tw death
Mum always told us not to stray onto the red brick road. It was her only rule, drilled into me and my brother since were old enough to understand: The cars won’t be able to see us, we might get hit. She used to tell us that if we stepped out onto it without an adult, we’d be dead before we even noticed the headlights of the speeding car. This terrified us as kids. My brother is dead now, of course, has been since we were kids. He said he wasn’t scared anymore, he broke the rule. He stepped out onto the red brick road.
After that, I wasn’t allowed to play outside alone.
It’s gone now, the road that killed him. Well, it was the local council that killed him, though no one will admit it. Everyone told them how all the cars were speeding, how there wasn’t even a crossing, how unsafe it was for the children walking to school. The complaints were ignored and they spent the funds on something more important. More important than my brother’s life. A few years ago, they tarmacked over the old red bricks, put in a crossing and speed limit – too late, too late for the kids who used to live near, too late for Lucas.
On the windowsill at my Mum’s old house, there used to be a photograph of us, me and Lucas. We must’ve been six or so, and we’re sitting on a bench with ice cream smeared around our mouths. It’s hard to say who is who, since our clothes are cut out of the photo and our faces were identical. Mum always swore Lucas was the one on the left, but as she neared the end of her life she was certain he was the one on the right, and I chose not to remind her of her previous certainty. She died at fifty-one, when her sickness finally overtook her strength. That photograph is probably in a box somewhere. I hope it’s not ruined. Would you dig it out for me, when you have the time? I appreciate you reading this, Louise, I know we aren’t on the best of terms. Weren’t, I mean, because by the time you’re reading this I’m dead.
I don’t think you’re sad. I don’t know if you even cared, when you found out that I was gone. I hope you didn’t, I hope you aren’t sad, because you deserve to be happy, Louise. You deserve to be happy now that I’m gone since I couldn’t make you happy when I was alive.
Was it a shock? When you found out? It won’t be a shock for me, I’ve known it to be coming for a good while. I didn’t want to burden you, I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to make up with me. Maybe, if I’d told you, things would be different, maybe I wouldn’t have written this, maybe you would be here with me.
Instead I face it alone – death, my very own red brick road. You know, I don’t know the real name of that road, I only know it by what my mum called it. It’s a little piece of her I carry with me, perhaps. A piece of him, too, a piece of Lucas, since he died there.
I visited it, years later. By then, it was tarmacked over, and there was a button you could press to cross safely. I stopped in the middle of the road for barely an second, I stood where he did. I turned to my left and I saw a car’s headlights shining into my eyes, just like he did. Except, his car kept driving, until it hit him. He died. I survived, and I finished crossing the road, I made to the other side.
You were there, Louise. I held your tiny hand in mine as we crossed. I never told you why we were there, you probably thought I was mad - raving on about some road, spending less than a minute by it, then driving home.
Lucas never got to drive. I did.
I wish you’d have met him, and Jamie too. They look just alike, Jamie and Lucas. Same hair, same nose, but Jamie has his father’s eyes. I would always focus on his eyes to remind me that it was your son, not my brother. Your son, not my twin.
My brother is gone. I see him, though. I think it’s the meds they have me on, but I can feel his presence reading over my shoulder as I write this, it’s why I’m talking of him so much.
It’s a warm, peaceful, fuzzy feeling. I hear his childish, innocent laugh. Mine used to sound like his, but now I don’t even know what it sounds like since I haven’t laughed for so long.
I’m sorry for the ramblings. It is my final letter after all, my final words. I should get to the point: you.
Your mother was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Until the next day when I made out with somebody different. I’m not proud of my past, but I’m proud that it lead to you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, but I didn’t know it at first. When your mother came to me with the news, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even remember her name. She cried. Probably because I was so hopeless.
I almost missed your birth, too. I took a bus as soon as your mother told me she was in labour, but it broke down. I ran to the hospital through pouring rain, and when I got there they wouldn’t let me hold you cause I was wet and might give you a cold.
Your mother’s family told me your name: Lucy. Lucy, not Louise, not at first. I bet you didn’t know that. There were three reasons that I didn’t like the name Lucy.
The first was that I had an annoying neighbour named Lucy. She would play music super loud in the middle of the night, and as at this time I lived in a thin-walled apartment, it would stop me from sleeping. I didn’t want to think of sleepless nights every time I thought of my daughter.
The second was that it was your Grandmother’s name. Lucy and Lucy, I just thought that it would get a bit confusing. It would’ve been pretty damn impractical seeing as she lived for another fifteen years.
The third reason was that I could tell your mother didn’t like it either, I could see it in her eyes. I asked her, “Do you like this name? Is this your daughters name?” and I was met with, “Of course!” but not by your mother – it was Lucy who spoke. I asked again, and Lucy told me off again. I thought all hope was lost, that my daughter was going to be called Lucy despite both parents disliking the name. Then she spoke up, your mother. Louise, she told the room, Louise is the name of my child.
Then she kicked everyone out of the hospital room, even me. Your grandparents blamed her behaviour on the disorientation of becoming a mother for the first time, but even I understood that that was not what was going on. Your name was Louise; Louise Lucille Wood.
You had so many nicknames over the years; I missed them, let me try to redeem myself.
I missed your first steps, Louise Lucille Wood. I missed your first words, Louise Wood. I missed your first day at school, Louise. I missed so many football matches, Lou. I wasn’t there when you finished school, Louise. I wasn’t there for you, Louise Lucille Wood, I told you again and again that I would be, yet I never showed up for you.
The red brick road that killed my brother is gone now, but I’m standing in the centre of one of my own; I’m waiting to be hit by the car, I’m waiting to die. And all can think is: I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother, or son, or grandfather.
I’m proud to call you my daughter, even if you are ashamed to call me your father.
I love you, but I should've said it sooner.
Dad
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