This is my last letter to you.

Dear Dad,

School’s over. This is my last letter to you.

Donnie and Rhett are in the other room waiting for me. After I finish this letter, I’ll mail it on our way to the marina. They both assume I’m gonna jump. Off the marina, I mean.

We start from the shore. We swim about a hundred feet out to a ladder. You’ve got to wear shoes, says Rhett, or when you jump, hitting the water hurts your feet. And climbing the ladder does, too. The ladder goes all the way up from the water. The bottom part —the part that dips below high tide—is all covered with seaweed and barnacles, like wood on a shipwreck. The ladder gets cleaner as it goes up. The top rungs are bleached and cracked by the sun.

We climb the rungs all the way to the top. Then we just stand close to the edge of the roof and jump.

Rhett says there’s nothing to it. You just step off and fall.

I suppose I should say goodbye Dad, but I think you’re beyond goodbyes now. Beyond letters. Beyond words.

All that’s left is for me to step into air.

So that’s what I’ll do.

Your son,

Trevor

I just wanted to say hi and tell her about some stuff.

Dear Dad,

You’re really gone, aren’t you? You’re never gonna write me back.

Just to let you know, I’ll probably keep checking the mailbox for a while to make sure.

I went in to Mrs. Henry’s class at lunch today to talk to her about you. She was writing in a notebook with a pencil, but stopped when I came in. She looked up and smiled at me with all her wrinkles. I sure like those wrinkles.

“What can I do for you, Trevor?” I just stood there. Mrs. Henry is one of my favorite adults, but it’s still hard for me to talk to her. Then again, all adults are hard for me to talk to. Even Mom. Sometime in the future, I need to write letters to Mom and apologize for not talking much.

I told Mrs. Henry I didn’t really need anything. I just wanted to say hi and tell her about some stuff. She set down her pencil, then picked it up again and tapped the desk with it.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Other stuff?” She smiled again. I knew what she meant. I nodded, but I didn’t say anything. We sat there like that for 20 seconds. Then she said, “You know, Trevor, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Some things aren’t meant to be shared. Maybe this is one of those things you just want to keep. For yourself.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I might have sighed a little right then, either in relief or disappointment.

She said, “Can I ask one question? Did things turn out—OK?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? You’re not sure? Well then, Trevor, I guess you’ll just have to get used to not knowing.”

“That sucks,” I said. I meant it.

“I suppose it does. But there’s something exciting about the not-knowable-ness of it. It means you’ve got a secret—a mystery—that’s still waiting to be solved. There’s not many of those left. Seems like you’ve got a good one. Right up there with Bigfoot.”

I thought the Bigfoot comment was pretty stupid. But I pretended it was funny, then told Mrs. Henry to have a good summer and left.

Not knowing totally blows. I’d rather know, Dad. Where are you?

Your son,

Trevor

I want to know for sure. At least I think I do.

Dear Dad,

It’s been more than a week since you got on the boat. You did get on the boat, didn’t you? I hate not knowing. I want to know for sure. At least I think I do.

I’m pretty certain you’re gone for good. So why am I still writing? I’ve got no reason that makes sense, other than sometimes you get into a pattern and you just keep doing it because it’s what you do. I’ll probably stop when school gets out, because I try not to do anything that even smells like school in the summer. Except reading, I guess. I still read. But I try to read only trashy books, full of lots of violence and maybe even a little sex, but not so much mom would think I’m reading porn or anything weird like that.

Donnie is supposed to come over after school on Friday. Our plan is to stay up super late then sleep in practically all day on Saturday. Which means Donnie will stay up super late and I’ll probably fall asleep by 10. 11 if I drink lots of Coke. And I can’t sleep in to save my life, so I’ll be up early playing video games with the volume down.

I told Donnie that Rhett wants me to jump off the marina after we get home from school. Donnie said, “Can I come? I’ve always wanted to jump off that thing.”

Sometimes I hate my friends.

Anyway, tomorrow is really like the last day of school, even thought we have to go on Friday, too. Friday is only half a day. The cool teachers have parties in their classes and the other ones make you clean out your desk and review stuff. I think they should all have parties, because that will be the last thing you remember about them. But some teachers want you to remember how hard their classes were, I guess.

I’m gonna try to talk to Mrs. Henry tomorrow to maybe tell her about what happened between you and me. I figure she was a key person in the whole deal, so she deserves to know. If I don’t tell her tomorrow, I probably never will, because I won’t have her for a teacher next year.

I know that, because I got my list of classes for 8^th grade. All new teachers. I don’t know any of them. I hope they don’t think I’m a hood, because of the whole cookie thing. I figure they all heard the story. Maybe Mrs. Henry will put in a good word for me. Maybe I’ll ask her that tomorrow.

If you were writing back to me, this is where you’d say, “You’re not a hood, Trevor. You’re a good kid. I believe in you. Blah blah blah.” I wouldn’t mind having someone say that to me right now.

Your son,

Trevor

Things I’ll never be able to talk to you about.

Dear Dad,

Things I’ll never be able to talk to you about:

-        What kind of job I should get when I’m a grown-up. Right now I have no idea, but I think it would be fun to do something with writing. You talked about wishing you’d done that, right?

-        Where I should go to college. I don’t really care about this one, but it seems like the kind of thing we should talk about.

-        Any kind of advice about sex. I mean, not that I would necessarily ask you or anything, but it would be nice to have the option, because there’s no way I’m gonna ask Mom. And if I ask Rhett, he’ll just call me a dork.

-        How to drive a car. This one I’m definitely gonna miss. Right now, I’m thinking about getting an old jeep. I wish you could tell me if this would be a good idea. I don’t really have any money saved or anything, but I think it would be a cool choice and still basically practical. Jeeps are pretty reliable, aren’t they? I mean, if they weren’t reliable, it doesn’t seem like you’d drive one in the desert or in a war. I wouldn’t want an unreliable car in either of those places.

