Letters to the lives I destroyed

To: chrisreiner@ymail.com

From: jakenreiner@ymail.com

Subject: February 11^th

Hi dad,

The one thought that doesn’t leave me is that all would have been different if it had been you behind the wheel. I know Ronan, mom and I used to tease you about how careful you were, but well, we needed used it. You’d have driven slower across the snow. You’d have stopped earlier. And perhaps the car wouldn’t have slipped.

Right before I lost control I told you how weird it was that you were always cautious except for when you were skiing. Really, how can a man who cycles with a helmet and a safety vest on speed down a mountain on flimsy pieces of wood without a second thought? I remember we all laughed about it; or at least, Ronan, mom and I did while you pretended to have your feelings hurt.

There’s an ironic joke in that being the last thing I said to you. I can’t bring myself to find it funny.

I wanted to have more holidays together, dad. Not just with the family, but also with the two of us. Our trip to Istanbul will be one midweek I’ll never forget, especially not the restaurant under the bridge. I’m still checking every sandwich I eat for fish bones. Including, of course, the sandwiches without fish on them. Your WhatsApp still exists. I’ll send you some.

Shit, it took me three days to get back to writing, and I still don’t know what else to say. I love you, dad. Would that you’d have had a different son that was more like you. Maybe then all of you would have been alive.

Jake

***

To: m.reiner-johnson@ymail.com

From: jakenreiner@ymail.com

Subject: February 11^th

Dear, lovely mom,

There are days I envy grandpa for his religion. I imagine it must be a comforting thought to believe your child to be in a better place now. I can’t bring myself to believe. Grandpa asked me where I thought you are now, and I told him “nowhere”. He hugged me then.

Still, in the very slight chance you’re out there somewhere, I want to tell you not to worry too much about me. Not that I could ever prevent you from worrying before…

Living with grandpa and grandma was weird at first. I got used to it, even to the old book smell lingering in the house. Grandma has been cooking a lot, and forcing me to eat. It’s good that she does; I forget to most days. I walk a lot, in the small forest nearby mostly. I would’ve gone to the beach, but that was your favourite place. Also, this time of year, there are too many people.

I can’t deal with people right now.

Grandpa and I have grown closer. He talks about you and Aunt Emma a lot. Hearing how the two of you built a blanket fort and declared yourself an independent nation was the first time I smiled in months. Then I cried again.

I don’t know how grandpa does it; living with the knowledge that two of his four children are no longer here. Maybe believing in an afterlife helps, or maybe he tries to stay strong for grandma. She doesn’t speak about you at all. I think she fears that would break her.

You know, I think I want to come back on my previous point. I wouldn’t mind it if you worried about me. It’s hard imagining life without your fussing.

I love you,

Jake

***

To: ronan00@reiner.com

From: jakenreiner@ymail.com

Subject: February 11^th

Hey little big dipshit,

I give up. That’s all the meanness I have for you today. I know it’s a bit of a tradition, but I tried four or five sentences, and none of them worked. So, for the one time in my life let me say something I should’ve said way more often.

I love you, bro. And I miss you.

Let me tell you the one thing I don’t dare tell anyone else: I wish it were you who’d survived. Damn it, you’re two years younger than me and knew better what to do with you life than I ever did. If you’d survived, the world would’ve known a brilliant (soon-to-be) doctor, and your girlfriend wouldn’t have been left alone. I only saw Katy at the funeral, and I could see in her eyes that she hates me. She wished you had survived, and not the idiot behind the steering wheel. Well, as I said, her and me both.

Man, I don’t know what to do. I pour all that I have into my study, shutting myself off from every other part of my life on purpose. I’m just so fucking sick of all the pitied looks my friends give me. I still don’t know what I’ll do when I graduate. Let’s be real, why would the world need another historian?

My professor of First World War studies took me apart after class five weeks back. She’s the one who accompanied my year on the study trip to Belgium, remember? The one who single-handedly re-enacted the battle of Ypres? Anyway, she told me how her husband died from cancer and her children told her she should’ve been the one to die. Both of us bawled our eyes out. Then she told me about a support group she went to, one that could help me.

I haven’t been to her class since. I know she’s right, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to the support group. And then I felt guilty and couldn’t bring myself to go to class. And the longer I waited, the harder it became.

I know what you’d say. “Stop being a coward and do the damned thing”. You were always better at doing the hard stuff than I was. Yet another reason you should’ve been the one to survive.

Ronan, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll try to live better, for you if for no one else. Tomorrow is the next meeting of the support group. Maybe I’ll go.

Jake

***

To: jakenreiner@ymail.com

From: jakenreiner@ymail.com

Subject: February 11^th

Hi me,

It feels weird to write a letter to myself, but Doctor Matthews said it might help.

I sent the letters to dad, mom and Ronan. It took me three weeks to get it done, and I think the backspace button on my keyboard needs a rest. It’ll have to wait. One more letter to type.

I went to the support group Professor Greene told me about yesterday. She was there as well. I didn’t say anything yet; I specifically asked not to. But I did go, and I did listen. Baby steps. None of the people attending had driven their family off the side of a mountain, but we all did have one thing in common: we survived, and we feel guilty for it.

I’ll go again next week, and I’ll tell my story. There. I’ve written it down. Now I’ll have to.

Going to the meeting made it clear there’s one thing I have to say to myself. I don’t have to believe it yet, but I have to write it down.

Jake Nathaniel Reiner, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have driven more carefully. You couldn’t have known how slippery the snow had become. You didn’t damage the crash barriers. It’s not your fault that you’re the only one who survived.

Fuck. That’s harder to type out than I thought.

Jake Nathaniel Reiner, I can’t love you yet, but I can try to forgive you, at least a little. I still have a life to live. Not just for myself, but for mom, dad and Ronan too.

Grandma’s baking pie. Grandpa’s reading the paper. I’ll go down now, and tell them the one thing I wish I’d told my family before the car slipped. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Professor Greene’s class again.

I accept you,

Jake.