The Edge.

It begins with a sliver of doubt.

Existence—think—an unusual idea. Humans are partial to the overarching design that we live for a purpose, or that there should be one, or that without one, life isn’t worth living. He was one of them. He was going to find the reason even if it killed him.

“Who am I?” Matthew breathed into the air. I watched as his breath became white and floated to the moon.

“You’re Matthew. You drink and drive for fun; you smoke like there’s nothing else in the world; and you love sex.”

He let out a peculiar sound that borders between a laugh, a scoff, and a cough. I ignored it. He kissed me, and everything else slipped into the mist.

Sat on the edge of forever, is what he wrote in the good-bye letter. And it was fucking miserable.

***

When I saw him again five years later, he looked better. Much better, in fact. So much better that he had brought his wife with him when he returned to our small town in Iowa for the holidays.

“I’d like you to meet Dani.” He gave me his infamous crooked smile. “My soulmate.”

“How do you do?” I asked, offering my hand to her, unafraid that they were slippery with sweat.

My mother glanced at me. Her motherly instincts knew I was over-polite when I was unhappy. She pulled me aside when Matthew and Dani sat down by my father by the fireplace.

“Watch yourself, J,” she hissed into my ear. “Don’t ruin this for them.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

***

It was another five years before I saw him again after that incident at Christmas. He got angry when Dani and I got into a political and moral debate about the death penalty. For the record, I didn’t give a shit either way because it was none of my business what other people did to other people. As long as I don’t fuck up, it doesn’t matter.

I wasn’t particularly in a good mood that second half of the year. My father passed away from pneumonia, even though he was placed in the hospital for a swollen colon. I had a distinct hunch that it was because the hospital was so damn cold all of the time, he decided just to kick the bucket. Regardless, having Matthew knocking at our back door the day before Christmas was not my idea of a Christmas blessing.

He looked like he had been dragged through the mud a couple of times. Maybe even got under the wheels of the car that dragged him. Dani was no longer hanging off his arm like a broken Christmas ornament someone was too lazy to throw away. Instead of Dani, he had a kid in each arm.

“Mrs. P.” He got on his knees, the movement bringing down the coat of snow that he brought in with him, and bowed his head to my mother. “Please help me.”

I swept up the snow as he placed the sleeping kids and two small, overstuffed plastic bags in our spare guestroom. We said nothing as he sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of hot chocolate (my mother’s famous recipe) as my mother was in the basement digging up crap from my childhood—for the new additions in the family.

“So how’re you doing?” he asked me as I opened the back door and swept out the snow. I grabbed the mop and began mopping.

“Great.”

“Graduated?”

“Yup.”

“Working?”

“Yep.”

“Married?”

“Uh-huh.”

He was silent for a while. I finished mopping and placed the mop back in its place by the washing machine. I had to pick up Khloe from school, and then drive her to church to practice her part in the Christmas play. They were doing ‘A Christmas Carol’, like they do every year, but this year, she was playing the part of the Ghost of Christmas Past, and she was excited to be dressed up as a scary ghost for Christmas. My husband and I weren’t Christian, but my mother was, and she insisted that Khloe went with her to church every other Sunday.

Please, she said, for my sake.

“Who’d you marry?” he called after me as I opened the front door.

“None of your business.”

I slammed the door behind me.

***

They lived with us for five years. Probably the best  few years my mother ever had before she passed away. She liked to take care of children. She said it was what she did best. And goddamn if it wasn’t true.

My husband, Eric, wasn’t too happy to hear that Matthew was moving in, but my mother convinced him otherwise. She was that sort of person. That Iowan that made Iowa the damnest nice place everyone praised the Midwest for. My husband loved her for it, and did everything she told him to do. Even if it included taking in my ex.

For her sake, he sighed.

He was the one who cried the most when she died.

Khloe didn’t care for the twins. She spent her time in her room, playing with dinosaurs and reading science fiction novels. She did warn me, at the age of seven, that if the brats touched anything of hers, she would not hesitate to break their fingers. After one twisted finger the twins never touched her belongings again.

The twins were growing up quickly, and they were starting to understand that Daddy was not normal. When the twins stopped wanting to go get ice cream with their father, Matthew bolted upright from the couch and announced that he was going to get a job.

***

Eric was beginning to enjoy living with Matthew.

“He’s all right, J,” he said as I curled up beside him on the couch one night at the local coffeehouse, where the lights were dim and the energy was what the students at the university would call “hipster.” “Maybe I judged him poorly. Poor guy just needed some time.”

I said nothing as he continued to read his book, and I listened in on several conversations around me.

***

“They’re precious, aren’t they?” Matthew asked me as I tucked the boys in for the night.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for taking care of them.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You love them, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

***

They remember their father well. At least the good side of him.

“Boys, can you please smile just once for this photograph?”

“Aw, Mom, this is the billionth picture you’ve taken for graduation. Can’t we just go and eat already?”

“One more. Please.”

“Mom!”

“C’mon, brats.” Khloe placed her arms over each shoulder. “One more. Then you can go make out with your girlfriends.”

At dinner, we met several of the twins’ friends’ families. We sat in a small organic restaurant as the new graduates chatted with each other about video games and visiting each other once they’ve found jobs.

“So,” the couple sitting across from us gave us a smile. “Your sons seem to be doing very well. Our boy talks about them all of the time.”

“We’re glad to hear that.” Eric smiled. He’s aged well, with crow’s feet etched gracefully into his face and streaks of white in his dark hair.

“He tells us that you are not his real parents.”

“No,” I said quietly. “We’re not. But we love them all the same.”

***

Matthew shot himself in the head out in the abandoned boathouse that sat at the edge of the river. His lawyer was at our doorstep that very night with his will. He had money saved up—enough to put the boys through school and then some. We didn’t know where the money came from, but it didn’t matter. Khloe held their hands, just as wide-eyed and frightened as the boys, when I grabbed my coat and keys.

“Mommy will be home very soon,” I whispered as I held each child in my arms. I felt tired, and I didn’t want to identify his body. “Be good for Daddy.”

I sat stiffly next to Matthew’s lawyer, as he was kind enough to offer to drive me there.

“It would be much more comfortable in my car than a police car,” he said.

It didn’t feel any different.

***

There was no suicide note. Just a receipt of his checking account in his shirt pocket, but I couldn’t read the amount. It was soaked in blood.

“Is this him, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

***

We told the boys when they graduated high school. They weren’t surprised, but they didn’t think any less of him. At least I hope not. Geoffrey dropped his pre-med major and became an English major after the first semester at university. He wrote novels and sulked whenever he was home for the holidays, but after four years, and jumping right into his career, he was the one who missed home the most. He went abroad to do some travel writing, but never failed to write a beautiful letter home. Gus went into pre-law, and found an internship at Matthew’s lawyer’s firm. Khloe, dear daughter of mine, went into psychology and offered her services to her brothers when she had time.

When I was going through Matthew’s old possessions, as we were selling the house to move to a warmer climate, I found a copy of his old note to me when we were both eighteen.

It begins with a sliver of doubt. Sat on the edge of forever. And it was fucking miserable.

I lit a lighter I found in one of his drawers, drew the flame to the edge of the paper, and watched it go up in flames.

[Originally written and posted on joint blogger account on Sunday, December 11, 2011]