November 9

The day after your mother kills herself.

When a person is in a lot of physical pain—say they accidentally slice off their hand—the human body produces endorphins. These endorphins act similarly to drugs such as morphine or codeine. So it’s normal not to feel very much pain right after an accident.

Emotional pain must work in a similar way, because today hurts so much worse than yesterday did. Yesterday I was in some kind of dreamlike state, as if my conscience wouldn’t fully allow me to believe she was actually gone. In my mind, I was holding on to that thin thread of hope that somehow, the entire day wasn’t really happening.

That thread isn’t there anymore, no matter how hard I try to grasp it.

She’s dead.

And if I had money and connections, I’d numb this pain with whatever drugs I could find.

I refused to get out of bed this morning. Ian and Kyle both tried to fight me into going to the funeral home with them, but I won. I’ve been winning all day, actually.

Eat something, Kyle said at lunch.

I didn’t eat. I won.

Aunt Chele and Uncle Andrew are here, Ian said around two o’clock this afternoon.

But they’re gone now and I’m still in bed, so I won.

Ben, come eat dinner. There’s lots to eat, people have been bringing food by all day, Kyle said when he stuck his head in my bedroom around six o’clock.

But I chose to stay in bed and not touch those sympathetic casseroles, making me the winner yet again.

Talk to me, Ian said.

I’d like to say I won this round, but he’s still sitting on my bed, refusing to leave.

I pull the covers over my head. He pulls them back down. “Ben. If you don’t get out of bed I’ll start overreacting. You don’t want to force me to call a psychiatrist, do you?”

Jesus Fucking Christ!

I sit up in bed and punch the pillow. “Just let me fucking sleep, Ian! Dammit!”

He doesn’t react to the fact that I’m yelling. He just stares at me complacently. “I have been letting you sleep. For almost twenty-four hours now. You need to get out of bed and brush your teeth or shower or eat or something.”

I lie back down. Ian pushes off the bed and groans. “Benton, look at me!”

Ian never yells at me, which is the only reason I pull the covers from over my head and look up at him. “You aren’t the only one hurting, Ben! We have shit to figure out! You’re sixteen years old and you can’t live here alone and if you don’t come downstairs and prove to me and Kyle that this didn’t completely fuck you up, then we’re probably going to make the wrong decision for you!”

His jaw is twitching, he’s so mad.

I think about this for a second. About how neither of them lives here. Ian is in flight school. Ben just started college. My mother is dead.

One of them is going to have to move back home because I’m a minor.

“Do you think mom thought of that?” I ask, sitting up on the bed again.

Ian shakes his head in frustration. His hands drop to his hips. “Thought about what?”

“That her decision to kill herself would force one of you to give up your dream? That you’d have to move back home to take care of your brother?”

Ian shakes his head, confused. “Of course she thought about that.”

I laugh. “No, she didn’t. She’s a selfish fucking bitch.”

His jaw hardens. “Stop.”

“I hate her, Ian. I’m glad she’s dead. And I’m glad I was the one who found her, because now I’ll always have the visual of how the black hole in her face matched the black hole in her heart.”

He closes the gap between us and grabs the collar of my shirt, shoving me back down on the bed. He brings his face close to mine and talks through tightly gritted teeth. “You shut your fucking mouth, Ben. She loved you. She was a good mother to us and you’ll respect her, do you hear me? I don’t care if she can see you right now or not, you’ll respect her in this house until the day you die.”

My eyes rim with tears and I’m suffocating with hatred. How could he defend her?

I guess it’s easy when his memory of her isn’t tarnished by the visual I got when I walked into her room.

A tear falls from Ian’s eye and lands on my cheek.

His grip loosens from around my neck and he turns around and buries his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice tearful. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

I’m not.

He turns around and looks at me, not even attempting to hide his tears. “I just . . . how can you say that? Knowing what she was going through . . .”

I chuckle under my breath. “She broke up with her boyfriend, Ian. That hardly constitutes misery.”

He turns until he’s facing me on the bed. He tilts his head. “Ben . . . did you not read it?”

I shrug. “Read what?”

He sighs heavily, and then stands. “Her note. Did you not read the letter she left before the police took it?”

I swallow hard. I knew that’s where he went yesterday. I knew it.

He runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, my God. I thought you read it.” He walks out of my bedroom. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

He’s not lying. It’s exactly thirty-three minutes when he walks back through my bedroom door. I spent the entire time wondering what could be in that letter that would make the difference between me hating her and Ian feeling sorry for her.

He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “They can’t release the actual letter yet. They took a photo and printed it out, but you can still read it.” He hands me the piece of paper.