Page 74 of My Best Friend Is Broken
Jesus Christ. That would be such an easy way out. But I don’t deserve it, and I’m not going to take it.
“I... no. I mean, yes, I got letters. I never opened any. I thought I saw her handwriting on some envelopes. But I couldn’t...” I struggle to find words for the shame that had consumed me in those early years. “I couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing my handwriting on prison stationery. Couldn’t stand the idea of her knowing where I was, what I’d become.”
“She already knew where you were, you idiot. She wrote to you there.”
“I know that now. But at the time, opening them, let alone replying, felt like... like admitting it was real. Like accepting that I was a criminal, a killer, someone who belonged in that place.” My voice cracks. “I thought if I didn’t engage with the outside world, maybe I could pretend it was all a nightmare I’d wake up from.”
Nicky is quiet for a long moment, processing this. “She thought you hated her. Thought maybe she’d said something wrong, or that you blamed her for not being able to help more during the trial.”
The words are like knives. “God, no. Never. I could never hate her. She was the closest thing to a real mother I ever had.”
“I know that now. But at the time... it broke her heart a little bit. She kept writing anyway, but I could see how much it hurt every time there was no reply.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of another failure, another way I’d hurt someone who loved me through my own cowardice and self-pity.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nicky. I was selfish and scared and I handled everything wrong. I should have opened them and written back. Should have let her know how much even just seeing her handwriting meant to me.”
“She knew,” Nicky says gently. “Deep down, she knew. Mum was good at reading people, at understanding the things they couldn’t say. She knew you were struggling, knew you were in pain. That’s why she kept writing.”
“What did she say? In the letters?”
“I don’t know. She never told me, said it was between you and her. But I know she wrote about family stuff,about what was happening at home. About me, probably, and how much she worried about both of us.”
Nicky’s hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing over the cold ground. “She never stopped believing in you. Even when you stopped believing in yourself.”
“I wish I could tell her I’m sorry and I’m so grateful she cared.”
“Maybe you can.”
I look at him questioningly.
“Talk to her,” he says, nodding toward the headstone. “Tell her what you couldn’t say when she was alive. She’s still listening.”
It feels awkward at first, talking to a piece of granite as if it could hear me. Even though I more or less encouraged Nicky to do the same thing a few moments ago. But gradually, the words start to come. I tell Marianna the censored version of prison, about the dark years. I tell her about coming home to Nicky, about learning to heal, about the job with Dr. Torrino and the future that’s slowly taking shape.
I tell her I’m sorry for not writing back, for letting her worry, for being too proud and scared to accept the love she was offering.
And I tell her I love her, that I miss her every day, that I’m trying to be the kind of person she believed I could be.
When I’m finished, we sit in silence again. The gray afternoon is slowly giving way to evening, and the cemetery is starting to empty as other visitors finish their own conversations with the dead.
“Thank you,” Nicky says quietly, “for remembering her. For loving her. For being here with me today instead of letting me carry this alone.”
“You’ll never have to carry anything alone again,” I tell him, and I mean it completely. “We’re a team now. In grief and joy and everything in between.”
He squeezes my hand, and I can feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The sadness is still there. It always will be on days like this, but it’s softer now, shared and therefore more bearable.
“She would love seeing us together,” Nicky says as we finally stand to leave. “Would probably have opinions about our interior decorating choices and whether we’re eating enough vegetables.”
I laugh despite the solemnity of the moment. “She’d definitely have opinions about the vegetables. And she’d insist on cooking for us every Sunday.”
“God, her Sunday dinners. I’d give anything for one more of those.”
“Me too.”
We walk back to the car slowly, reluctant to leave but knowing we’ve said what needed to be said. The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable, both of us lost in memories of a woman who helped make us who we are.
Back at the apartment, Nicky puts on the kettle while I scroll through Facebook and find a photo of the three of us from years ago, Nicky and me as teenagers, flanking Marianna at some family gathering, all of us grinning at the camera. I prop my phone up on the kitchen counter where we both can see it.
