The End of All Things Beautiful (5 page)

“But
I thought they had been together since college?” the other woman asks, her
curiosity spiking even more.

“They
were, but he was always so damaged. I think Samantha thought she could save
him. Obviously not,” she adds, again rolling her eyes as if to say Samantha was
stupid to even think it. “Samantha once told me he was still hung up on some
girl or at least that’s what she thought. Their marriage was a mess and so was
Tommy.”

The
brunette’s eyes widen like this is the first time she’s hearing this. “Wow, I
always thought they had the perfect marriage. She hid it well.”

“Would
you want everyone in the neighborhood to know your husband was blowing your
life savings on drugs on a regular basis?” the blonde asks with rude emphasis. “She’s
better off without him,” she adds and that’s about all I can take.

I
turn my body so I’m facing them, my lips pursed as I stare at them, waiting for
them to notice. It doesn’t take long and their conversation ceases immediately.
With perturbed looks on their faces, they wait for me to turn away, but they
have no idea who they’re dealing with here.

“Listen,
you gossipy bitches, we’re at a fucking funeral,” I mutter through gritted
teeth, trying to control my need to raise my voice. “And how dare you fucking
judge him. You have no idea what he’s been through; why he did what he did to
cope with his life. Remember that when you decide to pass judgment on someone
or something you know nothing about.”

I
push up from the pew and leave just as quickly and quietly as when I arrived. I’ve
had enough and as I’m walking to my car I find my hand clutched around the
letter in my purse. I didn’t even realize I’d put my hand in my purse. But now
it’s holding onto the one thing I have left. The one thing I have left of him.

I
still haven’t said goodbye; it’s not like I believe it will bring me any peace,
but I’m finding it harder to say goodbye than being left behind. But I also don’t
think I even know how to say goodbye to him in a way that won’t be painless. I’m
afraid of the pain and the rush of feelings and emotions I can’t seem to
control. Yet I find myself driving to the cemetery.

I
can see the tent from where I park my car. A blue plastic tarp draped over a
metal frame that is swaying precariously as the wind from the storm blows once
again. I wonder what would happen if the tented frame blew away? Would the
people stay and grieve for the one who died or would they flee from the rain,
more concerned about their hair and makeup, wool suits and designer dresses? I
like to believe that people are innately good, but it’s a lie.

Ever
since the accident my thoughts have become disjointed and strange. No real link
to anything of purpose and maybe that’s so I never think too deeply about
anything.

I
watch the tarp flap and the metal frame move with the wind, again wondering if
it’s anchored to the ground and wondering just what it would look like if it
took flight.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Opening
my glove box, I find a tiny umbrella. I slip off the cover, open my car door, and
pointing the umbrella out, I open it.

Part
of me is grateful to have the umbrella and another part thinks I should sit in
the rain, like it will wash away all this ugliness. That if I just wait long
enough, that if I let it cover me, I’ll finally be clean of what I can’t rid
myself of.

I
find a bench far enough from the gravesite that I won’t be noticed but close
enough that I can watch. Even that thought is morbid and strange. Do I really
want to watch his dead body be lowered into the ground and covered with dirt,
only to know that eventually he’ll decompose and there will be nothing left?

I
watch the funeral procession arrive, black as the sky, a line of cars driving
slowly like the passage of time doesn’t matter and in a way it doesn’t. He’s
already dead.

I
pull my umbrella down, shielding my face, but I still watch. I watch Samantha
and Thomas climb out of the hearse and he raises his face to the rain, opening
his mouth and dancing a little. He doesn’t understand. This hasn’t affected
him, lost in that invincible child’s mind where people don’t die and happiness
is everywhere and finding fun is only a few steps away. Tommy and I were him
once.

And
it was beautiful.

As
the mourners leave their cars, a sea of colored umbrellas moving as one, as
they make their way to the tent. The women’s faces are scrunched and they
teeter on the tips of their toes, their heels sinking into the soft ground.
This is what they’re concerned about, but I’m not surprised.

To
be happy, we must not be too concerned with others.

A
quote that to me is bullshit at its best. It’s a way to defend self-righteous
behaviors, to not feel guilty when you realize you’re an egomaniac. It’s the
way the world works, but it was never the way our world worked.

Sam
used to pick all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms for me, presenting me
with the bowl and a huge grin on his face. I watched Benji, when he thought I
wasn’t looking, hug Kelly after she failed her driver’s ed. test for the second
time; his hand stroking her hair as she sobbed into his t-shirt. It was all the
little things, but it was all the big things too. Those moments, that without each
other we would have never endured. After Benji’s parent’s divorced, the five of
us spent a week sleeping in a tent in my backyard because he just couldn’t
handle being home. Or when Sam’s dog died and we buried him in the backyard
despite the protests from his mother. And when I fell ice skating and broke my
ankle, Tommy was the one who carried me home. It was always us.

