I visualized this sort of thing with Brenda. I can do it.
I yank the gate open. It’s heavy and creaks with age. I pass through and let go of the handle. The heavy metal bangs shut behind me. I don’t look back. I march down the sidewalk, moving with purpose past the people and the places and the things. Everything is normal. Everything is everyday. But I’m not. My brain is on overload. My head hurts from all the stimulation. And worry. I study the way a guy at the bus stop has his hands shoved into his pockets. Is he hiding something? I watch a girl with a weighed-down backpack. What’s in there? A car runs a red light and another car honks. I jump. A guy on a skateboard whips past me, making me swirl around in a circle and into the safety of a nearby doorway. But I force myself to move again. I make my way down the block. I pass an apartment building almost identical to mine. I hear salsa music through an upstairs window. The beat of it thrums through my fingertips. It feels good. It’s a hot day. And there, in the distance, I see it. A big blue mailbox. It’s on the corner in front of the market where I used to buy Popsicles for Ben that would melt and drip down his arm in the sizzling summer sun. A few more feet. A few more squares of sidewalk. I’m almost there. My legs move underneath me like I’m not controlling them.
Until I get there.
I halt.
I pull open the drop box.
I shove my letter inside.
My fingers hold on to the edge of the envelope.
Until I let go.
I hear it plop against the other letters.
I pull my hand out.
The drop box bangs shut.
I walk away.
Realistically, what good is it? I can’t get answers from a dead guy.
Dear Aaron,
Why did you do what you did? You changed me forever. Not because of what I saw or who you hurt, but because when you got into my car that day, you made me an accomplice. You made me a person who plays fifteen minutes of her life over and over again in her head. Why did I stop? Why did your bag make that noise? Why didn’t you talk? Why did you tell me to wait? What did I miss? It’s a horrible place to be. And for that, I hate you. I. Hate. You.
I know you will never see this, but I needed to write it. It needed to be said.
Morgan Grant
But now I see that, sometimes, bad things bring people together in ways we’d never imagine. I don’t leave my apartment, Aaron. I’m a shut-in. You made me afraid of the world. It’s May, and I haven’t left where I live in five and a half months. But after being alone in my apartment for so long, I think there’s a part of me that understands how alone you felt. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry you didn’t have any friends or someone you thought you could talk to. I’m sorry you thought you had only one solution to your problems. I wish you’d gotten help.
I wish things hadn’t happened the way they did.
I want to hate you, but hating you has gotten me nowhere. Forgiving you will start the healing. Forgiving you will allow me to forgive myself.
I know you will never see this, but I needed to write it. It needed to be said.
I forgive you.
Sincerely,
Morgan Grant
*
I run back home. I run because I want to endure the way my muscles protest. I want to feel the pounding of my heart in my chest. I want to hear the smack of my flip-flops on the sidewalk. I want to have the wind in my ears. I want to know the wind on my face.
When I get home again, I don’t want to stop moving. I need to get this energy out somehow. I miss exercise. I miss the way it makes me feel. I want to stretch. I want to reach. I want to go. I want my body to be strong again.
I want to swim.
I peer out the window and down at the pool.
I let the curtain fall back into place.
I run through the apartment.
After a couple of rounds, I’m panting. I’m definitely out of shape. And having all the windows closed doesn’t help. The stagnant inside air is stifling.
I head to the family room and open the window above the TV to let fresh air in. I flop down on the couch and flip through TV channels. I skip right past an exercise show from the eighties, then click back and watch, entranced. The workout host is wearing a shiny pink leotard and a yellow-and-white-striped terry cloth band around her forehead. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but her bangs hang loose over the headband. She bounces from one foot to the other, pulling a knee toward her chest and touching it with her elbow. She looks like she’s having a great time, and she sounds like she really wants everyone at home to join in.