This spring, UCSB’s Humanities and Fine Arts Division hosted a creativity contest to highlight the work of students across the UCSB campus. The following personal essay tied for second place in the prose category.
Letters
BY Brea Spencer
Dear Heather,
In four years, we’ll be the same age.
It’s weird to think about it that way, since the last time I saw you I was 11. What’s harder is imagining myself in your life at 21. Holding your baby Riley, with Braydn and me tugging at your side. It took me until this year to understand how heavy all of that responsibility must have been for you, and how the harder task was to keep it hidden from us kids. I can honestly say that is not something I am strong enough to do, and I’m sorry it took 10 years after you died for someone to tell you that you are so strong.
At the end of March this year, you would have turned 36.
I make you a birthday cake every year to celebrate the idea of you getting older. Last year I baked lemon and lavender cupcakes all morning and forced my roommates to sing happy birthday with me. I’m so stupid, Heather, I always cry every year. Every year we get to “Haaappy Biirrrrthday, Deaaarrr HeaAatHeERrr” and tears and snot just start melting down my face. But I’m not going to stop singing to you, because it makes me so happy. Even though I cry. It’s actually caught on: I met someone all the way in South Korea who had a sister who passed away when she was young, and since it was her birthday, we had a Dead Sister Cake together in a cafe. I feel like you probably don’t like the term Dead Sister Cake but you aren’t here to stop me, so you’ll have to deal with it.
While I was in Korea, I smelled the vanilla scent that reminds me of you and I cried. I cry a lot, Heather. It’s not your fault —it’s good for my mental health, I think. But I cried, and for Christmas, I asked for two bottles of Vanilla Bean Noel body spray from Bath and Body Works because that was the scent of the hand sanitizer you’d squeeze into my tiny, chubby hand. I like it, and every time I spray myself with it, I wonder how similar we would be if you got to meet me now, and I got to meet you then. I have this feeling in my chest that we both would have been My Chemical Romance fans, and you would have had fun dying my hair pink. If I had just known you a little longer.
Heather, how did you do it? I’ve always wanted to know how you danced your dance; how you could keep this step, turn the worst people and even worse situations into something so light. Mom drunk was a monster, but mom drinking with you was a sweet sap only you could tap. Dad angry was nothing if you could talk him down from it, and even the bullies at my school knew your smiling face and were happy to see you.
How did you learn so young how to make the world softer, and easier to swallow?
Because I want to do it like you. Like when you made mom a beer cozy with her name on it out of pink and green dollar-store foam sheets. You couldn’t make mom stop drinking, and you never tried, but you made it easier to handle. You smoothed out her jagged edges, and I haven’t been able to do the same since you’ve left. I don’t want to admit how defenseless I was after you left, because I never learned the steps it took to do what you did. I found my own way though, and I see the scared little kid inside of her, and I think you did too. She still has your beer cozy.
Isn’t it so terrible that the better a person you are, the larger the hole is when you leave the world?
You weren’t ready to die. Okay, yeah, no shit you were 25, but I remember that we talked about it before you left. We talked about how when you die, you can either be cremated or buried in the ground. We were talking about which one we’d prefer, which was better, we were sitting in your car, you took a left at the light in front of the high school. I don’t remember which one you wanted. Both made you uncomfortable to think about. You didn’t get to choose. He chose for you, and it still makes me mad that he could do that to you. I’m sorry, Heather, I’m still so mad that he did that to you.
You were cremated, I hope that’s the one you wanted.
When my roommates looked up the articles about what happened to you, they said you’re pretty. You are so beautiful, Heather. I know you hated the way you looked because you were only human like the rest of us. I get it, I don’t like myself now. But I guess I should think about the fact that you loved me as a fat little 11-year-old with awful bangs. I promise I’ll love myself if you love yourself, okay? We can call it a truce.
Heather, you’ll never be defined by the pain that surrounded your life, and that always chased after you. I don’t remember you for the painful parts, and no one else does either. I want you to find peace. I want you to move on and let us go, knowing that you left us behind with the sweet scent of vanilla. Will you do that for me?
I love you.
Love,
BreeBree
Dear David,
At the trial for her murder, you pleaded no contest meaning you chose not to argue with the facts of the case or claim innocence.
Maybe you regret doing it. I’m sorry you did it. I think given a second chance you would have let her live, but probably just because sitting in jail while everyone hates you kinda sucks. I don’t think I’m being hopeful when I say that you wouldn’t do it again, just truthfully, I think you know it was the wrong thing to do. But I’ll never know for sure.
I don’t care to know.
Truthfully, I don’t think of you, but I feel the pain that you left. My roommates looked you up when they wanted to learn more about what happened and when they did, they found that I could send you a letter if I wanted to. Or for six dollars I could call you, say ‘fuck you,’ and hang up. If I wanted to.
I feel it in waves, and they near constantly come crashing in and knock me down. Sometimes I pick at the old scars to make them bleed when I just want to feel connected to her again, but sometimes they just bleed because they never healed the right way. I think of what happened to her, how her life ended, the word dismembered.
