“Nobody. The person I wrote it to is dead! You think I don’t know that?”
She looks at me seriously, lowering her voice like she’s going to tell me a secret. “Did you think his parents still lived there? Were you hoping they’d see it? Were you looking for answers?”
“God! I wasn’t looking for anything, okay? It was just something I had to do. It was a relief. Like when I let go of it in the mailbox, I let go of other things, too.”
Is that true? Is that all it was? Or did I hope, deep down, that Aaron’s parents would see my letter and offer up some kind of an explanation? An apology? Something that would make me feel better? Because of course I knew they moved. Why would they stay? I’d even heard about the “For Sale” sign stuck into the crunchy brown grass of the front yard that people had defaced with red paint and rotten eggs. But if I knew they’d moved, then did I hope my letter would miraculously reach them? They had left without a trace. Nobody knew where they’d gone. And there’s no way they would’ve left a forwarding address. They didn’t want to be found. But I sent a letter anyway.
I sink back down onto the couch. I’m exhausted, as if I’ve just swum anchor for a relay race. My mom slumps down next to me. She pulls the letter from between the worn couch cushions. She holds it in her hand.
“His parents should’ve done better,” she says. “They should’ve stopped him.”
“Maybe they tried. All the news stories said he’d been in therapy. Maybe they couldn’t do more than that,” I say. “Maybe they tried everything until they had to stop caring.”
“I guess that’s how it might’ve been, huh?”
“Like with Dad.”
My mom’s back goes stiff. “Is that what you think? That I’ve stopped caring about your dad?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” Yes.
My mom takes my hand and squeezes it. Her forehead crinkles. Her eyes get shiny. “Oh, Morgan. How can I say this in a way that you will understand? I care about your dad. But I care about you and Ben more. Does that make sense? That’s why I don’t understand Aaron’s parents. How could they not have helped? He was their son. How could they not have known?”
“I know the choices you made for Ben and me. But parents can’t always know everything. Should you have known that I’d go crazy?”
“You’re not crazy.” She says it like I’m crazy for thinking I’m crazy.
“What about Dad? Is he crazy?”
She sighs. “Your dad is sick. Not crazy. I don’t like that word, crazy.”
Crazy does feel like it weighs a lot. It’s a weight I’ve been grappling with ever since Aaron Tiratore stormed through the hallways of my school. What is crazy? Was Aaron crazy? Is it fair to call someone that?
“But you know Dad needs help,” I say. “How are you any different from Aaron’s parents if you don’t get him help? The last time he was at Grandma’s, it was like you didn’t even want to try.”
“Are you kidding? You know how hard I tried to get your dad help! But he’s a grown man. I’m a mom, but I’m not his mom. I’m your mom. When you needed help, I got you help because that’s what parents do. And when it was better for you and Ben to not have Dad around, I made that choice, too.”
“Maybe it’d make you feel better to forgive him. Like I did with Aaron.”
She looks at me, startled.
“That’s why I wrote the letter,” I say. “I had to forgive Aaron in order to forgive myself. Maybe you need to do the same thing.”
“Maybe so.” She leans back and stares up at the ceiling. The words feel so big, like they’re just sitting there in a pile between us. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then my mom takes a deep breath like she’s preparing herself. “What do you mean you need to forgive yourself? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I answer her calmly. “I gave Aaron a ride to school on October fifteenth.”
She pushes up, shaking her head like she didn’t hear me right. “What?”
“Brenda knows. But I’ve been carrying it around. That guilt. I felt like it was partially my fault he did what he did because I drove him there.”
“Oh, honey.” She reaches for me. She has a look of pity on her face.
I hate that look.
“Please don’t. I’m okay. I forgave myself. Because I forgave Aaron.”
“I see.”
We’re quiet like that. There’s the silence and the air and the light beaming down from the ceiling above us. When my mom stands up again, she shoves the letter back into the envelope and hands it over to me. I look at the RETURN TO SENDER stamp, blaring bright red and permanent. That stamp makes it seem like Aaron never existed. Like his life has been erased. He did what he did because he wanted people to remember him, but his name isn’t even on the memorial wall.