-        Kids and stuff. I mean, someday, if I got married and had kids, that is. I basically plan to. And I plan to take them to the beach and teach them how to skim board and throw seaweed at them and play card games with them when it’s late and they should be in bed. I figure if you were here, you could probably tell me how not to screw them up. Then sometimes I wonder if the reason I’m not screwed up is because you died. Since you were dead, my parents never fought. And I pretty much thought my dad was perfect until we started writing letters. Now I know better. Nothing personal or anything. Besides, I think real is better than perfect.

That’s enough for today. It’s really sunny out. After I mail this letter, I’m going down to the beach with Barry, Rhonda and Tess. I’ll probably even go swimming, even though the water’s so cold it makes it hard to breathe.

Sometimes, that’s just the feeling you want.

Your son,

Trevor

Rhett says he’s gonna make me jump off the marina.

Dear Dad,

The second hardest day to go to school all year long is the last Monday before summer break. You know that summer is almost here and you get a weekend of great weather to give you a little taste of it—just enough to drive you insane. Then you have to get up early and go back to school for a whole other week. Barf.

The hardest day to go to school is the day after you’re suspended for poisoning the teachers with Ex-Lax.

It’s the beginning of the final week. Then summer. And Rhett told me that after school on Friday, he’s gonna make me jump off the marina whether I like it or not.

Maybe that’s what bugs me—him pushing me so hard. Maybe if I felt like it was my decision to jump, I’d be happier about it.

But who would ever decide to do such a stupid thing? Even at high tide, the roof is at least 40 feet above the water. From that height, the water is like concrete. If you land wrong you’re dead. Or you’re paralyzed from the waist down and you’ll never walk again and kids will stare at you in the mall. You just spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Maybe if you’re really lucky, you do a talk show on PBS or something dorky like that.

Should I jump? I guess I’ve gotta figure this one out on my own, because you’re no help. You’re beyond dead.

Your son,

Trevor

Things I miss, now that your letters have stopped.

Dear Dad,

Things I miss, now that your letters have stopped:

-        Hearing stories about when you were alive, like when you made that trailer from the Popular Mechanics plans.
-        Hearing you worry about me. It sucks to worry, but it’s nice to be worried about.
-        Learning about boxing. Knees bent, hands up, elbows in, fists relaxed.
-        Thinking that maybe I was like you, after all, and being OK with that.
-        Gordon’s weird Latin quotes. E pluribus cuckoo.
-        Knowing that I was the only kid getting letters from you.
-        Descriptions of Sung-Hee’s crappy coffee. I don’t want to drink it. I just want to hear about it.

I wish you’d write back.

Your son,

Trevor

I think you may be gone for good.

Dear Dad,

Still no letter from you. I think you may be gone for good. Then again, I thought you were gone when you went into the woods, then you came back. But you said no one ever comes back on the boat except the bloody captain. The boat goes out full and comes back empty.

I know I should be glad, right? Because this probably means you made it to heaven. Or somewhere. You’ve moved on at least. That’s good, right? I really am glad for you, if it makes sense to be glad.

By the way, if the postman or Sung-Hee or Gordon or someone else is reading this letter right now, I’m OK with that. But you don’t need to write back to me. I don’t want to start getting a bunch of letters from dead people I don’t know.

It was super sunny today. It made it really hard to keep my mind on school. After today, only six days to go and then school is done. I’m glad summer is here to take my mind off your being gone. The only thing that worries me about summer is the marina. I know Rhett is gonna bug me to jump off it. I don’t know what Rhett’s problem is.

I was trying to think if there was a question I wished I asked you before you got on the boat. Here’s a simple one: What should I do about the marina?

Your son,

Trevor

Everybody will be gone but me.

Dear Dad,

I didn’t get a letter from you today. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I think you may be gone. Again. I’m sort of getting used to it.

I’m trying to picture where you are. Are you still on the boat, just riding over the waves, with the salt spray dripping from your face? Did you get somewhere yet? Where? Heaven?

It’s June here now. School’s close enough to being out that no one cares about it—not the students or the teachers. Mr. Schick seems as uninterested in all the other students as he is in me. He gave us worksheets and then stared out the window toward where his crappy car is parked. I think his longing for the year to be over is even stronger than his anger about the cookies.

Even Mrs. Henry seems ready to go. I feel like I should tell her what’s really been happening between you and me. I don’t think she’d be surprised much.

I was thinking that maybe now that you’ve left me again, maybe I could start talking to Mrs. Henry. I was thinking maybe I could sit in her classroom and talk to her during lunch a couple of days a week, to hold me over until I hear from you again. Then I realized that it’s almost summer and she’ll be gone, too.

Everybody will be gone but me.

Your son,

Trevor

Is it true? Are you gone?

Dear Dad,

I’m not sure what happened in your last letter. I think you just got on the boat. Is that true? Are you gone?

What happens now? How will I know?

It figures that yesterday was Memorial Day. Mom picked a bunch of flowers from the yard – big, red rhododendron blooms and tiny little lime green flowers and I think lilies and some other stuff. We went to Washington Memorial and visited Meredith’s grave and your grave. We scrubbed your tombstone with copper cleaner. I think we’ve probably been scrubbing it a little too much over the years, because it’s looking kind of worn through around the letters. Then Mom put her flowers in the little metal can that’s sunk in the grass and we dumped some water in there. It’s kind of cool, because we decorate your grave, even though there’s no one to see it. It’s kind of like Mom thinks maybe you’re looking down or God is. Maybe it’s just for us.

It was weird being there with Rhonda and my brothers, who were working away with the copper cleaner and making jokes and stuff, while I was mainly thinking about our letters. Visiting your tombstone felt different to me this year, because now it’s there for someone I know. I mean, before we started writing to each other, Memorial Day was kind of about the idea of ancestors, not about real people. Now you’ve become real, just in time to leave.

Our timing is off again, because you’ll probably never read this.

Your son,

Trevor

Don’t leave.

Dear Dad,

 Carrying your burden is no big deal from my end. Or Or maybe it is a big deal, but it’s not a heavy load for me. I mean, I took on your shame, but I don’t feel it. Probably because I didn’t do the act that made you feel shameful. So it’s easy for me to carry, I guess. And besides, you took on my fear, so I owed you. It feels good to pay you back.

