20/20

“I’m so tired.” I mean it when I say that. I could fall asleep standing here in Jen’s entrance way. This week has been hell and there are only a few minutes left to vent before my lunch break is over. “This whole week has been never-ending. Mom called about the dog passing, my car died on Tuesday, I don’t know when I’ll get it back from the shop, transit here is bullshit… That’s why I was late.”

Jen is sitting behind a little yellow mug with pink flowers, methodically stirring her tea. A faint “hmm” escapes her lips, but she doesn’t even look up at me.

“Frank screwed me over for promotion again this morning,” I go on. “He is the biggest A-hole on earth, I can’t stand him. He hardly ever comes out of his big fancy office and when he does it’s to tell you what you’re doing wrong. As if he even knows what I do on a day-to-day basis. If I’m not going to move up soon I need out of this job. He wouldn’t even give me Easter off. God forbid people should care about anything other than putting money in his pockets.”

I can feel my exhaustion giving way to anger. Thinking about my job, Frank, and his stupid smug face makes me instantly tense.

Jen is still sleepily stirring her tea. “That’s too bad,” she says. “Sorry.” She isn’t even bothering to feign sympathy and it annoys me. She’s got everything going for her and all her ducks in a row, it must be nice.

“I can’t even count the number of times a day that I think about telling him off,” I continue. “I would quit tomorrow but it's impossible to find anything else right now. I wish I could afford to say just one half of the shit that comes into my head. The man needs a reality check.”

Jen has slouched down and forward in her chair like a rag doll and is holding her head in her hands above the hot cup of tea. The steam is billowing out around her face, she breathes it in deeply.

“Are you even listening to me?” I ask with an edge of irritation.

She looks up at me for the first time since I walked through the door. She looks tired, her eyes are puffy and dark. She’s probably been forgoing sleep to binge those crappy reality TV shows she likes on Netflix. “Yeah, I’m listening,” she says. You can hear the depletion in her voice. “But I can’t really help you; I don’t know what you want me to say.” She pulls herself up out of her chair and moves towards the hall. “One second,” she says, and disappears around the corner.

I check my watch, my bus will be down the street any minute and the next one isn’t for half an hour. If I miss it Frank will have my head. “I gotta go!” I yell after her, but I stay put a minute longer waiting for her response. I’m telling myself I don’t want to be rude and run out on Jen, but deep down I just really want to miss that bus.

“Here,” Jen says coming back into the kitchen, “Sarah gave me this notebook the other day. I’m not going to use it, why don’t you just write down all this crap you’re feeling all the time.” She holds out a small black leather book toward me, and without thinking I take it.

“I don’t need a diary Jen, I need a damn break.” It comes off snappier than I intended, I tuck the book into the laptop bag slung over my shoulder, and leave.

As I step out onto the porch the cold sting of winter hits. I tuck my chin trying to burrow my face into my scarf, and tense my shoulders up to my ears while retracting my hands into my sleeves. The thought of fleeing the country to somewhere warm slips in and out of my mind, a dream forgotten as quickly as it was realized.

The bus is late, of course. As I step on, the driver eyes me slowly head to foot. I can feel judgment pouring off of him. Maybe it’s just my anxiety. Walking to an open seat by the rear door, I spot a group of teenagers at the back of the bus. Their volume falls as I draw near. I sense them staring a hole in the back of my head, as I take my seat. Then the snickers and the laughing start. I reach into my bag for my phone to distract myself. My hand grazes something firm, but smooth and soft. I clasp my fingers around the little black book and pull it out. I run my hand over the leather face and turn it over, focusing all of my attention on it in an attempt not to hear the jokes being told at my expense. It feels good in my hands. I open it, the spine resists, it's the first time it’s being opened. I wonder why Jen didn’t want it? The ivory pages are crisp and delicately ruled, I turn to the first one, grab a pen and write:

Things I wish I had said:

- To the teens on the bus: I couldn’t help but notice you are talking about me. How about you shut up and mind your own business?

Of course I’d never say something like that out loud, I’m too awkward, too quiet. I don’t let people know what I really think, or how much I care about what they think, I just exist in silence. It feels good to write it though, it feels like progress somehow. I close the book, and pull the flat black elastic over the gently rounded corners of the front cover to secure my thoughts.

