Dear Bea,

Since you didn’t leave a note, I thought I’d write one to you. 

Maybe this will help me get my hands on some of that invisible, fantastical substance they call “closure.” Everyone raves about the stuff, but I’m not even entirely sure it exists. It’s been three months since your funeral and according to my therapist, I still haven’t gotten any. 

On most days the entire quest seems absurd and insultingly superficial. Like I’d prefer to grab a fistful of “closure” to throw at my therapist and tell him where he could shove it.

But on other days, when I see an ad for a movie you would have liked or the back of a girl’s head that looks a little too much like yours, I think maybe… maybe I’d like some. It sounds peaceful. Maybe I’d sleep better, have more of an appetite. Maybe the urge to scream your name at the sky every time it enters my mind, maybe that would leave. I’d really like that to leave. It’s very inconvenient while grocery shopping.

My therapist says that my problem with “reaching a point of closure” is that I’m avoiding everything that might help me get there. Which, admittedly, might have some truth to it.

I didn’t come back to town until the day of the funeral, can you believe that? Somehow I still managed to stay away. The thought of driving back was too much. Finally being back, standing amongst all those people again, having to wash down the hurt with fruit punch and small talk about Aunt Susan’s hydrangea bushes, proved too much as well, when the day finally arrived. I escaped to my car directly from the graveyard and drove the four hours back to campus as soon as I made the rounds. Didn’t even go home. I saw Mom and Dad though, during the service.

They looked sad, don’t worry. They behaved themselves.

(Liam White cried, by the way, when the casket was lowered into the ground. I thought you’d get a kick out of that. Didn’t you have a crush on him in third grade?) 

Anyway, I drove back to my dorm room and I tried to do what our uncles, aunts, and all the Kentucky cousins seemed to be trying to do for closure: leave my feelings in that conveniently dug hole, buried alongside you beneath the soil, to decompose in peaceful silence. It seemed to work for a while, at least in my own head. I would push, push, push away every stray thought of you I had, evaluate my feelings and nod to myself in the mirror, convinced I was above grief, above anger, above it all. But then my roommate would ask me how I was feeling later that same day with that sympathetic head-tilt thing, and I would just snap. Isn’t that a scary thought, Bea? How much you can convince yourself you’re fine?

Though I guess you’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t you. 

To tell the truth, I was very angry with you for a while. I still am, actually. It was a very selfish thing you did. Maybe if you had left a note I’d feel differently but as of now, here we are. I can’t pretend otherwise. Pretending didn’t get me any closure. 

So I’ve decided to face my feelings head-on. Grab a shovel and dig them up, no matter how difficult they might be. Yes that’s right, Bea, your big sister is coming home from college. A visit. A visit for you. For real this time. No flaking out, no broken promises. 

Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what you begged me for? Over the phone and in all those letters?

(All those letters and you couldn’t leave one when it really mattered? No, that would have been too much, wouldn’t it have, Bea? Wouldn’t it have? Why ca—)

Don’t be alarmed that my writing is now in blue ink, it’s just that I broke the tip of my pencil and I couldn’t find another one.

I think I really need this weekend away. 

             ~ Cat

Dear Bea,

Mom is the same. If the reason you did what you did was to inspire some big epiphany so she would change or something, it didn’t work. 

As soon as I walked in the door I got a half hug, one of those little smiles she does, and a whopping “Oh honey, bangs? Really? Did you have those at the gathering a few months ago, I don’t recall…”

That’s what they call your funeral, by the way. The Gathering. You specifically, though, haven’t been mentioned yet. So far, when the day comes up it’s to rehash the drama between Great Aunt Jean and the oldest of the Kentucky cousins (Keith?). Apparently there was a major exchange of words over which college majors were “correct” and which were “useless” and “frivolous” resulting in Keith being denied casserole leftovers. A very big scandal, as you can imagine. 

So big, in fact, it’s managed to overshadow yours. We’re already a day and a half into this miserable weekend, and not only have we stuck strictly to meaningless fluff, but your name hasn’t come up once. Not once!

Dad is included too, by the way. Although he at least shows symptoms of something. But whether it’s grief or the beginning stages of insanity, I couldn’t say.

He’s been glued to grandpa’s dusty old workbench since I got here, but won’t tell anyone what he’s working on. Hours and hours and hours, no breaks—he’s lost it.

I’m suddenly reminded that yes, there was a reason I stayed away all this time. Our parents are psychotic. 

Oh, well. Half a day to go.