 The part that sucks is that I helped you get clear of it, right? And in return you’re gonna leave me. I can tell you are. You’ve gone crazy, even if it’s crazy in a good way. I can tell you’re gonna get out of that place, either on the bloody boat or some other way. So now I’ll be without a dad again.

 I still need you. For instance, it was 70 degrees today and you know how it is here in Washington. When it hits 70, everyone acts like they’re in Hawaii and walks around with their shirts off. Guys, I mean. Rhett and a couple of his buddies went to jump off the marina. He asked me to come along. I said no thanks, as nice as could be, and he started calling me a wussy.

 Did he ever consider that maybe I just don’t want to jump off the marina? Did he ever think that I might have better things to do? He acts like I should just drop everything and go jump off the stupid marina, like it’s the greatest thing in the world.

 So I could use you here, to back me up or tell me what to do or maybe gather my squished body from the beach after I break my neck by landing wrong if I actually jump off the stupid marina.

 Don’t leave.

If you do leave, can you at least try to write me a letter when you get to wherever it is you’re going?

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’m no longer willing to wait for you to ask.

Dear Dad,

 I’m no longer willing to wait for you to ask. Therefore, I’m jumping ahead without you. Consider your IOU cashed in.

 I, Trevor Griffiths, officially take on the burden of my father’s shame for anything he had to do with the death of his daughter, my sister, Meredith Griffiths.

 There. That’s it. It’s done. Move on.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not.

Dear Dad,

Mom officially lifted my grounding today. I asked her to put it back.

At work, she’d finally gotten over her embarrassment of me and told her co-worker Don Padgett about the cookie contest. She said Don laughed for 10 minutes straight. “Maybe it’s funnier than I first thought,” said Mom. Then she told me, “And I just can’t keep you grounded, Trev. So we’ll call it done today.”

I got really mad at Mom, which surprised both of us. I yelled, “I should be grounded! You shouldn’t lift it! Why can’t you stick with anything?” Her eyes got really wide and she stuttered out a few animal sounds.

“If you want, you can stay grounded, I suppose. But you don’t have to. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“You’re giving in too easy,” I muttered.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m saying you’re not grounded anymore.”

“I know that’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying that’s dumb. I should be grounded. You should stick to it.” I stomped into my room and slammed the door so hard I knocked a dumb old trophy off a shelf.

I have no idea if I’m still grounded or not. I guess the decision is up to me, which is pretty stupid.

Anyway, the whole conversation put me in a really pissy mood. But I’ll still take your burden from you, Dad. My offer still stands.

Your son,

Trevor

This is my second day of being suspended.

Dear Dad,

 I’ve got some time to write you a long letter today, since this is my second day of being suspended from school.

 Only a few minutes after I mailed your last letter, Brian Haase called me at home, a bit frantic. “Trevor! Caulkins is gonna call you any minute! I just got off the phone with him!” Mr. Caulkins is our vice principal.

 “What’d he say?” For some reason, I was way calmer than Brian. I guess because I pretty much knew this was coming.

 “He said I was suspended for two days! My mom is really pissed! I gotta go!”

 I hung up the phone and jogged into the living room to tell Mom. I still figured it would be better for her to hear it from me first.

 “Mom, I gotta talk to you.” She closed her book over one hand and looked at me. The way her mouth was opened and her eyebrows were pushed together, I could tell she was waiting for me to confess something. She just didn’t know what. “The vice principal’s gonna call any minute, because I’m gonna be in trouble at school.”

 “What did you do?” She pulled her hand out of the book and closed the book shut, losing her place.

 “You know those cookies me and Brian made for the cookie contest? We kind of put Ex-Lax in them. And the teachers—”

 “You what?”

 “We put Ex-Lax in the cookies we made. For the teachers.”

 Bang. She exploded. I was surprised how mad she got and how fast she got there. She kept yelling “You had no right,” and yelled how I might have sent someone to the hospital. She was right in the middle of her rant when the phone rang, which didn’t help. I answered it.

 Caulkins asked me if I knew why he was calling. I said I was pretty sure I did. He asked if I’d like to tell him why. I lied and said I would. Then I told him. He let me know how sick some of the teachers had become, especially Mrs. Fletcher, who I guess spent most of the evening in bed, although I bet she actually spent most of the day in the bathroom. After he told me I was suspended, he asked to talk to my mom. I handed her the phone and listened. She said yes a lot and thanked Caulkins for calling. I bet she really wasn’t very thankful.

 Mom was a bit calmer when she got off the phone, but she was really mad. She acted like I’d done something dangerous. Then she grounded me for two weeks, which seems about right to me. I didn’t mind, really.

 I go back to school tomorrow, because this is the last day of my suspension. All in all not too bad. I hope the teachers don’t hate me, though. And I’m glad it helped you.

 Your son,

 Trevor

We made the cookies. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax.

Dear Dad,

 I got your letter too late. I didn’t come home after school yesterday. I went home with Brian Haase. We made the cookies. Both batches. One with this stuff called Ex-Lax and one normal batch. We brought them to school and entered them in the cookie contest. We hoped we could make sure that only Mr. Schick got the Ex-Lax cookies. But when we showed up at the teacher’s lounge, this pep club girl named Sophie Johnstone just grabbed both plates from us and said, “Ooh! These look yummers! Good luck, boys!”

 Brian and I promised each other we wouldn’t tell anyone what we’d done. I kept my part of the promise, but I’m not sure Brian did, because I heard whispers all day long.

 We never actually saw any of the teachers eat the cookies, but they definitely did. “Did you hear about Mrs. Fletcher?” Rick Jarvis asked me at lunch. “She left math to go to the bathroom five times. The last time she never came back.”

 “Oh, crap,” I said.

 “Exactly,” said Rick, laughing. “Serves her right. She’s such a hag.”

