Dear Robbie,

Can I say 'I forgive you'?

I mean, is that something I'm allowed to say, or is forgiveness something I'm only allowed to ask for?

You died. We were all expecting it, but at the same time we didn't believe you'd actually do it. Not that. Not yet.

God, you were barely eighteen and even that was only technical. In most ways you died at fifteen; the other three years were a tease, a way to keep us hoping when there was nothing left to hope for.

But there's something I have to tell you. I'm glad it happened; you were unconscious for so long and we all knew that if you woke up -- when you woke up -- you wouldn't be the person who had fallen asleep. There are no Princess Charmings, and the line about Happily Ever Afters is pretty cliche by now. The doctors told us the longer you stayed in a coma, the less likely you would ever fully recover.

I'm glad you didn't wake up, but that's not why I need forgiveness. I love you, my brother, but I didn't cry at your funeral because seeing you laying in the casket, so pale against the blue cloth, seeing you laying there wasn't much different from seeing you laying on the white hospital sheets day after day, year after year. I looked at you, set to sleep in your soccer uniform because we all knew how happy the game made you, and I could see that nothing had changed: when you woke up you still wouldn't be the person who had fallen asleep.

I'd better be careful. There're some truths I'm coming dangerously close to admitting here. Even though I plan to burn this letter when it's finished, I don't know how long it'll take to be finished. Is this just a ten minute request for redemption? Or a plea that will last until an answer is received?

Let me start again.

****

Dear Robbie,

A couple weeks ago I thought I heard you. During Thanksgiving break. It was breakfast time, and you know how that goes at our house. Chaos is a polite term.

Dad was waving the newspaper around, screaming something in Yiddish. I don't think anyone was listening to him, even if they could understand what he was saying. Aaron was over. That's been happening a lot lately since his parents made him take custody of Hannah.

Did I tell you about Hannah? Aaron had a kid. Well, his girlfriend did. His one night stand, actually, and then she went and tried to kill herself. So now our dear cousin is a Daddy. A Responsible Adult.

Try not to laugh too hard.

He and Rachel were talking about something, but his back was to me so I could only see her part of the conversation. I didn't try to watch, that would be rude. I planned to ask her about it later anyway. Even though we're not sharing a room anymore . . . well, we are, but only while I'm home.

Mom was getting ready to go to work, and still trying to be the good 50's mom on top of it. You know, make sure everyone has books and lunch money and all the items of clothing they're supposed to have all in the right place? . . . maybe you don't know. This is another change that happened since you fell asleep. I think she feels guilty, like maybe if she proves to the universe what a good Mom she is, it'll give you back. Except she did, and it didn't and she's still trying.

Her eyes are red almost all the time and she's lost weight.

She was yelling at Dad about something, and he was yelling at everyone about something, and Rachel and Aaron were deep in their own conversation, and I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of blonde hair underneath the kitchen table. I leaned over to look, half expecting to see you crawl out from underneath with a shoe in one hand and a puzzled expression on your face because the other shoe had gone missing. Again. I saw shoes all right. And feet. Lots of them. But none belonged to you.

So I sat up and picked my piece of buttered toast up for another bite, and I heard you smile. That sounds strange doesn't it? Because smiles are usually silent? What I mean is, I heard you say my name and there was a smile in your voice. It was like you were given one chance to say something, so you had to make it good.

****

Dear Robbie,

Third time's the charm, right? I'll get my thoughts onto paper this time without the mental stuttering and the cross-outs, and I won't have to add another crumpled piece of paper to the pile growing on the floor next to my desk.

Yeah, that's what I thought too, but I expected you to have more faith in me.

What's funny is, I'm so worried about revealing things here and you're the last person I have to worry about spilling secrets.

Rachel's been acting strange. We used to tell each other everything, and now I hardly see her. Mom and Dad haven't noticed, or maybe they have and they're just not saying anything. She is 16 after all and everyone sorta expects teenagers to act strange. You did, and I'm sure I must have tho I don't remember it. Maybe not acting strange is acting strange. How's that for a philosophy question?

Do you have all the answers yet?

Could you share some of them with me?

Robbie, it's all changing so fast here. I'm in college now, at North. It's not even a three hour drive and it feels like an impossible distance. Rachel and I hardly talk, but it's a time thing not a "not-talking" thing. Maybe it's both. I went away too, you see, and she told me to, but I'm not sure she meant it. I get the feeling sometimes that this is one of those permissions it wasn't polite to accept. I've moved on. More than she can imagine. I think Rachel's moved on too, but I don't know how. Could she have a boyfriend? Why wouldn't she tell me about him?

Mom and Dad haven't moved on, and I don't think they're ever going to.

I don't mean to make you feel guilty, but the truth is, a part of them died when you did. A big part. You were the last of the line after all. God, that sounds so shallow. It's not about the name. Not like that, anyway. You were the bright shining star of the family; they loved you best because you demanded enough of their time to make them want to give it and not so much that they resented you for it.

Did you know I've always been jealous of you? You were always so good at things I've never been able to imagine being able to do. Sports came so easy to you. Watching you on the soccer field, I always had to fight the urge to poke the person next to me and say, "That's my brother. The blonde, the one scoring all the points."

This isn't working.

****

Dear Robbie,

I'm going to say 'I forgive you'. It's something I have to say, even if I'm not sure what it means yet.

I'm going to forgive you for the coma and for dying and for visiting me in my dreams even though you know it only makes me sad. I'm going to forgive you for losing your cleats almost every day, and making us all late because we couldn't leave until we found them. I'm going to forgive you for being a boy, and for being the only son and for always standing up for the underdog even when the underdog was wrong.

I'm going to forgive you because I need something in return.

Robbie, wherever you are, please forgive me. Not the little things. I'm not asking for the little things: the hiding your shoes in my closet, and the not crying at your funeral, and the not visiting you every day in the hospital. Maybe someday I'll need those forgiven to. But not now.

I won't be joining you, dear brother. Ever.

I'd try to explain it, but I can't. I don't understand it myself.

You see, I went to sleep one night and when I woke up the next morning I was a different person too. Immortal.

Please forgive me. For not dying. For not being able to die.

That's all I ask. I know it's a lot. You don't need to tell me that, altho I wish you could. We're not supposed to believe in an afterlife, but it always seemed like there had to be something after death. Without it, I'd never get to see you again. It looks like I got my answer.

That's why I'm writing you, because I don't know any other way to get through to you. The fire all but destroyed my house, so I've been sitting in a hotel room for two days trying to figure out what to do next.

How can I burden Mom and Dad with this twist of fate? They can't deal with the ones that have already been thrown at them. I wouldn't tell Aaron if my life depended on it. There's an amusing thought, my life depending on something. I guess that's not going to happen anymore. Rachel has enough problems of her own, whatever they are. So, I've been sitting here for two days and this is what I came up with.

****

Dear Robbie,

I forgive you.