The Note

The cold wind bit at his face as he traversed the front walk, skipping the last step just as he always used to as a child. The iron railing squeaked with the weight of his strong arm; much stronger now than back then. He banged his fist on the screen door, hoping she would answer.

"Ma, I'm here!" he shouted.

He hadn't been back to this house in two years, but here it sat, completely unchanged. Surveying it now, he felt small again, dwarfed by the memories that remained like scars on flesh. The yellowed paper of a suicide note was curled in his other hand. He'd found it earlier, going through an old suitcase at the Good Samaritan drive downtown. He thought he recognized the faded blue color of that suitcase, and its contents confirmed it. It was his mother's. When he opened it, he felt the crushing weight of Becca’s absence return. The memory of his little sister filled the dank corners of that suitcase; her stuffed lamb she secretly slept with until she was thirteen, her clothes that became more revealing as she got older, her purple bedspread that was just on the cusp of being uncool for a teenager. The note was tucked between a few of her old sweaters that still smelled of cigarettes and this citrusy perfume she used to wear. The handwriting was sharp and angry, echoing the words on the page. Within it were questions; questions he, too, had thought as a child in this damned place.

“It’s open,” came his mother’s raspy voice. He pushed through the door and followed the smell of cigarette smoke to the living room. His mother was sprawled on the couch staring at the tv but not really seeing anything at all, a good inch of ash hanging precariously from the end of her cigarette. She did not acknowledge his entrance.

“You’re giving all her stuff away?” he demanded.

Her head turned slowly in his direction and she just stared at him for a moment. “It’s good to see you, Matty,” she smiled at him, exposing her grey front teeth.

He tossed the note at her and the rush of air sent the ash falling to the floor. Something about the way she was laying there, the smoke gathering around her like an undeserved halo, made him sick to his stomach. It reminded him of his father. She read the first few words and laid it next to her on the couch.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, her eyes returning to the tv in the corner.

“It was in your suitcase downtown. The one full of Becca’s stuff.”

“What in god’s name were you doing there?” she asked.

“Community service, remember?” he replied.

She took a long pull on her smoke and then put it out in the ashtray, staring at it as the orange glow faded to a dull grey. “She’s not coming back, Matt, same as him."

He glanced out the back window where the old tire swing used to hang from the tree. It lay on the snow, the frayed rope bundled around it. He remembered when he and his sister had been on it together and it broke, sending them flying and laughing across the yard. He was not surprised it had been left untouched along with the remaining remnants of their childhood.

“Isn’t it supposed to get better now-” he asked, still staring out the window. “-with him gone?”

“But he’ll never really be gone, will he?” she smiled, her fingers running over the tattered edges of the note.

He sighed, agreeing with her and wondering if the ghost of his father would ever let them be.