The drive home from Virginia’s office is a blur. I’m so angry after our session my mind goes into auto-pilot; focusing on not hitting any pedestrians and driving slowly on the snow splattered roads while reality spins out of control around me.
How could Virginia think it was okay to speak to me like that? She spoke of Nathan as if she knew him. How could she suggest my brother was a bad person?
I briefly consider how perhaps her intentions were to help me find closure, but I still think it’s too soon for me to revisit Nathan’s death. I had spent months obsessing over the investigation. I so desperately wanted the police to find incriminating evidence of a killer, but after several months of no leads, clues, or witnesses; Nathan’s death was officially declared a suicide. He had hung himself from his dorm room ceiling. His roommate had found him long after it was too late. I didn’t accept the suicide claim as easily as everyone else. There was no note left behind or any form of a “goodbye world” statement. To this day it still doesn’t make any sense to me.
As far as I knew Nathan was happy and enjoying his new job as an assistant to one of the most powerful stock brokers in New York City. The last time I spoke with him he was ecstatic about learning to become a success in the finance industry. He went on and on about how he was constantly commended by his professors and colleagues for being such a genius when it came to learning about financial strategy and stock market predictions.
Apparently one of his classmates had a father that was a CEO at one of the most powerful banks in the city and he told Nathan he could get him a job there once he graduated. Nathan was thrilled. He said he would be making more money than he knew what to do with and could even buy us a new house.
I remember one of our conversations when he told me his colleagues wanted to initiate him into their member society that was so exclusive people were unaware of its existence. Most of the members included descendants of some of the richest men in the country. I knew Nathan had to be nervous about joining such an elite group, considering our less than ideal upbringing that included a drunken mother and reliance on Welfare checks rather than a trust fund. But still, there would be no reason for him to resort to suicide even if he felt mediocre. Nathan was a fighter; he wouldn’t give up that easily.
So why did everything suddenly change? Even though the unanswered questions of his death bother me, I'm not sure I have the energy or the strength to take on the role of a private investigator; especially when it involves delving deeper into my brother’s death. The thought of what I could find out interests me but it also frightens me.
***
When I arrive home from my appointment I walk into the house to find my mother passed out belly down on the couch. She’s got one arm and one leg dangling off the side of the cushion and still has her work clothes on. Her face is smashed up against the decorative pillow and smudges of mascara now stain the tan fabric. A smoldering cigarette is in the ash tray which sits next to her glass half filled with straight vodka. This is a typical evening at the Moone residence.
“Hi mom, how was your day?” I ask.
I walk over to the couch and pull her hanging leg up onto the cushion. I pause for a moment, knowing she will not respond from the depths of her blackout.
“Well that’s good to hear,” I continue. “My day was pretty good too. I had a great appointment with Dr. Bloom today. She thinks I’m making a lot of progress.”
I grab a plush blanket hanging over our lounge chair and shake it out before covering her with it.
“She wants me to start keeping a journal. She thinks it will help me get in touch with my feelings and other stupid stuff like that. What do you think?” I ask.
My mother shifts from her belly to her back with her eyes still closed. Her brown hair falls over her mouth and then she begins snoring.
“Really? You think it’s stupid too?” I ask. “Good. I’m glad you agree because I really don’t want to do it. I’ll be sure to tell Virginia your thoughts.” She still doesn’t respond and her snoring becomes even louder.
“Oh Sharon, how I do love our heartfelt talks,” I say.
I push her hair away from her face and in this moment of her drunken slumber I can still see how beautiful she is; with a very feminine face, soft skin, and long eyelashes. People tell me I look just like her but I don’t see it. My eyelashes are scarce, my lips are thin, and I’m always teased about my thick eyebrows on the verge of becoming one.
I remember when I was little I used to watch her do her make-up. She would pile on pounds of powder, eye shadow, and blush. I always wondered why. I thought she was prettier without it. She seemed to like hiding her true self from the world.
There are times when I can understand her lack of parenting skills. After all she was only a teenager when she became pregnant with Nathan. She reminds us constantly that she and my father sacrificed their youth to be parents and I’m pretty sure she blames us for my Dad leaving. I wish I could say things were better when my father was around, but with the small amount of memories I have from when I was little I can only remember them screaming at each other. It’s hard to say if things might have been worse if he was still here, because with or without him my mother was trapped in her own self-built world of toxicity.
After all these years I was hoping she would mature and develop maternal instincts, but again that whole perpetual time thing kind of rains on that parade. I’ve seen other single moms manage to survive on their own and they all seem pretty normal. I’ve tried my best to understand why she acts the way she does, although now I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to accept the reasoning, whatever it may be.
“I’m going to bed,” I say to her, “goodnight.”
I start to walk down the hall to my room as my mother continues to snore like an angered beast. She won’t wake up until tomorrow. I stop about halfway down the hall and turn around to look at her.
“Oh, one other thing,” I say from a distance, “she also wants me to find out why Nathan killed himself.”
My mother jumps in her sleep and for a second her snoring becomes muffled. At least something had an effect on her.
Dear Diary,
Well, it's official. My life sucks.
My shrink wants me to start keeping a journal like a friggin’ ten year old. This is such a waste of time. I don’t want to write about my feelings, it’s so lame!
And it’s not like the good ol’ days where I can write about fun stuff like the cute boy I have a crush on.
My life is no longer sunshine and rainbows. Not that it was ever perfect, but those times of carefree peace are over. I can easily see this becoming “The Diary of a Debbie Downer.”
I never was into writing about my day to remind myself of memories because I knew any day worth remembering, well, I would never forget it. I’m still trying to figure out how reflecting my sorrows onto a piece of paper will help, but at this point I have nothing to lose.
The brilliant Dr. Virginia Bloom also suggested I find out why Nathan committed suicide. The more I think about it what good would this bring? I would find no resolution or comfort in discovering why my brother ended his life. It actually makes me feel worse knowing I couldn’t be there for him at a time when he may have needed me the most. Even though none of the facts add up maybe it’s best not knowing the truth. It’s not like knowing will bring Nathan back.
I received a postcard from him four months before his death, but it didn’t give insight to anything about his life at the time. This is all it said:
Zenny,
I miss you guys. Hope you can visit soon. Love you.
-Nathan
That was it. Short, sweet, and straight to the point; nothing revealing or unordinary that would expose any sign of trouble. He didn’t share a lot of information about his life in New York. He had been so busy with school and his new job that all of our conversations had turned brief and his weekly calls slowly turned into once a month encounters.
On the front side of the postcard is a picture of a portly palm tree that seems to be resting on a hilltop. It is oddly misplaced in a forest of tall pine trees. The photo manages to capture the palm’s leaves glistening in the unseen streaming sunlight. The palm stands out of course and the only thing it has in common with its background surroundings is the deep green moss that is slowly creeping up the trunk of every tree in the picture.
The strangeness of the image actually leaves me with a comforting feeling of Nathan’s uniqueness, only he would choose such a weird card. This is the last memory I have of him.
It saddens me to think that if Nathan really was going through something, why couldn’t he tell me that he needed help?