 Mrs. Henry got into the bad cookies, too. I’ll probably burn in hell for that one, because Mrs. Henry is beyond innocent. She’s a force of good. Luckily, she didn’t eat too many. Or at least she didn’t get the runs too bad, because she lasted the whole day.

 Mr. Schick got it bad. Donnie Joad told me he heard that Schick went to the hospital. I’m know that’s not true, but in P.E. he already looked bad, and that’s my first period. He barely made it through Bible class. He excused himself three times. The third time, he didn’t even say anything. He just got up and ran. Brian Haase burst out laughing and a couple of other kids snickered, too. I heard that Mr. Schick tried to go home after lunch, but too many other teachers had already left early, so he had to stay all day long. That’s how I know he didn’t go to the hospital. Brian has P.E. near the end of the day, and he said Schick looked liked a zombie. Schick declared an open play period and then went and sat on the bleachers near the boys’ locker room. Brian thought this was awesome. I mostly did, too, but I’m pretty sure we’ll get busted.

 Now I’m home, wondering if the phone is gonna ring. Wondering if I should tell Mom what I did now, or wait to see if we get caught. Either way, it’s a gamble, right? If I tell her now, I’ll definitely get in trouble, but probably not quite as bad, because she’ll like that I told her ahead of time. If I wait, there’s a slim chance I might never get caught, but if I do, I’ll get in more trouble.

 I think I’m gonna take my chances and hope we don’t get busted. Wish me luck.

 I hope this helps distract you, Dad.

 Your son,

Trevor

I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want.

Dear Dad,

 I think maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about Mom. I think you remember her wrong. She’s not sitting around crying all day. When she gets weepy about the past, it’s more about you being gone than about Meredith being dead. She misses you. I don’t think she’d miss you if she was still pissed at you.

 I could ask her, if you want, if she’s forgiven you. If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean. Is that what you’re looking for? Someone to say, “That’s OK.”

 I can shock you, too, if that’s what you want. I was gonna tell Brian that I didn’t want to join him in the cookie contest plan. It seems kind of mean to me. And I’m pretty sure we’ll get in trouble. But if it would help you, I can do it. Because Brian’s got a plan:

 We go to his house after school on Wednesday. We make the cookies. His mom has this recipe for three-layer brownies that he says are amazing. We just mix in one extra ingredient. A laxative. That’s a kind of medicine that you take when you’re constipated. It totally gives you diarrhea, which I guess is what you want if you’re constipated. Then we make another batch of the cookies that are normal. We pack both kinds of cookies to school. We make sure Mr. Schick gets the diarrhea cookies and we give the normal ones to everybody else. Then we watch as Mr. Schick poops his pants.

 It seems like a pretty good plan. The only problem is that if you look at the names of the other kids who signed up for the cookie contest, they’re all girls from the pep club. They’re like the nerdiest girls in school. They all wear hairbands. Then at the bottom of the list, you see Brian Haase and Trevor Griffiths. If something goes bad with the cookie contest, who are you gonna blame?

 That’s why I said no to Brian. But if it will help you, Dad, I’ll do it. It’s not like Mr. Schick doesn’t deserve it. So after I mail this letter, I’ll call Brian and tell him yes.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Most things are somebody’s fault.

Dear Dad,

I know I asked you to tell me all this stuff, but it’s a lot to handle. I feel like you should be telling this to Mom, not to me.

I guess I knew most of it—the basics at least—but I never really felt it before, you know? And it’s weird to think about Meredith like she was a real baby. Before your letters, she was a name out of an old story. And she was a tombstone. Or a name on a tombstone. That flowery little stone in the children’s section at Washington Memorial that we visit with Mom once a year. Mom still puts baby flowers on the grave. Baby’s breath, I think it’s called. I never thought about how weird that was until I wrote those words just now. Baby’s breath.

Maybe it’s too early to ask, but I’m wondering if you feel any better. I had this screwy idea that if you talked about what happened, you’d have some sort of weight lifted off your shoulders. Anything?

In movies about stuff like this, people always say things like, “It’s not your fault!” Then they shake the person by the shoulders and everyone cries, then look out at a sunset or stare out a rainy window or some moody crap like that.

But I think maybe it was your fault. Most things are somebody’s fault. We try hard to work things out so no one has to take the blame, but maybe on this one you do need to take the blame. I mean, you screwed up.

So now what?

Your son,

Trevor

I’m still afraid of your next letter.

Dear Dad,

It’s weird, because I know how the story ends, at least so far. I know that Meredith dies. I have a pretty good idea how it all happened. But I’m still afraid of your next letter.

I think I know you better now than I did when you were alive. I was a baby. We never talked. Now sometimes I wish we didn’t talk so much. Or didn’t talk so much about such heavy stuff. I wish we had that day-to-day thing where you’d ask, “How was your day?” I’d say, “Fine.” We’d go see a movie about a magician and you’d say, “So what did you think?” I’d say, “I liked it until Tesla started making clones of everything. It got really stupid after that.”

Talking is different when we write stuff down. No one makes small talk in letters. Well, maybe girls do. I bet Misty Lee could blather on about nothing for ten pages with no problem. But in our letters, it’s always life or death stuff. Maybe once we get past this we could share lists of favorite songs or books or pizza toppings. Something small like that.

Whew. I bet this is hard for you.

Maybe this will take your mind off of it. Brian Haase wants to talk about cookies. He says that the cookie contest the teachers are judging is a week from this Thursday and we need to have A Plan. “Let’s get together at lunch and make our strategy.” Brian is one of those guys who seems all quiet, but once he gets an idea, he’s like an army general. I can tell he’s already committed to some kind of idea in his head. He’s got that caveman-on-the-hunt look in his eyes. Blackie the Dog gets the same look when he sees Mrs. Johnson’s cat. He can picture the hunt, step-by-step, all the way to the kill.

I bet you’re barely able to concentrate on that, thinking about Meredith. I get why this is so hard for you. Stick it out, Dad. You’re halfway there.

Your son,

Trevor

I’m not gonna back off on this one.

