Page 99 of Courtroom Drama
after the trial, parties involved in the case may communicate about the outcome of the trial, potential next steps, or other related matters
emotional catharsis
“Come in, tell meeverything!” Mel squeals as she embraces me at our apartment door before I’ve stepped inside, nearly knocking me over with enthusiasm.
“Well, hello,” I say, sliding past her when she releases, noting it’s the most excited anyone has ever been at my arrival.
I peel out of my jacket and throw it over the back of the couch, looking around our little apartment. Mel has tidied up, her usual collection of shipping boxes noticeably missing from beside the door and the typically full kitchen sink bare.
“You cleaned,” I say.
“Yes, I cleaned. I wanted you to have a welcoming return. Did it work?” She takes me by the wrist and leads me to the couch.
“It looks great,” I tell her, truly appreciative.
She stares at me with her gummy smile and throws her hand into dizzying circles in the air when I don’t immediately begin speaking. “Well?” she says, eyebrows raised, the familiar movement rumpling her forehead like that of a bulldog.
“Look,” I say, smiling back at her, placing my hands on her knees in an attempt at a loving gesture. “I promise, I will tell you everything. I will.”
I stand, and she follows suit, frowning.
“But first, I really, more than anything, need a bath. The hotel had a standing shower only, and I wouldn’t have soaked in a tub at that hotel anyway. So give me an hour, and I’ll be all yours. Deal?”
Mel presses her bottom lip into her top one, a poor attempt at hiding her dismay. I smile, having missed her face, even this particular discontented grin. I wrap myself around her before she can argue, squeezing her in both because I’ve missed her and in a preemptive strike. She sighs, and I know I’ve won this mini-battle.
Alone in the bathroom, I unpack my toiletries as the tub fills. I eye the corner of the folded note Damon handed me at my hotel room door, sticking out of the front pocket of my tote. He gave it to me only two hours ago, but already the last two weeks have begun to recede into a dreamlike memory. I’m crestfallen by its breakneck transformation.
I sit on the tub’s edge, running my fingers along the warm water, finding its temperature inviting. Drying my hand on the towel I have already rolled up to place under my neck, I pick up the folded paper again. It is inevitable that I will unfold his note, that I will read whatever parting words he chose to record and subsequently feel a range of emotions that all succumb to one. Disappointment. Because no matter what he wrote, I already know how our story ends. The story of us is a ghost roaming the halls of the Singer Suites, unsuitable for the real world.
The truth is I could have been convinced. I could have been convinced that despite our parents, despite our shallowly buried feelings about the past, despite how we both have and have not fully moved on, despite our fears of hurting or being hurt by the other again, we could have found a way to be together.
I sigh, carefully unfolding the paper, bracing for the impact of his handwritten words. At first, I simply stare at the shapes on the page, not yet interpreting any meaning. The too-sharp curves of hisS’s and the barely there tail of hisy’s that dip well below the line. Each letter, each word, slanted slightly backward, as if afraid to offend if upright. Eventually, I allow myself to go there.
SYD,it begins, and I immediately hear his strikingly deep voice in my head, see the peacock-feather blue green of his eyes and the vortex of his chin dimple, as if he is speaking the words—his words—directly to me.
BEFORE THE TRIAL, I HOPED FOR A QUICK END SO I COULD GET OUT AND MOVE ON. BUT SLOWLY—NO, THAT’S NOT TRUE. IT WAS QUICKLY... FAR TOO QUICKLY—I FOUND MYSELF WISHING FOR IT TO CONTINUE. TO DRAG ON DAY AFTER DAY SO I’D GET TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH YOU. THE FACT THAT WE WERE THROWN TOGETHER AGAIN—I HAD TO BELIEVE IT MEANT SOMETHING.
AS THE TRIAL WOUND DOWN, THERE WAS AN UNSETTLEDNESS IN ME I HADN’T FELT IN A REALLY LONG TIME. IT’S SIMILAR TO THE FEELING I HAD AFTER KARA DIED. LIKE MY SKIN WAS MORE ALERT AND EVEN THE AIR HURT. IT’S NOT PAIN EXACTLY, BUT LIKE AN OVEREXPOSURE. I’LL BE HONEST WITH YOU, SYD. I DON’T LIKE THAT FEELING. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT.
BUT THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE I NEED TO TELL YOU. I WASN’T HONEST WITH YOU ABOUT HOW KARA DIED.
I stop reading, stare down at the now full tub. Something in me stills, instantly knowing what comes next is a threadbare glimpse at his soul. I don’t know if I can handle it. I read on anyway, knowing that if he wrote these words, I owe it to him—to whatever we had—to read them.
WHEN I FIRST TOLD YOU ABOUT KARA, I DID WHAT I ALWAYS DO. I TRIED ON A DIFFERENT VERSION OF EVENTS TO SEE IF THEY FIT IN A WAY THAT MIGHT ABSOLVE ME. TO SEE IF PRETENDING HER DEATH HAPPENED UNDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES, AWAY FROM ME, WOULD MAKE THE ACHE OF IT LESS. IT NEVER WORKS, THOUGH. THE TRUTH IS, I AM THE REASON SHE’S NOT HERE. IT’S MY FAULT.
I stop again, regard my breath, follow it down to my lungs, then back up and out. Regardless of what admission comes next, I know he’s carried this guilt around all this time. It’s a burden far greater than the one I’ve held about our parents. He’s had so much more pain, more challenge, more self-hatred.
I never knew.
And regardless of what comes next, I know it’s not his fault. How could it be when he loved her so dearly?
I look down at the page, letting the words take form again.
I TOOK HER TO THE BEACH. THERE WAS THIS GIRL, LAUREN. I WANTED TO IMPRESS HER, AND I ASKED KARA TO COME ALONG, KNOWING LAUREN WOULD FIND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY LITTLE SISTER ENDEARING. I WAS USING KARA TO GET SOMETHING I WANTED.
I WASN’T WATCHING HER.
I wince, and a tear hits the page. I smear it away quickly, not wanting to hurt the ink.