I feel it extra on rainy days. Do you remember that it was a Wednesday? That it was October 10th? I remember because the last thing she said to me was “goodbye” instead of “see you later” like she normally did. Fuck you for making that mean something. It was raining really hard that day, and I was so scared when she didn’t pick us up from school. We weren’t allowed to walk home alone, but the office phone wasn’t working very well and no one we called would answer. So we stood in the rain —my little brother and I–because I couldn’t decide if we should just walk home or keep waiting for her to come.
She was already dead by then, even though we wouldn’t find her until Saturday.
At least that’s what my dad said. The search parties they did for her —that you did for her — were useless, because you already knew what you had done. I don’t know if it’s even worth telling you how selfish, how disgusting it is that her husband’s best friend pretended to look for her. You really thought you’d get away with that, huh? All we wanted was to see her again. Fuck you for that too. Everyone looked, though, and I remember being so scared every time my dad went out to search for her. They went to New Idria Mines and Hollister Hills. They were still looking for her when they got the call:
“They found her. She’s dead. It’s over.”
Ten years later and my dad still chokes up when he tells me about it because even though he knew the truth he didn’t want to stop searching for her. Didn’t want to believe it. But nobody did.
That night they had beers and a barbeque at my house. Half the town, sat in silence, drinking everything and eating nothing. I don’t remember any of it.
Isn’t it so shitty that you’re the only person I can still send a letter to? Now that the dust has settled, she’s gone and I’ll never have my childhood back. It’s just you and me, covered in the dirt of the past.
God dammit, fuck you.
All I have to say is that I hope you choose to repent. You’ll need that.
Sincerely,
Brea Spencer
Dear BreeBree,
It’s okay to call her your sister.
If people ask, it’s okay to lie, because it’s not a lie if that’s as close as you'll get to an older sister. You’ll get really tired of calling her your babysitter, and that’s okay because you know that she was so much more than that.
And it’s gonna hurt for a long time. It’s not gonna get easier for a long time, so just let it be.
You’re doing great. She’s so proud of you, I just know it. I’m so proud of you.
It’s okay if you’re grieving Heather alongside the life you had with her. Mom is scary, and Heather defended you from her. But she’s not here to do that anymore. Always remember that she fought for you though, because that means what’s happening at home is not okay. It’s not okay, don’t forget that. It’s not your fault, I promise.
She loves you. I love you. I love you so much, and I think you’re the strongest 11-year-old ever.
Riley is older than you are now. His grandma said he’s just like Heather, now: a source of light. After he moves away, it gets really hard to keep in touch with him, but try really hard, okay? Hold onto him as best you can because he really loves you and he won’t remember his mom as well as you do. You talk now, but it’s not the same.
We’re almost Heather’s age now, only four years away.
And that promise you made, to live for her? You kept it. You’ve done so many things that she never got the chance to do, and more importantly, you did so many things she would be so proud of you for.
You majored in art. You fought for that, but you finally did it.
You went all the way to Korea because you knew it would force you to grow into a better person and it did.
You dyed your hair pink. It looks super cool.
But BreeBree, there’s so much more that you do with your life that even I don’t know about yet, but I needed to tell you the one thing that I know you want to hear right now:
You don’t forget her. I promise you won’t ever forget Heather. And you never will, okay?
And I’m telling you this because I want you to know that you’re allowed to be happy without her. That you can spend each day being happy despite her not being there, and you will still never forget her. You’ll never stop loving her, and you’ll always feel her warmth. It’s okay to let go of the pain and hold on to her memory, instead. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, BreeBree. I promise it’s okay.
You’re so young, and yet you’ve felt such deep grief. I know because I remember the way my chest felt, and I know that’s how your chest is feeling now. But you want to know the beauty in that? It’s that when other people are dealing with the same deep grief inside them, you’ll be able to see it. It’s your super power now, that you can see like x-rays into the insides of people, and you can feel how they feel. It’s called empathy, and it’s your greatest strength. It always will be. Connect your heart with others, and uplift those who are hurting like you are now.
And Heather left you with a real gift because no matter how hard it gets, you’ll always find your way. She taught you how important a chalk drawing on the driveway is. How you can scribble your feelings into the pavement, and that it helps. She led you into art, and art will be your guiding light. It is how you understand yourself, and the world around you, and it is how you connect with others. That’s the root of it all.
If she hadn’t encouraged you to keep your drawings all together in a binder, you wouldn’t have understood the importance of your art and seen the value in it that she saw. And since then, you’ve made your way into art programs and competitions because you know she would have loved everything you made. She taught you that you are worth believing in. Inherently, no matter what. And you keep making her proud, with your art and everything else you accomplish.
You know what helps make it easier? Making her a birthday cake. It’s nice to remember her for her life, her life with you, and the life she’ll always have with you. I think you should give it a shot. At the very least for a slice of cake and a memory of her for just a moment.
I love you.
Brea Spencer is a fourth year UCSB student majoring in both English and Art.