Dear Dad,

I’m not gonna leave you alone, you stubborn old bastard.

Remember way back in December, when we made that bargain? When you took on my fear of Mudgett? You said that in exchange, you’d file away an IOU. How about if you use it now? How about if I take on your fear of telling this story? How about if you give me your fear and then write freely?

Either way, I’m not gonna back off on this one, so you might as well spill. You’ve been talking about talking about this all year. It’s time you got down to it. Get it over with. Do.

If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Mom.

Your son,

Trevor

“Do you know how Meredith actually died?”

Dear Dad,

I asked Rhonda about Meredith. I figure since you aren’t telling me, I might as well dig a little on my own. Like I said, I’m just gonna keep writing about it until you spill your guts.

That’s one advantage of having a dead dad. I can sass you all I want and you have to put up with it. I’m mostly joking, Dad. I’m not trying to be a pain in the butt. I’m trying to get you to unload, you know?

Anyway, Rhonda is my only real option. No way I’m asking Mom, because I know you’d really freak out if I brought her into it. Mom would probably tell me the real story if I asked. She keeps a lot of stuff to herself, but if you ask her, she’ll tell.

I just asked Rhonda straight out. I walked into her bedroom—upstairs. She was listening to some weird county-punk music and lying on her bed looking at the ceiling. I turned off her music and said, “Hey.”

“Hey.” She didn’t look up. Must have been something really amazing on that ceiling.

“Do you know how Meredith actually died?”

“Our Meredith?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? And why didn’t you knock?”

“I just wanna know. No one’s ever told me and I figure she was practically my sister.”

“’Course she was your sister, you little dork. She’s just dead. Why’ve you been so weird lately?”

“I don’t know. Puberty. So how’d she die?”

Rhonda finally turned onto her side. “Crib death, I guess.”

“Which means…”

“Which means that some babies just die in their cribs. Like they don’t get enough oxygen. Their faces get too smooshed into the sheets and they just keep breathing in the same air over and over until they suffocate. Happens all the time.”

“How do you prevent it?”

“What, are you planning to have a baby or something? Geez. I guess you make the baby sleep on its back or something.”

“How come they didn’t do that with Meredith?”

“You ever tried to keep a baby on it’s back? Baby are intrinsically squirmy. Besides, they didn’t know better back then. Now go away. And close the door. And knock next time.”

I left. I have no idea if Rhonda is telling me the truth or not. Anything you want to share here, Dad?

Your son,

Trevor

She can’t hear a siren without thinking about that day.

Dear Dad,

I guess there was something pushing on the back of my brain about Meredith. You never mentioned her even once, even though she’s the only other person in our regular family that’s died, other than you. I mean, I know she was only six months old and died before I was even born, but Mom still talks about her pretty often. And we still go and put flowers on her grave every Memorial Day. Her grave’s in the baby section. You probably know that. You probably bought the tombstone.

Mom’s told me a little bit about how Meredith died. Well, she’s never told me the whole story, if there is one. Other than Meredith was taking a nap and didn’t wake up. Mom called 911 and the ambulance came racing over. That’s why I’ve heard the story. When we hear sirens, Mom talks about Meredith. She says she can’t hear a siren without thinking about that day. Good thing we don’t live by a fire station. Yikes.

I figure it was about 19 years ago, so it seems like you’d all be pretty much over it by now. I’m clearly wrong about that.

I also figure it’s hard for you to read this right now. That’s OK. I’m gonna keep talking about it until you do, because I guess I think it will be good for you to talk about it. I feel like you’d do the same thing for me. Or to me.

Mom settled down about the canoe trip, although sometimes she looks at me and shivers. I thought she’d settled down enough for me to bring up the chance of taekwondo lessons again, now that stupid basketball with stupid Mr. Schick is over. But I was wrong. When I asked, she yelled, “Trevor! Not now!” Which I took to mean, I’m still really pissed at you so don’t even think of asking for anything.

Hey, guess what? I passed that algebra test in Mrs. Fletcher’s class! I’m going straight into algebra next year, so I guess somehow I’m no longer a math idiot. Don’t ask me how. I still feel confused most days. Maybe everyone does.

Your son,

Trevor

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

Dear Dad,

We need to talk.

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

We put the canoe and the rest of our gear into the back of Donnie’s truck and headed up to the park. We unloaded by 10 and figured we be to the pick-up spot by about 3. Donnie’s mom made sure we had Donnie’s cell phone in a Ziploc bag. Donnie even opened the bag to make sure it was charged and on. Last but not least, she made us promise to keep our lifejackets on.

We got into the water and started floating down the river. It was awesome. Even at 10 it was already pretty warm. I took my life jacket off and sat on it. I was just wearing sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

The river was high, but most of the time it was pretty mellow. We planned on taking it easy, anyway. We talked with Donnie’s dad the night before and promised that if we came to anything too rough, we’d carry the canoe around it. Donnie’s dad called this a “portage,” which sounded cool in a Lewis-and-Clark sort of way.

So that’s how it went for a long time. We shot a few small rapids and portaged a few big ones. After a couple hours, we stopped at a sandbar and ate lunch—sandwiches, water, brownies and Fritos. No Bugles. Then we skipped rocks for a while, until Donnie said we should get going, because he knew that if we were very late his mom would freak.

It was really warm by then, until the river went into this kind of canyon where the sun couldn’t get. The canyon kept getting narrower. Cliff walls went about 30 feet up on both sides. Lots of shadows. No banks.

Up ahead, I could hear rapids, but I couldn’t tell how big they were or how far away. We paddled stupidly toward them.

We came around a bend and the rapids sucked us right in. They weren’t too bad at first, but we could see curling whitewater ahead. Donnie let a few curse words fly and we both started paddling for the smoothest section of water. Then the river grabbed us and started slamming us around. Right in front of us, a huge boulder seemed to pop out of nowhere. The river spun us sideways right toward it. We slammed into the boulder so hard that Donnie and I instantly flipped out of the boat. The river sucked Donnie downstream. I grabbed the bottom of the upside down canoe and held on through the rapids, banging my shins on rocks as I went.