Each
one of us more concerned with each other than we ever were with ourselves. And
maybe that’s what made us different, what allowed our friendship to remain
solid despite all the disappointment that existed. But the accident was the one
thing that tore us apart, the one thing that broke our bond. The moment we left
Sam, dead and bleeding, we left our concern for each other. When push came to
shove, we chose selfishness. We chose ourselves instead of each other.

It
was the beginning of the end.

The
last breath of our dying friendship.

I
felt it that night and I still feel it today. It never fades.

Before
I even realize it, the ceremony is over. The crowd has dissipated and all that
remains is the priest and the cemetery caretakers. I take it all in, this is
the part that no one sees and it’s rather anticlimactic, yet harrowingly
disturbing.

The
crank is being turned as the casket is lowered into the ground, and I guess I
always thought it lowered it the full six feet. But I was wrong, because I hear
a muffled thud as it drops below the surface. The priest bends down, scooping up
a handful of dirt, he tosses it into the darkness of the hole. A few seconds
later there’s a small bulldozer dumping dirt over the top. And like that it’s
over.

The
priest walks away, wiping the dirt from his hands and instantly the lyrics to
the Beatles
Eleanor Rigby
pop into my
head.

No
one was saved.

I
stay longer than necessary, the bench wet and my pants now soaked to the point
where they are heavy against my body. And when I stand it actually feels more
difficult to walk than before.

The
reason I’m still here an hour after it all ended is because saying goodbye
means letting go. It means forgetting.

I
find myself standing in front of his grave, no marker or headstone yet, but I
know it’s his. I watched them bury him. And then without warning, I’m on my
knees, the wet ground sinking around me, my pants clinging to my skin.

“You’re
laughing at me,” I say out loud, speaking to no one, because he’s dead. “Watching
me on my knees, crying into the dirt of your fresh grave.” I swallow as I choke
back the sob that has formed in my throat. “You know I don’t believe in this
shit, but here I am.” I feel stupid talking to nothing. I always thought people
who did this had to be crazy. The person is gone. And then I realize that maybe
I’ve been crazy for the last nine years.

I
fall silent, staring down at the ground, as my thoughts become a mass of
confusion, of feelings I can’t sort out or that I don’t want to sort out.

“Why?”
I ask, like he can hear me, like I’ll get an answer from the wind, some
epiphany or a sign from a god I don’t believe in. I find the letter in my purse
and watch my name bleed into the envelope as a drop of rain hits it.

“This,”
I say, angry, holding the letter out over the grave. “This was never supposed
to be your goodbye. You weren’t supposed to leave me. We lost so much, all of
us and right now I hate you. I hate you so much.” The last line comes out as a strangled
scream. I’m sobbing, deep, heaving sobs until my body aches and I can’t catch
my breath.

And
in this moment of weakness, I rip open the envelope, shielding it from the rain
under my umbrella.

The
letter is folded in my hand, I want to crumple it up and throw it as far as I
can. I want to burn it and watch it turn to ashes, but it’s all I have anymore.
This and memories.

It’s
folded in thirds and I lift the first part, exposing only the first few lines
of his letter, taking in his handwriting, seeing my name written by him. But
after I read that first line, I’m broken. I scan the next few and that’s enough
for me.

And then there were two.

Campbell,

This letter will end the same way it
began.

I love you.

I
want to say I read the letter, but I didn’t. I still haven’t as I sit on the
couch in my house; the TV on, but I’m not watching. A bottle of wine sits on my
coffee table, the glass in my hand because classy girls get drunk off wine and
wallow in their own self-pity. Crazy girls drink several bottles and cry alone
in their house. That’s me.

I
don’t have to be alone. I choose to be. Carson has sent me multiple text
messages that I’ve left unanswered. The most recent coming in just seconds ago.

Carson: Campbell, will you please answer
me. Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you.

Fuck
him and his attempts at self-preservation. He doesn’t care about me; he doesn’t
even know me. But the last thing I need is for him to show up here and see me
clinging to this letter like it’s my only savior, drunk and crying. The
explanation needs to remain hidden, because I can’t even begin to process any
of it. Returning to that day, even if it is just through memories, is far too disturbing.

I
text him back, vague and formal.

Me: I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.

But
I won’t. Ideally, at this point, I’d like it if he just disappeared without me
having to deal with the repercussions of being in a relationship with him for
the last two years.

I
knew it was wrong at the time when I accepted a date with him. It was one of
those chance meetings, a fluke, something I thought would never amount to much,
yet I still said yes. Looking back on it now, I think I was just looking to
feel normal again. I thought if I fell in love, gave my heart away to someone
else, what I had lost would return. But my heart was never mine to give away;
it belonged to someone else. It always has and it always will.

