Lynn Weingarten - Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls

Now, here in my room, I get undressed. I pull out a pair of thick black wool tights. I put the tights on and my jeans back over them. I slip on my dark gray leather boots and lace them up. I am trying so hard not to think about anything, not to think about where I am going and why.

I rifle through my drawers until I find what I’m looking for. The sweater – so soft, dark green with delicate gold threads. This was Delia’s. I haven’t worn it in a very long time. She gave it to me back when things were still good with us. “It makes me look diseased,” Delia had said, throwing it at me. “Please save me.” Delia was always so generous and acted like it was nothing. Acted like you were doing her a favor accepting whatever she gave you.

It is the nicest sweater I own, by far. I put it on, my jacket over it, and a black scarf as big as a blanket, because it’s January and I know it will be cold down by the water.

I park in the little alcove at the side of the road and get out. It’s been years since I’ve been here, but I know the route by heart. There’s a car right in front of the hole in the fence around the reservoir, and I shake my head. You’re supposed to park far away. This is trespassing. No one is supposed to know that anyone is out here.

I squeeze through the hole and walk down the narrow dirt path. My stomach turns over and over. I hear quiet murmurs, and as I get closer the murmurs turn to words.

“You can’t start a fire, man. It’s too cold.”

“Fuck off. I was a Boy Scout. I have skills.”

“Oh yeah?” A few people laugh. “They give out patches for rolling a jay?”

I can see them now, a small group huddled in a circle around the bonfire spot. Someone is bent down, flicking a lighter over a pile of twigs. They smolder weakly, thin ribbons of smoke curl up.

My eyes start to adjust, and by the light of the big bright moon I can make out thick coats, army jackets, hats, gloves. Their breath white in the icy air.

I walk up behind them, my heart beating fast. I don’t belong here, here among her friends. “Hey,” I say. A couple of people half turn.

I work my way into the circle between a tall wiry guy and a tall girl with short dark hair and lips so red I can see them in the moonlight.

Someone takes out a bottle of vodka, the cheap kind that comes in a big plastic jug. “To Delia,” one of the guys says. “A girl who could really fucking drink.”

“To Delia,” the others say back. And then there’s a splashing sound as someone tips the bottle over the ground. And I feel a deep wave of sadness – this is it, this is her goodbye, a few people standing out on a cold January night, pouring shit booze onto frozen earth. They pass the bottle, taking long gulps. Who were they to her? How well did they know her? How much do they care?

When the bottle gets to me, I hold it far from my face so I won’t have to smell it. I don’t know how to begin, but I know it might be my only chance for answers. So I just blurt it out.

“Was she in some kind of trouble?” My voice sounds strange and hollow.

A guy turns toward me. “What are you talking about?”

“Was Delia in trouble?” I say.

“Who even are you?”

“I’m June,” I say. “A friend.” And I feel like a liar.

There is a silence.

“Delia wasn’t in trouble,” the guy says. “She was trouble.” He sounds pleased with himself, like he thinks this is a very clever line. I hate him, whoever he is.

Someone lets out a laugh. I keep going. “But something must have been really wrong,” I say. “For her to . . .”

“Well, obviously,” another guy says. “People who are fine don’t generally off themselves.”

“It’s not like she would have said what it was though.”

“If you knew her at all, you’d know that.” Someone reaches out and takes the bottle from my hands. “Delia didn’t tell anyone personal stuff about her life.”

But she did, I want to shout. She always told me.

“Listen,” another voice says. This one is female, kinder than the others, slightly southern sounding. Only before she can say any more, a bright light is slicing through the trees, lighting up our faces one by one. Two car doors slam and the beams from two flashlights shine out into the night.

“Shit,” someone says. “Cops.”

“Tigtuff ?” one of the guys asks.

Tigtuff ?

There’s another voice then, gravelly and low. “Not on me, thank fuck.”

And all at once there’s frantic motion, everyone running in every direction. Adrenaline zips through my veins, but I force myself to stand right there. Here’s something I know that none of them seem to, that Delia never understood either: If you run, they will chase you; if you stay and fight, you might lose. Sometimes, when there’s danger, the answer is to curl into yourself and wait. I take tiny silent steps down toward the reservoir. I climb up over the big rock and crouch down.

It’s so peaceful there, the commotion behind me, the moon reflecting off the water, shimmering silver.

I turn toward the road. The cop car’s doors are open now, the light pours out from within. I see the silhouette of an officer holding a bottle up in the air. Someone was stupid enough to bring it up with them.

I stay where I am for a long time, as names are taken and tickets handed out. One person is led into the back of the police car, and everyone else is either driven or drives themselves away.

And then I am alone again. And I am afraid. And this time I don’t even know why. I start back up toward the road. My toe snags a root and I lurch forward, but I catch myself just in time. My heart is hammering, and I’m not sure if it’s the near fall or something else. I keep going, quietly, carefully. I can hear my breath and the wind and the beating of my heart.

Then, footsteps.

Someone else is out here. A square of blue light sweeps by.

I want to turn and run, but I know if I do, this person will hear me. I force myself to breathe. Whoever it is they must be here for the memorial, same as I am. But still, I reach into my pocket and wrap my fist around my keys so the sharp end sticks out between my knuckles. The light goes by again. It stops on me.

“Hello?” a voice calls out. It’s low and male. The footsteps are getting nearer. “Please,” the voice says. “Wait.”

He’s close. He holds his phone up to his face so he glows. Big jaw, thin mouth, short nose. I realize I know who he is.

I saw him with Delia a few months ago, out in the parking lot at school. I remember watching them, curious about her and this guy who wasn’t her type. He was a wrestler, not tall, but wide and sturdy looking, like a bulldog. Wholesome, somehow, too. Delia had jumped up on him from behind, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. And he ran around the parking lot, fast like she didn’t weigh anything at all.

“I’m Jeremiah,” he says. “I recognize you.”

“We go to school together,” I say, because sometimes when I meet people from North Orchard outside of school, I have to tell them this.

Jeremiah shakes his head. “Not from there. From a picture she kept in her room. You both have these hats on. She talked about you. You’re June.”

I know exactly what photograph he means, because I have a copy too. Mine is in the back of my closet, and I haven’t looked at in a very long time.

“I’m sorry, you’re too late. For the memorial I mean,” I say. “People were here before.” I try to slow my still pounding heart. “Other ones. But the police came.”

“I know. I was watching.”

“You didn’t come down.”

“I wasn’t here to drink with those people.” He pauses. “I came looking for answers.”