I caught up to Donnie a few minutes later. We dogpaddled the canoe over to the bank and lied on the muddy shore, catching our breath. After a few minutes we turned the canoe over and saw the hole in the side. It was about as big as a softball and below the waterline.

We’d lost most of our stuff, including Donnie’s cell phone and cooler, my life jacket and both paddles. We were soaked and cold and about ten miles from our pick-up point at the Highway 18 Bridge.

We tried stuffing a wadded-up t-shirt into the hole in the canoe, but the water still pored through. We ended up stashing the canoe in some bushes on the river’s edge, then started walking. Most of the way, it wasn’t too bad, because there were train tracks that followed the river. But it felt like it took forever.

When we reached the pick-up spot no one was there. There was no place to call and we had no phone, so we started walking toward Donnie’s house, another couple miles away. We finally got there about dark—eight o’clock—and there were a bunch of cop cars out front. Mom’s car was there, too.

I guess they all thought we were dead. At six, Donnie’s mom called the cops and the cops sent out Search and Rescue. The Search and Rescue guys found the canoe and my life jacket and were scouring the bank for our bodies.

The police lectured us, lectured Mom and Donnie’s parents, then left. Then me and Mom left and she started lecturing me. She was really upset. She started crying while she was driving. I asked her why, since I was OK. She said she thought she’d lost another of her children.

I knew what she was talking about. Meredith. The sister I never met who died as a baby. Mom

Dad, does this have something to do with your shame?

Your son,

Trevor

We’re gonna drop our canoe in there.

Dear Dad,

I don’t know what I might do about the cookie contest, but Brian Haase pulled one of the flyers off the wall and showed it to me.

“Do you know what this is?” he said. “This–this is opportunity.”

“Opportunity to do what?”

“To do–something! We need to talk.”

We haven’t talked yet, but I kind of liked Brian’s spirit. His eyes were all wide and little spots on his cheeks got all red. It reminded me how he used to look when we got in fights in 5th grade. Besides, doing something seems a lot like what you’re always talking about. Doing versus not doing.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tonight I’m going to spend the night at Donnie’s house and then in the morning his mom is going to bring us up to Flaming Geyser State Park. We’re gonna drop our canoe in there and paddle down the Green River to the Highway 18 Bridge. Donnie’s bringing a cellphone in a Ziploc bag so that we can call her when we get there so she can pick us up. It should be pretty fun. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow and Donnie says his mom bought us a whole bunch of junk food to eat along the way. I hope she bought Bugles. Donnie always has Bugles in his lunch. They’re kind of delicious.

Remember Mrs. Fletcher, my math teacher? She’s still as evil as ever and today, to prove it, she gave us a test on algebra, which we’ve never studied. When I reminded her of this, she said, “I’m fully aware of what we have and have not studied, Mr. Griffiths. However, those of you who do well enough on this test will be admitted directly into algebra next year, instead of waiting until 9th grade. The rest of you will take the ordinary track to pre-algebra.”

It seems pretty stupid. How are we supposed to do well on a test when we’ve never studied the stuff? Anyway, I took the test. I knew more of it than I thought. We’ll find out next week, I guess.

Wish me luck on my canoe trip,

Your son,

Trevor

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club.

Dear Dad,

I’m thinking about this thing you’re having a hard time telling me. I’m thinking that the obvious thing you would say to me would be that I should just get it off my chest. But that sounds kind of dumb. If it was that easy, you would have told me already. I’m trying to imagine what could be so bad. I can imagine some pretty bad stuff and thinking of you doing some of it freaks me out. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Maybe I’m not the right person to tell.

What can I do to help you?

I kind of feel like a dork talking like this.

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club. Pep. That has got to be one of the most stupid words in the world. I don’t want to be part of any club called pep. Anyway, the pep club does stuff like organize the pep assemblies, which are pretty dumb, but better than going to class. You get to watch cheerleaders do their stupid cheers. Cheerleaders are kind of ridiculous, but they’re pretty hot.

The pep club is also putting on a cookie contest. Guess who the judges will be? The teachers. Guess who one of the teacher judges is? Mr. Schick.

This seems like a pretty good chance for revenge. A little advice right now would be helpful.

Your son,

Trevor

She came up all sputtering.

Dear Dad,

Mom says I need to wait another week until I go down the Green River, because it’s been raining all week and the river’s at floodstage. So maybe next Saturday. This weekend I just hung out in the neighborhood.

After church on Sunday, Rhonda, Barry Barton and Rhonda’s friend, Tess and I walked way down the beach. Tess is my age. She lives across the street in that old farmhouse the Cummings were in when you were alive.  Tess gets really good grades and looks like it. She wears little round glasses that make her seem like a character from one of those American Girl stories Rhonda used to read. Tess is taller than I am and goofy but nice. Her family doesn’t even have a TV, which is weird, but that’s probably why she gets good grades. It’s also probably why she’s goofy. Not because she doesn’t have a TV, but because she’s from one of those kinds of families that doesn’t have a TV. Kids from those families are always kind of weird.

I don’t really know if Tess is pretty. She definitely has boobs, but most of the time I don’t even notice that. Or those.

Anyway, we walked way down the beach . Rhonda and I were still wearing our church clothes, so Mom yelled at us not to get wet. We said we wouldn’t, but we always get wet whenever we go to the beach. Always. And Mom always tells us not to and always yells at us when we come back. But we still do the same thing next time. On Sunday, we got soaked.

We walked almost all the way down to the boat launch, which is about a mile and a half, I guess. And we had to go around all those big riprap bulkheads on the way. By the time we got there, the tide was all the way in to the bulkheads, which meant we had to wade back in water up past our waists. You know, at first you try to stay dry, but once you slip off one rock, you kind of just say screw it, because you know that once you get wet, you’re in trouble with Mom anyway.

I was the first one to get wet when I tried to jump from one big rock to another and missed. Barry made the jump and stayed dry. Rhonda missed like me. Tess totally slipped and went all the way under, head and everything. She came up all sputtering. She kept saying, “Does someone have something dry I can wipe my glasses on?”