I
put back the last of the bottle, leaving everything where it is; I head to bed,
only to be plagued with insomnia. Before finding out about Tommy’s death, I had
been sleeping fairly well. Averaging about six hours a night, which for me was
stellar. I struggled to sleep for years after the accident, all of it replaying
in various forms coming as nightmares that made sleeping almost impossible. Sometimes
everyone died but me. Other times Sam survived but we didn’t know that until
after we left him there bleeding and near death. There was also a reoccurring
one where I relived the accident in full detail, yet my mind filled in the
missing pieces. Graphic. Horrible. Traumatizing. It was far too realistic, and
the fear of nightmares haunted me every time I laid down.

So
far the nightmares haven’t returned, but sleep has eluded me and it’s beginning
to grow old. I’m exhausted and beyond drunk, yet I still toss and turn. My body
finally gives up somewhere around two a.m. and while I’m grateful, my sleep is
restless and unfulfilling.

I
wake before my alarm, my head pounding and my eyes stinging. The whole thing
only intensifies when I sit up, and then I realize I have to go to work today.
If I ditch another day, Jack will be even further up my ass than he already is.

I
haven’t even looked at my emails or my calendar since Jack sent me home and I
can only imagine what I’m going to walk into today.

Despite
waking up far earlier than normal, I’m running late. I missed my train and then
I flagged down a taxi that manages to get stuck in a slew of traffic. It all brings
on a bought of morning rage that coupled with my epic hangover, has me swearing
and telling the driver to pull over. I stuff ten bucks through the opening in
the window and hop out, still at least three blocks from my office but not
giving a single fuck. Maybe the cool fall air will clear my mind and help
subside this hangover before I make it to the office.

As
I’m navigating the crowded streets, some asshole slams right into me, his
coffee dumping all over the front of my coat and spilling down into my shoes.

“Motherfucker!”
I shout out loud and a few people stop and take me in.

“Hey,
sorry,” he mumbles, before leaving his cup rolling on the ground as he walks
away.

By
the time I arrive at work, I’m not in the mood for small talk. I buzz by Claire’s
desk greeting her tersely, “Claire,” I say and then I close my office door with
more force than necessary.

I
toss everything onto my desk and in doing so, my purse turns over, scattering
everything all over my desk and onto the floor. I fall back into my chair, a
deep groan leaving my mouth on an exhale as I lean forward to begin cleaning it
up.
 
But as I do, there it is: the
fucking letter.

I
pick it up and I’m immediately hit with a million emotions and the first few
lines replay in my head on a continuous loop. I know I need to read it and
while my office isn’t the place for it, I can’t help but pull it from the
envelope. My day has been shit already and it’s only eight a.m. I might as well
push it right over the edge. So that’s exactly what I start to do when my
office door is flung open and Jack is standing in the doorway, his hands on his
hips.

“Jesus,
fuck,” he says as he looks me up and down. “You look like shit and we have a
meeting in ten minutes.”

“Get
out,” I respond not caring at all that he’s my boss as my tone drips with
disrespect. I push back from my desk, pointing a finger at the door, but Jack
doesn’t move. “I’ll be at the meeting,” I tell him hoping it appeases him.

“Campbell,”
he says softly and I want to punch him in the face. The pity I hear is
sickening. “If you need more time off to deal with…” he trails off and shakes his
head before continuing. “Whatever it is you’re dealing with, you just have to
say it.”

“I’m
fine, Jack.”

“Yeah,
you’ve told me that already.”

“Well
I am.”

“Fine,”
he simply states, and then adds, “Be in the conference room in ten.” His
posture and tone returns to the formality I’m used to and for some reason I
find it comforting; far more so than his ill-fated attempts at soothing me with
pity.

I
step into the conference room not a second sooner than Jack requested. Normally
I’m not like this, but I’m suddenly consumed with an insane amount of
bitterness over everything in my life. I guess I never realized it, but while I
have not forgotten the accident and I never will, my efforts to keep the
memories at bay were clearly somewhat successful. I was able to function on a
pretty even keel, but with the letter and Tommy’s death and the funeral,
meeting his wife and seeing his kid, it has forced everything to the surface
and it’s ugly.

I
greet everyone in the room and Jack begins the meeting while I zone out in the
chair across from him. I’m not thinking about anything in particular; I don’t
really think in complete thoughts anymore. I hear a few bits and pieces of the
conversation, but I have yet to interject, which is highly unlike me in this
type of environment. This is the kind of thing I think about. Work. It’s the
one thing that blocks my mind and I can usually focus on it without too much
effort. But today is different.

I
hear Jack, but I don’t comprehend. I catch the tail end of his sentence… “beginning
to bring in temps and have started the process to outsource, but it looks like
this might be a loss on our part. Campbell, what do you think?” he asks and I
quickly look over at him. He widens his eyes at me, awaiting an answer. And
while I haven’t heard the majority of what he’s just said, I can dig myself out
of this without a problem.

