speak of Paul. I don’t want to know. I don’t think I ever wanted to know. Boys will be boys. You push. You’re rough. And then you two never spoke. Your silence made us think there was more to the story. Our little boy who loved to make up stories suddenly went quiet. You did not talk to us, did not talk to your brother, did not talk to him ever again beyond a few perfunctory phrases. Your silence needed to be filled. How could we not fill it? We failed you with our own silence. Better to know. Always better to know.
Your mother’s death hit Peter hard too. I think he suspected the truth. You were too young, I think – twelve. He worked it out, though. A car crash, the car off the road on Sir Lowry’s Pass, where she had no reason to be. No skid marks. The middle of the day. He found out she was not wearing a seatbelt. I’m not sure how, I tried to shield him from it all. Though it was not law like it is today, your mother always wore her seatbelt. She was dead and there was no letter, so there was no proof it was suicide but the signs were clear.
There could only have been one reason for your mother doing what she did. The death of a child – there’s no coming back from that. I am sure Peter already felt guilty about Paul’s death and this made it worse.
I am sorry if this is news to you. Perhaps I should have left this in silence too. I do not know what you know. The moment that marks out your children passing over into adulthood: when you know you do not know everything about them. With you it happened too early, far too early.
You were her favourite. It is not something a parent should admit to – having favourites. She did, though she kept it hidden from the others. Your quietness, your love of stories. She studied English Literature too, as you know. (Was that why you chose that course?) And then after, she tried so hard to get back to that place, to get back to you, to the boy, the angel she loved. She tried so hard, John. You may not even remember. Every night she took you to bed and lay there with you and read you stories. She would ask you what you thought of them, what you would do if you were one of the characters. Your answers were brief, uninterested even, though I think there were more ideas in your head than you let on. Every night, until the end.
It was quite recently that Peter asked about you. It was as if he was reading my mind. I had told him the week before about the cancer. I had been thinking about you, thinking about writing this letter, and one afternoon he came right out and asked. ‘How is John?’ It was as if he knew I had been keeping tabs on you. I answered, ‘He seems to be doing OK.’ Your brother looked at me for a second and then nodded. I didn’t really know what it meant, that nod. Could have been anything.
I told him everything. I told him everything you had been doing, where you lived, which course you were studying. He did not comment on why I was keeping track of you. Sensitive in his own way, too.
He thinks of you often. Though it was only that once he mentioned you, I can tell he thinks of you. When we sit in silence after a meal, I look at him. Sometimes he catches me looking, sometimes not. It seems to make him uncomfortable, so I try not to. I see him and I can tell what he is thinking about. You. You appear, as if real, as if a ghost. It doesn’t help that you two look so much alike. You hang there between us. Not Paul, not your mother. You. He looks to you. You stand in judgement over him, it seems. You. His whole life – and perhaps this is why he has achieved so little – lived in this shadow, this shadow of whatever it was you may or may not have seen all those years ago.
It may be too late but my hope is – I return to my request – that you find it in yourself to soften towards him, to remove judgement, if that is what it is, to save what is left of our family. Paul is gone. I have no idea what happened that day, whether Peter pushed him (I
Your mother’s death hit Peter hard too. I think he suspected the truth. You were too young, I think – twelve. He worked it out, though. A car crash, the car off the road on Sir Lowry’s Pass, where she had no reason to be. No skid marks. The middle of the day. He found out she was not wearing a seatbelt. I’m not sure how, I tried to shield him from it all. Though it was not law like it is today, your mother always wore her seatbelt. She was dead and there was no letter, so there was no proof it was suicide but the signs were clear.
There could only have been one reason for your mother doing what she did. The death of a child – there’s no coming back from that. I am sure Peter already felt guilty about Paul’s death and this made it worse.
I am sorry if this is news to you. Perhaps I should have left this in silence too. I do not know what you know. The moment that marks out your children passing over into adulthood: when you know you do not know everything about them. With you it happened too early, far too early.
You were her favourite. It is not something a parent should admit to – having favourites. She did, though she kept it hidden from the others. Your quietness, your love of stories. She studied English Literature too, as you know. (Was that why you chose that course?) And then after, she tried so hard to get back to that place, to get back to you, to the boy, the angel she loved. She tried so hard, John. You may not even remember. Every night she took you to bed and lay there with you and read you stories. She would ask you what you thought of them, what you would do if you were one of the characters. Your answers were brief, uninterested even, though I think there were more ideas in your head than you let on. Every night, until the end.
It was quite recently that Peter asked about you. It was as if he was reading my mind. I had told him the week before about the cancer. I had been thinking about you, thinking about writing this letter, and one afternoon he came right out and asked. ‘How is John?’ It was as if he knew I had been keeping tabs on you. I answered, ‘He seems to be doing OK.’ Your brother looked at me for a second and then nodded. I didn’t really know what it meant, that nod. Could have been anything.
I told him everything. I told him everything you had been doing, where you lived, which course you were studying. He did not comment on why I was keeping track of you. Sensitive in his own way, too.
He thinks of you often. Though it was only that once he mentioned you, I can tell he thinks of you. When we sit in silence after a meal, I look at him. Sometimes he catches me looking, sometimes not. It seems to make him uncomfortable, so I try not to. I see him and I can tell what he is thinking about. You. You appear, as if real, as if a ghost. It doesn’t help that you two look so much alike. You hang there between us. Not Paul, not your mother. You. He looks to you. You stand in judgement over him, it seems. You. His whole life – and perhaps this is why he has achieved so little – lived in this shadow, this shadow of whatever it was you may or may not have seen all those years ago.
It may be too late but my hope is – I return to my request – that you find it in yourself to soften towards him, to remove judgement, if that is what it is, to save what is left of our family. Paul is gone. I have no idea what happened that day, whether Peter pushed him (I
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