             ~ Cat

Dear Bea,

I’ve been in this house for six days. Six. Days. I honestly don’t know how you put up with this for so long.

I was packing my bags one night, right after I wrote that second letter, when Mom materialized in the doorway and mused, “You know what Catherine? I think it’s time for us to do some spring cleaning.”

Naturally I respond with, “It’s October, Mom.”

But then she goes, “Never too early to start,” and walks away. 

I’m left with a gaping mouth, a gaping half-packed suitcase, and the silence of my childhood bedroom. Classes be damned, apparently. 

Four days later, we’ve cleaned every room in the house twice through. Once to “purge”(AKA getting rid of everything that “doesn’t spark joy.”) and twice to put all those infomercial cleaning supplies to good use. My arms are sore, Bea.

Dad hasn’t helped, obviously. Still too busy in the garage working on his “project.” Mom doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t like it when he helps anyway; he misses spots while dusting, doesn’t scrub the floors hard enough, tracks in mud from the garage where he’s supposed to be vacuuming. 

But you know all this. We lived it. I’m starting to see how much fell on you when I left. I’m trying not to think about it too hard.

Mom and I haven’t yelled at each other yet, though, which you’ll be pleased to hear. Six days; that’s got to be a new record, hasn’t it? I can’t tell if my patience has improved or she’s gotten less… herself since I’ve been gone, but I’m trying not to think about that too hard either. I don’t want to screw up a good thing.

This is also the reason I haven’t brought up why we avoid your bedroom every time we clean.

I pass it in the hallways while dusting the windowsills, and I turn to look at it every night before bed, but I haven’t set foot inside. I don’t think anyone else has either. You’ll think I’m crazy, but there’s something off about the door handle. Sometimes I feel like it’s watching me. Waiting for something. Silent. Staring. 

Sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll update you.

             ~ Cat

Dear Bea,

I screwed up a good thing. 

Mom hasn’t come home from Aunt Susan’s (she went there to “cool off” last night) and I’ve barely left my bedroom. Dad is still in the garage. 

Something just snapped, I think. One minute Mom and I were vacuuming the sofa and the next we were at each other’s throats. I’ll spare you the details (I know how you get) but just know that it was a bad one. 

Your name was mentioned a few times.

Maybe this is good, though. Maybe it’ll be better now—with all the unsaid said, everything out in the open. At least we aren’t pushing it down anymore. Avoiding your name, shuffling around your ghost. Ignoring. Pretending. I couldn’t stand the pretending. 

You know what? I think I’ll go into your room now. Clean it up. I don’t care what Mom says, it’s time. We’ve all got to start facing the facts in this house. You’re dead. You are dead.

Bea. Is. Dead.

Beatrice is dead Beatrice is dead Beatrice is dead.

I’m going into your room now. Sorry if I break anything. I’m still clumsy. Not that much has changed.

             ~ Cat

Dear Bea,

Did you always have that poster above your bed? The one of that band? I don’t think you did the last time I was here. It’s so strange—I look at it and see you.

You, seeing it at the store and somehow convincing Mom to buy it, or using some of your own precious babysitting money. You, unraveling it at home and piling heavy books on the ends overnight so it would stay flat. You, teetering awkwardly at the edge of your bed with a scrap of painter’s tape between your lips, lining the corners up just perfectly on the wall. You, coming home after school every day, looking at it and having it make you smile.

Did it make you smile? I hope it made you smile. 

I left it up just in case it did. I don’t want your spirit to come back and get mad at me for taking it down. 

Will I be able to feel it if you come back? Isn’t that a thing? If it is, how do I know when it happens? I am wholly unprepared. People talk about “feeling” people, but what do they feel like? Cold? Or is it more of an emotional presence? Gosh, they should give you a ghost instruction manual when you buy a casket. 

So far I haven’t felt anything. Not even sadness, really, like I thought. Just nostalgia and a heavy pinch of guilt. A few heavy pinches.

I found your pile of yearbooks. 

In your third desk drawer, beneath the old box of rainbow loom bracelets. 

I saw the stack, felt a twinge of something in my stomach, and wondered if they would put your picture in this year’s yearbook. Then I stopped wondering that because wondering that made my eyes sting, so I flipped open to your page in the kindergarten one.

I could almost see through the thumbprint-sized photo into the moment it captured. Back when you still liked the picture day dresses Mom picked out for you and didn’t mind when Dad called you his “Little Bea-ver.” Your eyes were so bright in that picture I almost didn’t recognize you. I didn’t know they had the capacity for that much sunshine. Or I guess I forgot. 