“The
Wright Group was purchased at a loss. I’ve been saying we should look into
selling it off piece by piece in order to recoup some of what has been
invested. At this point in the proceedings, we are too far gone to turn it
around and need to look at possibly unloading it within the next year.” I take
a breath and lean back in my chair, as Jack seems to settle down. “While it was
a poor investment in the first place, it’s not a total loss on our part. There
is a marketable solution to this, liquidate what is not in the red and what is,
sell at wholesale and then work the numbers to find out where we can make up
for the loss.”

“Thanks,
Campbell,” Jack says and I immediately go back to half listening to the
conversation.

The
day finally ends and I’m exhausted. Secrets and lies take commitment and I’m
finding it harder to be around people, afraid I’ll slip up. But there’s
hypocrisy in it all. I ran because of what we had done, attempting to hide the
truth and thinking that if I wasn’t surrounded by it, I could forget it. Yet
now, the only thing I want is to be immersed in it, to find peace in Tommy’s
death and stop running, but I can’t even figure out where to begin. I’m scared
and unsure, the reality of it too much, but at the same time possibly exactly
what I need.

As
I leave my office, I find myself wondering what I’m so afraid of. I lived
through this whole thing once already, experiencing the accident, Sam’s death,
Kelly’s suicide, and now Tommy. When looking at from a distance, it all hits me
and I begin to wonder just why it happened to them. What makes me different?
Why am I still here and will I be the next to lose everything because of this
accident and what we did?

It’s
what drives me to read the letter. I arrive home with my heart racing in my
chest, my palms sweaty. Nothing weighs as heavily on you as a
secret—crushing, an impossible burden that can only be carried for so
long. It eventually wrecks you, shards of your former life crumbling all around
you, loud and clear.

A
glass of wine in hand, because fuck knows I’m going to need it, I sit down on
the couch with the letter burning in my hand. Hot and sticky, the envelope is stiff
and my name written in ink on the front is feathered from the rain.

I
take in one long, deep breath and open the envelope once again. This time more
prepared for what I might find, less angry, but the hurt is still thick in my
chest. The longer I wait the more my uncertainty grows.

I
chew the inside of my cheek hoping the tears will be kept at bay. But of course
I’m wrong. All it takes is seeing his handwriting again, my name, and the words,
And then there were two.

I
know I need to finish this and although, my eyes are blurred with the tears
that continue to pool, I move forward, re-reading what I already read and
forcing myself to continue.

And then there were two.

Campbell,

This letter will end the same way it
began.

I love you.

I’m sorry I failed you. No matter what I
did I couldn’t overcome the demons that plagued my life. What happened to us is
something I will never forget. But this letter isn’t about me; it’s about you.

Campbell, please don’t lose what we once
had. At the heart of it all, life is good and we were good people, who made a
poor choice. I need you to do something for me. I’m not asking you to solve
what we created; it’s too late for that now. I’m asking you to repair what’s
broken, to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives and end this cycle of
death and depression we’ve all found ourselves in.

Find him and make us whole again.

I love you.

Tommy

While
I thought reading this letter would be the key to finding out what exactly
happened to him, it isn’t. I can only speculate and that’s the last thing I
need to be doing. My life since the accident has been a fucked up series of
speculations, each one worse than the next.

He
never wrote the letter to find closure or to confess his sins or to admit his
guilt in anything. No details about the accident and what he saw. It wasn’t
about him and even in death he’s selfless. The letter makes me sick and pissed
off; it’s given me nothing I was seeking from it.

Angry
tears sting my eyes and run down my cheeks. I step out onto the patio of my house,
the cold air hitting me as I feel my tears dry. With the letter clutched in my
hand, I sit down and re-read it for a second time, but it only stirs the
disappointment and hatred for the whole thing all over again. Not just the
letter, but what I’ve lived through for the last nine years, the accident, all
the death. This was supposed to be the catalyst that would correct my world. I
hate him even more. I hate this letter. And I hate my life and what it’s
become.

I
step back into my house, the letter still in my hand. I grab my wine glass from
the coffee table and stand motionless, unable to process how I’m feeling.

My
emotions going through a series of highs and lows and when I walk into my
kitchen, I’ve turned furious. I launch the wine glass into the sink. It
explodes as soon as it hits the stainless steel basin. Shattering into a
million pieces that scatter and fly all over my kitchen, the small amount of
red wine left in the glass splattering the white cabinets and the tile floor.

I
take it all in, the image far too similar to the accident and it breaks me. I
fall to the floor, sobbing. Each sob comes out a strangled cry, unable to
breathe and my chest closing in on me as I feel like my heart is literally
breaking inside me. The letter lays next to me, I pick it up and in a fit of
anger, I tear it in half and then again, tossing the pieces in front of me. I
leave them lying among the shards of glass and wine.