The rest of the day is a lifetime of its own, time creeps lackadaisically onward. Tectonic plates shift faster than the office clock’s minute hand advances. Frank is there, as always, in my ear and on my back, but now the book resides on my cubical desk, and each time the urge passes I open it up and rage to the pages: -To Frank, To the eyes at the water cooler, To the group discussing after work drinks beside me without extending an invitation, To Frank again… and again and again.

When the clock finally reaches five, I am too exhausted to feel the usual end of day elation. I gather my things, tuck the book into my bag and start towards the elevator. There is a pretty brunette in a tight pencil skirt and white blouse. She turns and our eyes meet.

“Hold the elevator!” I call out, lengthening my stride.

She shifts forward toward the door, pauses, and reaches for the button panel, her eyes return to mine as if to frantically say, “It’s not working!” As the door comes to a close.

- To the girl in the elevator: I know you're pressing the close door button right now. An arm in the doorway stops it from closing when you really want it to. Just be a decent fucking person and hold it.

Maybe that one is too harsh, but it’s been a long day. Two more notes are added on my way home, To the guy who stole my cab and To the old man that practically sat on my lap on the bus. I make it in my front door, eat a bowl of soggy leftover stir fry, and fall into bed to watch a comedy and escape reality. I fall asleep before the protagonist even starts to go to absurd lengths to rectify his silly error.

A shrill and piercing sound grabs me and pulls me from my dreams. My eyes are still half closed as I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, but it’s not that. A moment of utter confusion passes. The home phone? I forget I even have one half the time, only my mother ever calls it. I run to the living room in my boxers and answer.

“Hello?” I ask sleepily.

It’s my mom, of course, but something isn’t right. Her breath sounds shallow, she’s having trouble getting words out - not usually a problem for her. My heart falls into my stomach and a wave of dread is sent outward, washing over my entire body. I am suddenly more awake than I have ever been.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

Her words come from behind full body crying, like tiny mice in danger, they fight their way through whatever hole - whatever break in breath - they can find. “Your sister’s gone…Jen’s gone.” For a moment I hear nothing but the electronic hum of the phone against my ear. “Sarah found her.”

I hold the phone to my ear a full minute after Mom hangs up. My entire body is a quivering leaf. I set the phone back in the cradle. There is a tightness in my chest, a wail escapes my body as I collapse around it. I feel like I am suffocating, fighting for each breath. Am I breathing out? I can’t tell. I cry, then gasp, feebly attempting to pull in more oxygen, there is no real exhale, no release.

How much time passes while I am there on the living room floor I don’t know. I am still alive though, no matter how wrong life feels now. I am supposed to go to Jen’s house, Mom said she left a note for me. I need to pick it up. I need to understand.

Getting dressed is out of body. Brushing my teeth is out of body. The bus ride to Jen’s is out of body.

I am on the front step now and my hand is knocking on the door. Sarah opens it, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “They came and got her a few hours ago. I had no idea, I mean I knew she was down, but I had no idea.” She hugs me, “I’m so sorry.” She whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I assure her. Is it mine?

I walk by her into the kitchen. The house feels surreal. The yellow mug with the little pink flowers on it is still in the sink, waiting to be washed and filled back up. I pull out the chair she sat in yesterday afternoon, sit down and set my bag on the floor beside me. I pray that I am dreaming.

Sarah puts a folded piece of white paper in front of me. My name is scrolled across the front in Jen’s always messy but somehow beautiful writing. My hands shake as I open it and read:

Hey little brother,

I’m sorry, leaving a note feels so cliché. After talking this afternoon I wanted to help you. I’ve been saving for years, and I want you to have it all. There should be close to twenty grand for you. I can’t take it with me, and you deserve a damn break.

Love you,

Jen

A tear falls on the corner of the paper, and instantly bleeds out. I fold the letter back up as quickly as I can. I don’t want money. I just want my sister back. My mind is on yesterday now, the tea, her tired eyes, the strain in her voice... and how annoyed I was. I’m the worst brother in the whole world. I need out of this house. I start to shove the letter into my bag. My hand grazes something firm, but smooth and soft. I take out the book Jen gave me, flip to the back cover and tuck her letter into the little pocket there. Then I look back at all the insults I laid into the pages; All my anger, all the 'Things I wish I had said,' I grab a pen.

-To Jen: How are you?