Dear Rudy,
I need to get this off my mind. I think some people think you killed yourself and it makes me really mad. It’s not something that anyone has actually said, but it’s the looks, you know. And the way they ask ‘how are you going?’ with their eyebrows raised as if they really want to ask if I’m going kill myself too. As if I’m going to talk to the vice-principal or the neighbour or the woman at the petrol station about my dead brother who they think killed himself. I’ve got a psychologist and parents and friends for that, thanks. Sometimes I think they ask so they can tell other people that they asked and that I said ‘fine’, but they didn’t think I looked fine, not really. Like asking the poor girl with the dead brother how she is going is some kind of act of charity that they deserve a pat on the back for. What a joke.
I remember the police officers who came over after the phone call. I hated them, even though they were nice. I’d been lying down, frozen and not crying, and I heard them at the door. When I walked out into the lounge room Mum was sitting on the couch with her face in her hands and Dad was next to her with his arm around her shoulder. The female police officer saw me first, she turned to look my way, said a short ‘hey’, and then the air compressed back to tense silence. Dad told me to sit down.
His voice was stern, but not in the loaded way he talks to me when I’ve done something wrong. It was quivery, more vulnerable. I sat on the end of the couch, with my bum barely touching the cushion. I can’t recall the conversation because my mind was a blur, but I remember the police officer saying there would be an autopsy to confirm the cause of death, but she also said the words ‘head injury’ and ‘drowning’ as well. They left pamphlets for grief counselling and then they were gone.
Later, maybe it was days or perhaps weeks, the autopsy found MDMA in your system and the cause of death was ‘drowning’. I didn’t know much about MDMA, but I’ve read a lot about it since that day. It’s a synthetic drug that acts as a stimulant and hallucinogen.
So you were off your face doing something rash, and you fell in. Maybe you thought you could fly. You did something reckless and now it can’t be undone.
We all have to live with the finality of your reckless thing. The reckless thing is a stake in the ground and our lives now exist in two parts—one before the reckless thing and one after it. It could have happened with any of the reckless things you’ve done. Those things could have ended like this, but they didn’t and instead you’re the drug kid who killed himself instead of the silly boy who just wasn’t thinking things through. I know the how and what of it, but not the why. Why did you take that drug? Was it a regular thing? Maybe it was a fun thing you did for a kick, or maybe it wasn’t really something you thought about at all.
Mum said something today about how ‘we’ll never know for sure’, and just like that, it all came tumbling out. I told her everything Tom said about how he was supposed to be there with you, but he’d left you for a Tinder hookup instead. I let it be his fault. I didn’t put my energy into making it palatable, I put my energy into making sure I remembered all the details.
She stood there with her mouth wide like a goldfish and she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. A couple of tears popped out of her eyes, like she was evicting them more than feeling upset, and once they were gone she didn’t cry any more. She said it wasn’t Tom’s fault. She said it was nobody’s fault. I promised her if I ever try MDMA I’ll make sure I’m not anywhere near a body of water. It didn’t seem to make her feel better. Maybe I took the easy way out only telling Mum and not Dad, but I know she will tell him in a way that is good for him.
I’m going away for a couple of nights with Dee and some of the girls from school. Jessica Rabbit and Pointy Kathy and another friend of Kathy’s. Mum thinks it’ll be good for me to have a break and so does Dee. I don’t know what’s good for me so I’m giving it a try. We’re going to Byron Bay, which is a place I know you loved, so if they’re hoping I won’t think about you they’ve picked the wrong place. It’s a bit of a Schoolies trial run I suppose, with all of us girls staying together in an apartment. Hopefully no one snores or sleeps with the light on. I’ve written a list of things to take, so I’m going to go and get packing.
Telling Mum about Tom was the only thing about the accident that wasn’t in the past, so now that it’s done things feel more final than your funeral ever did. Weird. I’m not mad if people think something that’s not true about it anymore though, so this letter has definitely helped. Thanks.
Love, Erin