July 17, 1984
Dear Co,
I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry. I feel absolutely awful about what happened. I had no idea that’s what Mom was planning to do, and I wouldn’t have come along if I knew, or maybe if I knew I would have run ahead and warned you. At least we wouldn’t have had to see it. But I didn’t know. I thought we were just going to your baseball game.
I should have known, though. I should have known when I saw that look in her eyes all morning. She was in an absolute trance. She was so distracted, she burned all the breakfast food—the toast and the eggs. I cleaned it all up because after she burned it she walked into the living room and sat on the sofa, staring out the window. The house was full of smoke. The clothes I wore that day still stink.
Mom hasn’t moved much since we got here. She mostly sits in this little green armchair we bought at Goodwill and stares out the window. The windows here don’t have screens, and I’m always killing flies or bees that have come in. But she stares at the cars that go by outside. It’s loud here. I miss our house. I miss the country.
Has Dad said anything to you since THE DAY? I often wonder what he thinks about all this. Does he tell you anything? I can’t imagine him actually talking. He never has. But you know that. It must be quiet in the house, unless he’s changed. I wonder if he’s changed, now that it’s just you and him. I hope he’s changed.
Oh, I’m so sorry. What an embarrassment.
I sometimes wonder how we were born into this. I look around at my new friends here in the city, and so many of them—not all of them, of course, some have parents even worse than ours—have parents who are normal, who don’t shout at each other in public, who are still married, and they eat meals together and both parents come to parent-teacher conferences. What happened to us? I mean, I know what happened. But why? Why us?
There’s a nice boy here who says he goes to my school. His name is Jimmy. I haven’t made any close girlfriends yet, but maybe once school starts. Girls are weird, as you know (ha ha). Mom says I don’t talk enough, I don’t ask enough questions, I don’t care enough. Maybe she’s right about that, because I don’t care much, I only wish we had our old life back. She’s constantly pushing me to make friends with other girls, telling me to go talk to them, but I’m actually happy now. I don’t need girlfriends. Not right now. I have Jimmy. And I have you, even though we’re practically 100 miles away from each other. You have always been such a good friend to me.
I still miss you. I always miss you! And I’m sorry.
Yours,
K