It was freezing cold, but felt good in a laughing sort of way. And I don’t care if Tess is kind of goofy, because when it comes to neighborhood friends, nice is pretty much all that matters and she’s nice. Not sure that same rule works at school.

When we got home, Mom yelled at us. Even that didn’t bug me.

Dad, about this shame thing you talked about in your letter. You’ve mentioned this before. What the heck are you talking about? I mean, if I can talk to you about Tess’ boobs, is seems like you should be able to tell me pretty much anything. I promise not to share it with Mom unless you want me to.

Your son,

Trevor

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Dear Dad,

So I had my last basketball game last night. And guess what? I played. For a total of 45 seconds.

The other team was up by about ten points. Mr. Schick called a time out. When he said I was going in, he had a big smile on his face, like he was doing me some kind of favor. Wow, how generous, Mr. Schick. Thank you for your kindness.

Donnie Joad got the throw-in and brought the ball up past halfcourt. I was open and Donnie threw the ball to me. I was gonna pass it right away, before I screwed up, but no one was open. I saw a lane to the basket, so I drove in for a layup. I went about two steps when this big, freckly gorilla on the other team slapped me right on the side of the face. I didn’t even see him until I was laying on the ground looking up at his gorilla legs.

The ref called a foul and I got two shots. I stood at the line, bouncing the ball and staring at the rim. “Screw it,” I thought and I chucked the ball toward the basket. It went in. It even made a swoosh sound. I missed the second one, but could have cared less. I made a point and figured, for a second, I was the king of just about everthing I could think of. Then Mr. Schick pulled me back out. We went on to lose the game by 13.

For the entire season I played less than one minute and I made one point. One point per minute, I figure, is better than anyone on the team.

At the end of the game, Mr. Schick had us all gather round him at the center of the court. He got all serious and held his stupid red baseball cap in both hands. He told us how proud he was of us and reminded us what a great season we had. By which I guess he means that it’s a great season when you lose three-fourths of your games. For me, the season made two things clear to me: The first is that Mr. Schick is a jerk. The second thing I can’t remember, so I guess I really just learned the one thing about Mr. Schick.

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom says we can keep writing each other.

Dear Dad,

 First of all, Mom says we can keep writing each other, and she’ll butt out. Don’t worry about her seeing this letter, because she agreed to only look at the letters I show her on purpose. She is thinking about writing a note to you directly, even though she told me not to tell you that. She said she’s not sure she can do it. I think she means that—well, you probably know what she means.

 We just got back from our little vacation yesterday. It was pretty fun. We stayed in a hotel and rode waterslides and Rhett stopped acting like a big-shot senior for a couple of days. We ate all our meals in restaurants, mostly in this one called Country Cousins, which had a huge menu, so all of us could find something on it we liked. I mostly ordered breakfast food. They had really good waffles. Mom said it was almost like home cooking, which seems weird. Why would you go to a restaurant where the food tasted like you made it at home? By the second day, Mom said she was getting tired of eating out, which she says I’ll understand someday. Anyway, it wasn’t like we went to Australia or anything fancy like that, but it was still a pretty fun vacation.

 Spring break is over, so now I’m back in school. I’m writing this letter to you during my English class with Mrs. Henry, who gave us some time to do journaling, which means she doesn’t have anything else ready for us to do. That’s OK by me. Mrs. Henry is still my favorite teacher. She asks how things are with me sometimes, because I think she knows something weird is still going on. But she’s not very nosy.

 I never did canoe down the Green River with Donnie yet, and he asked me about it again today. I’ll have to ask Mom about it again. Donnie says it would be the perfect time to do it, because all the spring rain would make the river really fast. Makes sense to me.

 Hold on. Mrs. Henry said we need to finish up. So write me back and say whatever you want. It will be just between you and me unless you want Mom to read it.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Mom says hi.

Dear Dad,

Mom says hi. She says not to worry so much about how she feels. She says you were always a world-class worrier. She doesn’t think of you as some kind of stalker. I think mostly she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is here. What God would want her to do. I think she’s afraid we’re kind of meddling in dangerous spiritual stuff and she’s not sure that’s OK.

She says she’s thinking about it and praying about it. She also says to tell you not to freak out when you don’t hear from me for the rest of the week, because we’re going to some water park for spring break. I’m out of school until next week. Mom, Rhett, Rhonda and me are going. I love not going to school. I also kind of like a break from my friends. So I’ll write you on Monday, assuming Mom lets me. Until then, be good and don’t do anything crazy.

Your son,

Tom

I had this talk with Mom.

Dear Dad,

 Mom showed me the letter you wrote to her. That one freaked her out as much as opening your first letter did. It kind of freaked me out, too, because I kind of get it now that Mom is a real person. I mean, she is a person who you miss when you’re not around her. You do, I mean.

 Mom also said I could write you back. And she said she wouldn’t read what I wrote. So here goes:

 A week and a half ago, I had this talk with Mom. The two of us went to Round Table Pizza, which is kind of our place. It’s weird to have a place you go with your mom, but I do. We ordered—plain cheese for me, salad bar for her, but I know she’ll eat some of my pizza. Then she got right down to it.

 “Trevor,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about, well, about me, I suppose. About my life.”

 I think I probably looked surprised, because the skin on my face felt stretched tight.

 Mom continued, as she polished a little grime off her fork. “I’ve been seeing someone, you know. John. The cabinetmaker, as Rhonda calls him.” I nodded. Mom said, “I like him. He’s nice to me. He lives just up the hill, kind of by Woodmont Elementary. He’s kind of dashing, in a cabinetmaker sort of way. I can imagine being his—being his girl or whatever.”

 “He have any kids?”

 “Three, but all grown and mostly out of the house. His youngest is the same age as Keith. I’ve met them. He told me they like me.” She kind of blushed. “His daughter thinks he should ask me to—but none of that really matters, Trev. Because I’m—I’m not going to see him anymore.”

