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By Root 891 0

hit me. He’s dead. And I just couldn’t handle speaking to anyone at all. I think it hit Mum and Dad at the same time. It’s almost as if having a house full of visitors, people dropping in all day and night to pay their respects, allows you to not think about the terrible thing that’s happened to you, and you spend each day thinking that although it’s horribly painful, it’s not unbearable, and you are relieved that you are able to function, to smile when you see people you haven’t seen for years, and even to joke with them. You feel a bit guilty, particularly because you sense that there are those who want to see you fall apart on them, expect you to break down on their shoulders, and resent you for not doing so, but then there are the others who are relieved you’re normal, who turn away from you and whisper to their friends that you are doing fantastically, and they’re so grateful they haven’t been the ones to kneel down on the floor and pick up the pieces they once knew as you.

And of course there are Mum and Dad to think of. I’ve been going over every day, and they’re fantastic when people come over – they can sit and chat about nothing and everything and listen to stories about Tom without falling apart, but then as soon as everyone leaves, as soon as the house is quiet, I hear Mum sobbing in the bathroom, or Dad goes out to his greenhouse and I see him there, shoulders heaving as he buries his head in his hands, sitting on a plastic milk crate, thinking that no one can see him from the house. I have a bird’s – eye view from my bedroom window, though.

So I have to be the strong one, particularly now. So strange to find yourself taking care of your parents. I didn’t expect to be doing this until they were old, although even then I suppose I had thought Tom would be the caretaker. It’s a role I’ve never played. Tom was the strong, responsible one. Tom was the one who always bailed me out of trouble when I was younger, whom I turned to even as an adult if ever I wanted sensible advice or words of wisdom.

We’d grown apart the last couple of years. Mostly because I always sensed Sarah didn’t approve of me, and I had been out to Boston to stay with them, but it didn’t feel comfortable, and so I’d see Tom when he came to England, and we’d talk on the phone every couple of weeks.

Of course now I feel so guilty. So much I wish I’d said, so many things I wish I’d told him. I imagine he knew that I loved him, but I’m not sure I ever told him, and I wish I had. And even though we weren’t as close as when we were kids, I still can’t believe it.

I think one of the biggest surprises is how alone I feel. Even though he lived in America, and I barely saw him, I feel completely alone in the world, and the grief sometimes does seem harder than I can bear, after all. And I suppose with that loneliness comes fear – not an emotion I’m used to, and I still can’t figure out exactly what it is I’m fearful of – my own mortality, perhaps?

So, I digress. The point of this is twofold: somehow I feel that I can talk to you and not be judged, and coming out of the abyss, I so desperately need someone to talk to right now; and I wanted to apologize for not being in touch sooner. I just couldn’t talk to anyone for a while. I hope you understand and hope you’re still willing to play the role of big sister – God knows I could do with someone like that now.

Thinking of you and sending my love,

Will

To: Will

From: Holly

27/11/06 9:56:24 AM

Subject: Re: Apology

Will –

What an amazing letter. Thank you for being so honest and so brave – clearly you’re writing to the right person, since I am someone who finds it far easier to express herself on the page than in person. Mostly, though, I feel honoured that you’ve chosen to reveal yourself to me, and I’m relieved that this is a way for you to get at least some of it out.

I think I do know what it feels like to be that alone. In many ways, I feel like I’ve been alone for years. I’m not sure whether you’ll understand, but when I was younger, I suppose when Tom and I