think.
She immediately wrote back:
I will NEVER think that.
Which was exactly what I wanted her to say, what I was baiting her to say.
And then she wrote:
Remember “dumb fuck”? Is that okay to bring up? :-/ I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.
I pushed away from the desk. Why did she have to go there when I was starting to feel good?
Yeah. I remembered “dumb fuck.”
One Christmas Meg gave Mason a dump truck, and Mason, who mispronounced everything, hollered, “Dumb fuck! Dumb fuck!” I about peed myself laughing. I think we were both a little sad when his speech improved to the point where “dumb fucks” became “dumb twucks.” He had dozens of them — they were his favorite thing.
Later, after Mason died, Meg and I would craft bald-faced lies for our parents to account for our absence when what we were really doing was riding our bikes miles down a busy highway to go to the cemetery. I just kept needing to go there, kept needing to be close to him. We’d sit at his grave, her arm around me — sometimes both arms — and we’d talk about him, about things like “dumb fucks,” about things that he said or did, sometimes laughing, but most often crying. She pulled me through days that were literally unbearable.
I glanced over at the screen. What was I supposed to say to her? I didn’t want to talk about dumb fucks and Mason — not now. She was asking too much — she was ruining something that was supposed to be good. I reached over and shut my computer. Not my best moment. Not by a long shot.
I picked up the photo of Mason I kept on my bedside table. It was one I had taken myself, the October he was almost two. He was sitting in a giant pile of leaves that my dad and I had raked, tossing them up around him. The sun hit his face and he was grinning, eyes closed. It was a gorgeous picture, with all the different colors and the play of the light. But the reason I loved it was because he was so damn happy.
I went to my closet and pulled a box out from under a stack of games and puzzles. Mason’s stuff. Things I took from his room when he was gone — things my parents didn’t even know I had. A pair of his pajamas. A pacifier. A small stuffed chipmunk named Chester. A yellow blanket that some great aunt or cousin made. The copy of
Goodnight Moon
that I bought him.
I paged through the book, remembering the parts he would recite along with me. I stared at the last page:
Goodnight noises everywhere.
We’d whisper that last line — I suppose because that’s the way my mom used to read it to me, back a million years ago before Mason was even born. When my world was perfect and safe and I was blissfully oblivious of the immense suffering that lay in store for me.
I took Mason’s pajamas out and held them to my face. A trace of his warm, sweet smell lingered, or maybe it was just my imagination. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me: His huge, dark eyes . . . The way his smile curved up around the pacifier he seemed to be surgically attached to . . . His gray Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and his puffy little elastic-waisted jeans . . . His little hands reaching around and hugging my legs when I walked in the door from school . . . His warmth as I picked him up . . . The smell of toast
hate
her. She should know that.
She
wished she knew what was going through
my
mind? She was the enigma, and she had been since she moved away.
I was tempted to put her fears at ease once and for all:
Not only could I never hate you
, I might say,
I could never even not love you.
But she had a boyfriend. And I still didn’t know what she wanted from me. I was afraid of sending her running again, before we even laid eyes on each other.
I had to err on the safe side.
A lot of things have gone through my mind, but hate isn’t one of them.
Anyway, so much has changed since we last saw each other . . . You’ll probably see me tomorrow and wonder why you ever cared what I think.
She immediately wrote back:
I will NEVER think that.
Which was exactly what I wanted her to say, what I was baiting her to say.
And then she wrote:
Remember “dumb fuck”? Is that okay to bring up? :-/ I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.
I pushed away from the desk. Why did she have to go there when I was starting to feel good?
Yeah. I remembered “dumb fuck.”
One Christmas Meg gave Mason a dump truck, and Mason, who mispronounced everything, hollered, “Dumb fuck! Dumb fuck!” I about peed myself laughing. I think we were both a little sad when his speech improved to the point where “dumb fucks” became “dumb twucks.” He had dozens of them — they were his favorite thing.
Later, after Mason died, Meg and I would craft bald-faced lies for our parents to account for our absence when what we were really doing was riding our bikes miles down a busy highway to go to the cemetery. I just kept needing to go there, kept needing to be close to him. We’d sit at his grave, her arm around me — sometimes both arms — and we’d talk about him, about things like “dumb fucks,” about things that he said or did, sometimes laughing, but most often crying. She pulled me through days that were literally unbearable.
I glanced over at the screen. What was I supposed to say to her? I didn’t want to talk about dumb fucks and Mason — not now. She was asking too much — she was ruining something that was supposed to be good. I reached over and shut my computer. Not my best moment. Not by a long shot.
I picked up the photo of Mason I kept on my bedside table. It was one I had taken myself, the October he was almost two. He was sitting in a giant pile of leaves that my dad and I had raked, tossing them up around him. The sun hit his face and he was grinning, eyes closed. It was a gorgeous picture, with all the different colors and the play of the light. But the reason I loved it was because he was so damn happy.
I went to my closet and pulled a box out from under a stack of games and puzzles. Mason’s stuff. Things I took from his room when he was gone — things my parents didn’t even know I had. A pair of his pajamas. A pacifier. A small stuffed chipmunk named Chester. A yellow blanket that some great aunt or cousin made. The copy of
Goodnight Moon
that I bought him.
I paged through the book, remembering the parts he would recite along with me. I stared at the last page:
Goodnight noises everywhere.
We’d whisper that last line — I suppose because that’s the way my mom used to read it to me, back a million years ago before Mason was even born. When my world was perfect and safe and I was blissfully oblivious of the immense suffering that lay in store for me.
I took Mason’s pajamas out and held them to my face. A trace of his warm, sweet smell lingered, or maybe it was just my imagination. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me: His huge, dark eyes . . . The way his smile curved up around the pacifier he seemed to be surgically attached to . . . His gray Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and his puffy little elastic-waisted jeans . . . His little hands reaching around and hugging my legs when I walked in the door from school . . . His warmth as I picked him up . . . The smell of toast
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