January 31, 1999

Dear Mom,

You were always about protecting the innocent and guiltless, the wrongly accused. Would you be disappointed in me if I joined the other side? After all that's happened, damning people (excuse my language) sounds like a more suitable option. I want to be part of the team doling out justice, not doing the checks that keep the wrongly accused out of prison. You always said they're equally important, but right now the last thing I want to do is try to argue some criminal out of charges he may have committed in the first place. I won't be responsible for letting a murderer or a rapist back on the streets and ruining someone else's chances at closure. I won't.

As you can see, I haven't really let go of the whole "we're shelving the investigation" thing yet, and I don't think I will anytime soon. It just makes me so angry, Mom, that they could treat you like a statistic instead of a person. Don't they understand what it's like for Dad and me? No, of course they don't. I know it's very wrong of me, but I almost wish Detective Raglan lost someone close to him so he could know what this feels like. Then he wouldn't be so quick to dismiss you as a lost cause.

School's going fine, nothing special to report really. I've been eating lunch with Lanie some days, although I'm not too keen on her posse of friends. They're too rambunctious, too...happy? No, that's not the right word; I don't begrudge them their happiness. Too carefree? Maybe that's it. It occurred to me, though—was that what I was like in high school? The reason I ask is that I can see my old friends in them. They are my kind of people. Or they were, anyway.

Lanie's different, though. She gets it, as much as any of them can. There's something deeper with her, something I don't see with the other girls. She's gentle with me—not kid gloves, you know how I hate those—but she makes sure I'm okay. Some days she tries to integrate me, at least a little bit, into the conversation, but she also seems to know when I need some alone time. She does pry a little though—I guess it's her nature—but only when we're alone. I haven't told her much, but enough for her to get the picture. She stops by every so often in the evening when I return to the university library, and on most days she calls before I go to bed. I'm not much of a talker over the phone—you'd never have trouble with me hogging the landline now, Mom—but just a few sparse words can help stave off the grief for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.

During the night is a whole different matter. I never used to have nightmares as a kid but now I dream a lot. I dream of you. And they're all nightmares because you always disappear in the morning, and I lose even the memory of our time together throughout the day. I know it's just the dreams I'm losing, but I'm terrified of forgetting the sound of your laugh or your favorite words or the fierce pride in your eyes when you smiled at me that I strove to earn again and again in grade school. If I forget all those things, then I'm no better than Raglan. Then you're just a title, nothing more. Mother of Katie Beckett. I don't want to lose what made you a person and what made you such a great Mom.

Dad, on the other hand, seems have the opposite problem. I'm not saying he's trying to drink the memories of you away, Mom, but I swear that's what it looks like. I hadn't known he'd been out of the house for days, but when I opened the trunk of his car yesterday it was filled with unopened six packs. Then, today, by the time I got home from classes, it had all been moved into the fridge and there was a new one sitting on the table in front of me. He tried to hide it when I walked in, but it just splashed on the carpet. I'm scared for him, even if I only see one of those on the table a day. I don't even want to look through the recycling; I won't open the fridge to see how many are left. Once I see it I can never go back.

I checked the wine cabinet, though, Mom. That bottle of cheap Sauvignon was gone, but your favorite, the kind you introduced to him on the night of your engagement, is still there. I don't know what that means. Is it sentimental for him, so that he can't bear to open it without you? Or is he blocking out all vestiges of your presence to try to lessen the pain?

Your wedding photo's missing from the mantle.

I wish you were here so that you could decipher his actions for me. No, I wish you were here so that you wouldn't have to. So that we could all be happy, together.

Love,

Kate