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It was Samuel’s funeral today.
I couldn’t face it. I cried all day.
It was like they were burying me instead.
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I’m on Mary’s back porch. Golds and browns are creeping into the fruit tree leaves, and the last summer tomatoes, full and overripe, are barely clinging to their vines. I sit on a padded bench with a book on my lap. It’s been open at the same page for hours.
‘Sweetie?’ Mary calls. I hear her huffs from the driveway before she appears. The knee-high grass growing against the back of the house catches my attention as she brushes past it. Fred and Mary are not that keen on gardening, apart from their practical fruits and veg. Samuel would never have let the grass get that long. A fire hazard, he would have said. Ugh. It bugs me when thoughts of him invade my head like that.
Mary groans as she stomps her cankles up the few steps of the porch. She’s been to the letterbox. ‘This came for you.’ She holds her arm out, the skin underneath wobbling as she brandishes an envelope. I swear she gets bigger by the day, and I think about telling her she needs to lay off the scones and cream cakes she’s constantly trying to cram down my throat.
‘Sweetie, you’re losing too much weight,’ she says, pouting when I refuse to touch more than a few mouthfuls of soup.
But I don’t say anything, because her weight is none of my business, and she’s been so kind to me, and why am I such a bitch?
I know I should eat. I know I should do something about my straggly hair. I know I should go back to school. But my bones feel so heavy I can’t make them go any further than the porch. I don’t even have the energy to push a few buttons to respond to Harry’s text messages. I close my eyes, weary at the thought of the effort required.
‘Here,’ says Mary. ‘It’s from the police.’
My heart constricts as she hands me the letter. Samuel’s handwriting on the front is succinct:
To: Wineera Police
From: Samuel H Barnes
‘They said you can have it,’ says Mary. ‘They’ve finished with it. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ She stands, hands hitched on her hips, looking worried. ‘You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. You know ... if you think it’ll be too upsetting ...’
I turn the envelope over, pretend I haven’t seen it before, that it wasn’t lying next to the letter addressed to me, in the same type of envelope. Samuel’s name and address are typeset on the back in a curvy font – a present from Mum. At the time she gave them to him, I wondered, Who writes letters these days? I guess he finally got some use out of them. The top edge is ragged where a police officer has torn it open. How much has Samuel said?
Mary eases herself onto the bench and lays her hands on her apron-covered lap. ‘Do you want me to read it for you?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’ Nausea creeps into my belly as I slip the letter out of its envelope and read.
I am solely responsible for my own death.
I am solely to blame.
Samuel’s signature is scrawled beneath. I show the letter to Mary who huffs. ‘That’s it? I don’t understand. It’s cryptic.’
It’s not cryptic to me. The real message will be in the other letter. But I’m not ready for that yet. I fold the letter back into the envelope, place it between the pages of my book and close the cover. Mary puts her arm around my shoulders. She can comfort me all she likes. I’m done crying.
