Letter of Apology by Sarah Sherman
“in first grade when a teacher’s aide mistook me for a boy”
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I’m sorry I started looking for denim overalls.
I’m sorry I looked in practically every store in Ithaca until I found them.
I’m sorry I bought the red wig, striped shirt, fake blood, and plastic knife to complete the costume.
I’m sorry I chose to be Chucky, the possessed doll from “Child’s Play,” for Halloween.
I know you thought it would only make me feel uglier than I was already feeling. But I wanted the image I had of my insides—destroyed, disturbed—to match how I looked on the outside. I wanted to cover up the 120 pounds of blonde highlights, tan skin, and blue eyes—all features expected to express happiness.
And it worked. I was hideous. Inside and out.
Seven, maybe twelve shots of Burnett’s Vodka later, I was warm enough to go coatless to the bar. In my pockets were a fake ID, cash, and cell phone. I waited in line alongside sexy bunnies, lions, and vampires. Some said I looked scary. Some said disturbing. Guys shook their heads. Girls asked me why I would choose Chucky, of all things, for my costume. At first, I responded only with quotes from the movie.
“Hi, I’m Chucky. And I’m your friend till the end.”
I waited twenty minutes to be denied entry by a bouncer who’d let me in that bar the entire semester. But that night I wasn’t cute enough for him to ignore the fact that my face looked nothing like the girl on the ID.
I begged him, offered him money. My friends tried, too. He took the fake ID. Demanded I leave. And I did what he told me. I couldn’t remember ever being that embarrassed. Maybe in first grade when a teacher’s aide mistook me for a boy.
I told myself I could cry when I got home and walked away.
No one followed me.
That’s when I called you. Even though it was late. I knew I could always call you. You told me later that when the phone rang you knew something was wrong. You were always getting those feelings. We talked as I walked the half-mile to my house—the yellow house where I had three roommates, but always felt alone. They never bothered with me. We were too different. They were too happy.
You listened as I unlocked and opened the door. I told you I’d be okay. Told you I was going to bed.
The hole in my stomach deepened, my heart started to race, breaths became harder to take—the normal routine before I’d try and sleep. But this night was different—worse. I looked to the prescription bottle I’d opened every night for months. I picked it up, held the orange plastic bottle in my right hand and pushed down on the white cap with my left. I turned it upside down and dumped the blue pills on my bed. I counted eight. Eight seemed so much better than one, but not as good as ten, or even twenty. I picked them up, opened my mouth, ignored the vodka smell on my breath, and threw them to the back of my throat. I put the water bottle to my lips. Closed my eyes. Swallowed.
I picked up the phone right away, but this time you weren’t my first call. I didn’t want to scare you. I called a friend.
“I did something stupid,” I said.
Then she called you. I don’t remember why she had your number. Maybe because you both suspected something like this might happen one day. She told you what I did, that she was on her way to get me. You hung up and called me. I don’t remember what was said, only that I cried, you cried.
I threw the wig on the floor.
Changed my clothes.
Looked in the mirror.
Decided not to wipe the fake blood from my face.
That’s about all I remember until I saw you. You sat near the end of the hospital bed with your hands on my legs. Dad stood to my right, holding my hand. I remember being sorry, but I’m not sure I said it.
I know I said it later. And it’s what I’m saying now.
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