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Ky
Dear Ky,
I’m sorry. I have to go away and can’t see you anymore. It is not your fault. It is mine. I miss you. I hope you get this. You were the best friend ever. I hope to see you some day.
Oh. I forgot, Superman is better than Batman. Pizza Hut sucks. The big flat pizza is better.
Love,
Rubi
I re-read the letter over and over without tearing it. I’ve balled it up a couple of times and thrown it across the room, but I always pick it up and flatten the lined school paper. It was the last letter that she wrote me before she disappeared, the last communication I had from her before I never saw her again. Every other day after that letter I went to the treehouse I built with a sheet I took from the hallway linen closet. I was always hoping she would show up, but all she left me was a letter under a rock laid beside a dried-out flower with one last petal on its stem. I kept it in a Ziploc bag hidden in one of my favorite comic books featuring Batman.
I hear a tap on my door as my best friend Chris pushes it, opening it farther. His father dropped him off because he had to be at his office and couldn’t take him to school.
“Give me a minute.”
“Let’s go, dude. My father’s going to go ape shit if I’m late to school,” he says.
Chris needs me to give him a ride until his car is out of the shop. He got into a fender bender on the way to school recently and he’s getting it fixed.
I look up, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be right out.”
He knows the look I give all my friends. Thedon’t fuck with me, drop itlook. I know I have a short temper, and I hate giving him attitude, but I also hate repeating myself. My temper started flaring after that day she left me at eleven years old. The day she left me with a sorry letter and wilted flower like that was enough of a goodbye after everything that we’d shared. A whole year of friendship up in smoke like it meant nothing.
I wait until he leaves before folding the old notebook paper into the Ziploc bag containing the dried flower and placing them inside the comic book and stuffing the entire thing under my mattress. I always take it out when I have the same recurring dream of Rubi. The funny thing is, she is not eleven years old like when I last saw her. Ironically, she is the same age I am each year that I have the same dream. I can’t see her face, but I can see her dirty blonde hair and hear her say my name. She calls out to me in the dream, and I answer. But she just keeps calling my name like she can’t hear me, and then I’m left hearing her sobbing. That’s when I wake up in a cold sweat like I have been looking for her for hours…and I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically.
Swiping my keys and wallet from my nightstand, I stand and grab the strap of my gym bag and head outside, all while remembering the line that has been plaguing me for the last seven years.It is not your fault. It is mine. I miss you.
For seven years I have wanted to see her again, to find her. To tell her how I felt as a kid, but I never got the chance. I wanted to tell her how much I loved being with her. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me. How much our friendship meant to me. How could she quickly just forget about me—only leaving a stupid letter with no real reason?
For the whole year of our friendship, three times a week we would meet in the at the fence line in the backyard of my house where her town ended and mine began. I didn’t know her parents and she didn’t know mine, but I didn’t care. We didn’t care. All we cared about were the moments we spent together after school. All I knew about Rubi was what mattered. The things that mattered the most. Not where she lived or what school she went to, but I assumed it was the public school on the other side of town. We talked about everything eleven-year-olds could talk about. The treehouse was right behind my father’s estate where the rear of the property line would determine where the rich kids and the poor kids lived. I knew she didn’t come from a rich family. Even at eleven years old when I saw her climbing the fence, I could tell that the type of clothing she wore and the shoes that were on her feet were secondhand. The threads of her shirt were thin and frayed, and her shoes were dirty and not name brand like the ones I wore every day.
But money doesn’t always buy happiness. Living with my father after my mother left was a testament to that.
My mother left me and my dad—abandoning us for another life after my tenth birthday. So the only other person I could call a friend at the time was Rubi. She was the only one I could tell my secrets to. As a young kid, when things got rough or people in your family disappointed you, friendship like the one I had with Rubi was the only thing that mattered. My best friend mattered, and she was it.
I never forgot the disappointment I felt with my mother that day. It had been raining for a while, and the sky was dark and overcast. I could still recall the distinct odor of fertilizer mingling with the damp grass. My father standing in the entryway of the mahogany-colored front door, wiping away the tears that were streaming down my face, and I knew in that moment…she was never coming back. I would never see her again. I would never smell her lovely perfume, or taste her home-cooked meals that would not be made again under this roof. I would never feel her touch me with affection again.
She stooped until our eye levels were aligned. I would never forget what she said that day. With lips painted like a pink rose, she said, “It is not your fault, sweetheart. It’s mine. You’re better off with your dad, and try not to give him a hard time.”
I hiccupped, wiping my face and not understanding the reason why she was leaving. “Are you coming back. I promise to be good, Mommy. I promise,” I pleaded.
She gave me the impression that I was bothering her as she shook her head and didn’t answer my question. Straightening while exhaling a breath, she looked up at my father standing behind me with a glare. “Get him inside, Richard. You’re making me look bad.”
I turned my body to look at my father, hoping he would tell her not to leave. Not to leave me. I watched him, but all he did was nudge his head for me to get inside.
When I turned back to see my mother one last time, she was already in the car that was idling in the driveway. She was leaving me. She left us both. She was gone.
I followed my father inside the massive house, devastated. He gave me a stern, emotionless stare before pushing the door shut behind me, the knocker’s distinctive thud the only sound that either of us could hear.
He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, gazing into my eyes as he said,“Don’t ever trust a woman with your heart. They will take advantage and then they will abandon you like you mean nothing. Always remember that.”
After Rubi left that letter, I knew what my father told me that day was true. I would never forget the way she left me. The way Rubi abandoned me…just like my mother.
How quickly they left by choice because you didn’t matter enough. Their promises broken––only to be rewarded with my blinding hate. It is just a reminder of how much you meant to them. A reminder of what happens when you become complacent.
“Are you going to put the top down?” Chris asks, as he slides into the passenger seat of my matte black BMW M8 convertible.
