Letters From The Ledge by Lynda Meyers Page A

impact.” Brendan kneaded his bicep through the sleeve of his coat. He imagined the scene as he’d done so many times before. He pictured her spread eagle, diving gracefully through the air, shutting his mind’s eye before she hit bottom.
    “God–that must have been awful for you. How long did you know each other?”
    “Since freshman year.”
    “Was she your–“
    “No.” His answer came too quickly, and with too much force.
    After a while Sarah whispered out “So you never told her, did you?”
    When Brendan looked at her his eyes threatened to betray his control. Anger and confusion rose up from someplace dark and cavernous. He turned his head away and she touched his arm, leaving her hand in place until he turned back.
    “It’s ok, you know. I’ll bet you anything she knew.”
    “Yeah? How would you know?” He could feel his walls rising but she kept pressing past them, willing him to stay in the moment.
    “Because it’s written on your face. And if I can see it now, after the fact, then I’m certain she knew it then, every time you were together.” She smiled playfully. “Besides, I’m a girl–I know these things.”
    The warmth from her hand spread like a slow massage up his arm and across his chest. He leaned toward her instinctively, and she backed away, the message clear. Brendan cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together in his lap.
    “Tell her. You can still tell her, you know.”
    How could she be so sure of herself one minute and so vulnerable the next? This girl didn’t make any sense at all. He shook his head. “You know a good medium I could call? Maybe a spirit guide?”
    His sarcasm had little or no effect on her determination. “There are lots of ways to tell someone something. It doesn’t have to be with words. It can be a painting, or a project like the AIDS quilt. You know, a tribute. You can still honor her life, even in death.”
    The idea landed with a thud in Brendan’s heart. A high, clear note resonated in the distance and his spirit responded. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
    __________
    The walk home had Brendan’s thoughts racing. The house was empty when he got there, and he grabbed a fifth of whiskey off the bar, guzzling it until he choked on his way down the hall. When he got to his room he was already feeling unsteady. He pulled the box out from under his bed and slammed another shot’s worth of whiskey, then popped the top on the box.
    Inside, a pink, leather-bound journal sat on top of some drawings, and under the drawings was a stack of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. He threw back another mouthful, pulled out the journal and leaned against the wall. On the first page he saw his name written vertically as an acronym:
    B eautiful
    R uined
    E nigma
    N aturally
    D raws
    A nother
    N ear
    He traced the line of words with his finger and turned his head away, sobs breaking out across the deepening dusk that had settled over his room. Her poetry was spearing in its beauty, and he watched in fascination as her face drifted in and out of his vision and he imagined her reading it to him. Reading her poems was like watching an animation of her life, frame by frame–her different looks, her moods, the way she’d changed over the years. It was all there for him to witness in black and white.
    She wrote about the angels who had come to take care of her. She wrote about the abuse. Brendan read until he couldn’t take it any more. When he finished the journal he got up and stumbled to the bathroom, retching until the whole experience purged itself from his system, along with most of the whiskey he’d downed in the process.
    When he woke up on the bathroom floor the house was eerily quiet. It was one-fifteen. He pulled himself up and washed his face, carefully replacing the contents of the box before sliding it back under the bed. He grabbed the comforter off his bed and headed for the balcony. The envelopes would have to wait for another