Dear Mom and Dad.” Why is he writing us? Maybe his meds are working again.
“I don’t know how to start this, but I realize that like everything else, it needs to be perfect. It needs to be as perfect as our kitchen looks every minute of every day, or as perfect as my bed has to look every morning before I go to school. It needs to be as perfect as you both are for each other or as perfect as you expect me to be.”
He is perfect. This is bizarre. Maybe I should go get his father. Yes, that’s exactly what I will do.
“Honey? Will you please come into the living room?”
“Yes, Dear. I’ll be there in a minute.” That’s always his response. Maybe I should put it back where I found it. It looked so perfect there. Perfect. Did Alex mean to put it here? Did he mean to put it on this very table, sitting at the perfect angle in front of the perfect freshly cut flowers? Did he mean to place this in front of the fireplace, so that I would stay warm as I read? Did he mean to have the fireplace on so I could hear each and every tiny spark that pops and sounds like tiny little fairies hiccupping? Did he mean for everything to be so perfect?
“What is it, Dear?” should I tell him that I have already started to read it? No. No, it was addressed to both of us and it should be read by both of us.
“There is a note for us, Honey. I think that it is from Alex.”
“But it fits so perfectly there, Elizabeth. Maybe it is just decoration?”
“No, Brian. I am sure that he wanted us to read it and read it together.”
“Okay, okay, darling. Let’s see it. Give it here.” And so it started again.
“Dear Mom and Dad.” Why didn’t he just talk to us? Why write?
“I don’t know how to start this, but I realize that like everything else, it needs to be perfect. It needs to be as perfect as our kitchen looks every minute of every day, or as perfect as my bed has to look every morning before I go to school. It needs to be as perfect as you both are for each other or as perfect as you expect me to be.” Those words cut into me and started echoing through my soul. Alex is so perfect. Maybe he is apologizing for forgetting to feed the dogs the other day. Brian looked at me and seemed as confused as I was.
“But Mom and Dad, I’m sure that by now you have realized that I am not perfect.” Of course my little baby boy, my little Alex is perfect. This must be about the dogs.
“Mom, you thought that I was acting ‘peculiar’ ever since I turned 16. That was over two months ago. So, you thought that I should go to a shrink and get on every type of medicine to help make me perfect again. What you didn’t know was that NO medication in the world can ever cure my imperfections.” The doctor said that the medicine was working. What is going on? This is as crazy as me forgetting to do the dishes on Christmas! Of course the medication can help him. It has in the past. What is wrong with my Alex?
“And, Dad? You thought that not only was I imperfect but that Mom was making me worse. You thought the shrink was hurting me much, much more than helping. You’ve always known, haven’t you Dad? But you would never tell her.”
“Brian? Brian, what is wrong with my baby boy? Is he going to be okay?” And Brian just looked at me. He was more scared than a fish at the nose of a shark.
“Let’s just finish reading, Liz. I have no clue what he is talking about.” Brian was never any good at lying to me.
“You both thought that I was crazy, but I'm not. Mom and Dad, I’m just imperfect. I'm not normal. I don’t play baseball or sip lemonade. I love fire, Dad. That’s why you put that fireplace in my room, remember? What you don’t know is that Maid Margaret was right. She was never lying. She NEVER lit my fireplace. She was NEVER lying and you still fired her. You didn’t believe her because that would make me the cause of every imperfection in your picture perfect, television placed family. But that’s what I am, Mom. I'm your EVERY IMPERFECTION.” Oh, no! This can not be true! It must be a joke. Maybe April Fools'… too bad its January 20th.
“Brian?” I said so close to silence that I am surprised that he even heard me. He looked so hurt and upset.
“Be quiet darling, there is still more to read. ‘My fireplace was always lit because I could light it. But not with a match or a lighter. Nope, not me, those would start houses on fire. That’s what my police visitors at school would always say.
‘And I didn’t use candles or fireworks. Even those would be too perfect for me. But I'm not perfect, Dad. No shrink can change that, Mom. Its so much different than everything else. When my hair was too dark, I could bleach it to make it perfect. When my pitch was too slow, I would practice and practice until I could make it hit the mitt just like the White Sox do, Dad. I would make it perfect because those things I could fix.”
My boy, my little-
“I can control fire if you haven’t guessed it yet. I can make my fireplace light just by thinking about it. And I can’t play baseball, Dad. My mitt gets too hot and the sun cooks those poor little ants in the sand. And, Mom? I can’t sip lemonade. Those tiny, poor ice cubes disappear as my nails touch the glass. I'm your imperfection. Just like this paper is mine.
“So I decided I would leave. Run away. And let you live the perfect lives that you think you’ve made for yourselves. Perfect. Unlike this letter, its not perfect.
“This morning didn’t go to protocol, Mom. I know you noticed. You assumed that that meant that my medications and more medications were starting to work. Mom, you were wrong. And Dad, you said that I didn’t seem like my normal self, that I was distant. But you didn’t care.
“Today I made sure to leave the milk out and even spill a little before I went to school. That way our kitchen wasn’t perfect anymore. And I didn’t make my bed for the first time in 16 years, Mom. If you go in my room you will see the mitts and hats and baseballs scattered all over my sheets. That way my bed isn't perfect anymore, either. Did you notice you guys fought this morning? You fought this morning because I purposefully turned the coffee machine off. It ruined just how perfect you thought you were for each other. And I am far from being perfect too. So this paper shows all my imperfections. This is my greatest imperfection. Just like I am yours.
“So, goodbye Mom and Dad. This paper is out of my hands, just like I am out of yours.
“Your imperfect son,
“Alex
“p.s. I’m sorry.”
“Brian? I think I'm going to go clean up the milk and make his bed. Oh, and I'm sorry for yelling at you today.”
“It’s okay, Liz. I’ll help with the milk. Maybe his paper was perfect just how it is.”
“Maybe. But he will never know, huh Brian?”
“I don’t believe so Liz. Or maybe he already does.”
“I'm going to miss him.”
“Me too, darling. Me too.”