I looked for signs of what they would become; early signs of the dull, sunken slits that would shoot daggers at Mom, roll at Dad, and plead with me. But there wasn’t a trace.

Not in kindergarten, first, second, or all through the elementary volumes. 

You used to play sports, I forgot about that. And you were in the girl scouts. I stared at the beaming picture of you with your third grade troop, your little brown vest and three dutiful fingers held up to your forehead in salute, and I tried to remember why you quit. I couldn’t.

That’s when I moved on to middle school. It’s here that your eyes started to change. 

Your sixth grade, my freshman year… remember how close we were? Still making up secret languages and secret games, still too young to fathom a world outside the blanket forts and friendship bracelets.

The following year was when you first started to get bad. I can’t remember what caused the badness, initially. I don’t think it matters now. 

You knew, then, if you tried talking to Mom she would have interpreted it as an attack on herself, and Dad would have just blamed it on hormones, so you talked to me. You talked to me and unloaded on me and cried to me until my ears bled and I, no matter how hard I tried to be an impassive dumping ground, started to feel it a bit too. 

It was too much. All of it. Maybe a stronger, smarter sister would have handled it better and gone to someone—anyone—to get you some help, but I didn’t know where to start. 

Instead, I did what this family is so good at: Shut my eyes. Pulled away. Away from you and your little hurricane mind that I was so afraid of. No more forts. No more bracelets.

Without your alliance keeping me steady, I fought with Mom more than ever. More yelling, more slammed doors, more crossfire. We put you in the middle of it, didn’t we? Why am I asking, I know we did. I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry.

There are so many things I’m sorry for. 

I’m sorry for going to college so far away. For not calling as much as I should have. For not replying to your letters and not coming home. For not listening, for not being there, for not doing more, for not being who you needed me to be. 

I’m sorry, Bea.

I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so so so so

Dear Bea.

I stopped writing before because I started to cry. I think I’m better now.

Dad knocked on my door a while ago to show me what he was making in the garage.

He smelled strongly of sawdust and sweat, but he’s finally done. I have to say, it was worth it. 

Remember Grandpa George? Probably not, he died when you were four, but you’re buried next to him now so I’m sure you guys have had time to catch up. He liked to whittle. Birds, little frogs, pipes for his tobacco, things like that. Apparently he taught Dad. 

It’s so beautiful, Bea.

A beaver, eight inches high, beautifully intricate, with eyes so realistic, Dad and I sat together on your bed, just staring at them, for a solid five minutes. I think that was when Mom walked in, back from Aunt Susan’s. She sat next to me without a word and stared too. Those eyes… I swear, they’re made of walnut and pure sunshine. 

When we finally roused from our trance, I showed Mom my progress on your room. She looked around for a moment, and I worried she would get angry again, but then I realized the look on her face was something far different. Words aren’t enough to explain what it was.

We cleaned together in mostly silence until nighttime. We left the poster where it was.

We probably would have kept going until sunrise, but Dad knocked on the door. He suggested an “outing,” and we agreed because we thought it would be good for him to get some fresh air.

He didn’t tell us where we were going, and I didn’t even have a guess until we pulled up on the side of the road across from the graveyard. 

He brought the beaver with him. We didn’t speak as we walked towards you, but there was this feeling in the air, I don’t know… 

Like this was the first time we were really together all week, you know? The three of us. Present. Whole. 

We stopped at the stone with your name on it. Dad pulled flowers out of nowhere and handed them to Mom. She took them with a shaking hand and set them neatly beside the grave. Dad propped the beaver up next to them, and stepped back.

We stood in a line, staring at the words “Here Lies Beatrice Gray” in the darkness, and I realized something. There was no part of me, not even in the angry, whispering back corners of my mind, that saw those words and wanted to shout into the clouds.

Is that closure? Is this it? Did I find it? Do I try to hold on, with both trembling hands, and move on? 

I don’t have all the answers right now, and things aren’t perfect, but it feels as though I’ve unlocked something. The first step, maybe.

Forgiveness.

Take this last letter not as an apology, or a question, but my written forgiveness. I forgive you, Bea. And Mom and Dad. And the Kentucky cousins who will probably forget you ever existed in the first place. But most of all, I forgive myself.

I really hope these get to you. I’m going to put them all in envelopes and address them to Heaven. I don’t care if that’s dumb because I know you would have liked it. 

Don’t worry about me, Bea, I’ll be alright. We’re gonna be ok, the two of us. 

I promise.

             Stay bright, 
             ~ Cat