“Why?”

 “Oh.” Mom put the fork down and started polishing the knife. “I told him earlier today over the phone. I hope it wasn’t rude to do it over the phone.” She didn’t say anything for a bit, then said, “I already have a man in my life. Men, I mean. You and Rhett. And Rhonda, too. You’re all still so much in my life. In our home.”

 “Yeah, but, if you want to—“

 “No, it’s just too complicated, Trevor. Too soon. Honestly, I never planned on seeing anyone. Then Keith and Steffan moved out and I could feel—I could feel what it might be like when you all left. It scared me. I like a loud house. I like someone to play rummy with. Someone to cook for. But it’s too early, Trevor. So I’m going to wait a few more years. I’m warning you now, though. It’s coming. And you’re the youngest. My baby. So you’ll have to put up with more of it than the others. You’ll probably be around to see it. My dating years.”

 I told her if she waited, the cabinetmaker would probably go find someone else. She didn’t say anything. She stood up and walked to the salad bar and took a long time choosing her dressing. When she came back, we talked some more. She asked me if I was interested in any girls. I said no. I said I tried that earlier in the year and it was pretty dumb. I said I guessed I was going to wait a few more years, too.

 “And I’ll be around to see it,” she said. Mom does this sort of wink thing when she thinks she’s made a joke, except instead of winking, she opens her eyes even farther and kind of nods at you.

 I asked her if she ever thought of you, of how you might feel if she dated. She said she thought about you all the time, especially when she thought about other men, which makes a weird kind of sense. It worried her, I thought, so I told her not to—worry, I mean. I said I was pretty sure Dad was the kind of guy who would want you to get out and get busy. Woah. That does not sound right. Get busy living, I mean. Yeesh.

 It was a good talk, even though it really wore me out. I felt like how you feel after crying, all kind of wilty. When we came home, we sat and watched a nature show on TV together. Mom loves nature shows. She usually says how amazing every little critter or plant is, but tonight she didn’t say much. Either did I. But it was good to sit there with her, I guess.

 So that’s the talk.

 We’re still working out this letter writing thing. I think she’s still trying to figure it out. So maybe be a bit careful in what you say in the next letter, OK?

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do.

Dear Dad,

 I’m back to writing to you, at least for now.

 The day before the father/son basketball game, I started feeling kind of sick when I was at school. Queasy sick. I ran out of social studies to the boys’ room, because I thought I was gonna barf. I managed to hold it in, but I skipped basketball practice and went right home with Rhett and Rhonda. I had to run in the house from Rhett’s car and barely made it to the bathroom before I totally blew. It was gross.

 I was really sick all that night. So sick that Mom stayed home from work the next day. I was either barfing or sleeping all day long. It was pretty awful. I fell asleep around 10 a.m. and when I finally woke up, Mom was sitting on the side of my bed, reading one of your letters she’d got out of the mailbox. The first time she’d got to the mail before me since this whole thing started. She kept reading it and then rereading it. She kept sticking it in the envelope and then taking it back out. She mostly looked really confused.

 My head was really fuzzy from being sick and I think I did a crummy job explaining to her what was going on. Mom mostly just sat there staring down at the letter. She said something about talking more later and left. I kind of fell back asleep, but mostly just layed there wondering what Mom must think, wondering if it would mean the end of our letters, wondering how weird it must all look to Mom, me getting letters from her dead husband.

 I asked her if I could write back to you. She said she’d have to think about it.

 I’ve been really sick then. Really. I mean, no faking or anything. I’ve had this fever of about 103 until this morning. I totally missed the father-son game. I haven’t been to school all week. Today is the first day I’ve felt anything even slightly like a human. The whole time, I’ve been having these weird fever-y dreams about you and mom and this guy mom was dating and all the stuff in our letters. Not dreams, really. Just jumbles of images and stuff.

 Mom stayed home with me all the week. I’m not sure if it was to take care of me or just to get the mail. She read the other letters you sent during that time. She let me read them too, but not until today. She hasn’t asked anything about what was in the letters or asked to see any of the other ones you sent. I’ve got a drawer full of them. I suppose I’d show them to her if she asked, but she hasn’t asked yet and I haven’t offered them. She has asked how long this has been going on. When I told her, she kind of sucked in her breath like I hit her in the stomach, but she didn’t say anything. No crying or anything, either.

 I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do, Dad. If she asks me to stop writing to you, I think I’d even do that. See Mom and I had this big talk, right before I got sick. It was kind of a big deal. I still need to tell you about that, if Mom will let me write you again. For now, she said I should write you this letter and tell you not to worry about me. Let you know I was still alive and all that. So that’s what I’m doing now. She’s gonna read this before I send it.

 I’m not sure what happens next.

 Your son,

 Trevor

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

Dear Dad,

Doing or not doing. Are those the only choices? I wish you would do a little more telling about the woods, instead of stretching the story out. Can you just tell me what happened?

I’m still battling with Mom about the father/son basketball game. It’s this Friday, at the same time as a regular game. I really don’t want to do it. She wants me to do it and she’s so annoyingly positive about it that it’s almost impossible to argue with her.

I say, “I don’t want to play in that stupid game.”

She says, “It’ll be fine, Trev. You’ll see. You’ll play in it and it’ll be fun.”

“No way am I playing in that stupid game.”

“When you come home from it, you’ll tell me how much fun it was. And I’ll try not to say I told you so.”

“No I won’t! It’s going to suck!”

“Don’t use that word. It’s not going to—you’ll see. It’s going to be just fun.”

On top of that, Donnie wants to canoe down the green river this Saturday. His mom said he could. Mom said it sounds pretty dangerous to her, which is weird for her to say, because usually she doesn’t stress about that sort of thing. She usually wants me to “go have adventures.” I’m thinking maybe she’s holding out on this for a reason I don’t get yet.

Speaking of Mom, I thought you’d be all freaked out about her dating. I’ve got more information on that, like I said. But I’m not going to tell you until you tell me more about The Woods.

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

Your son,

Trevor