What Do We Do Now?

Fourth

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Sandra. Katrina passed away. She died last week.”

Agnes kept talking but I could hear nothing after that. It feels as if a rug has been pulled from under me. 

She said Katrina died last week. 

She died last week.

Last week. 

Last week when I was telling myself she’d come to me when she needed me. 

I convinced myself she’d find me. Well, she couldn’t anymore, could she? She was dead.

I felt sick. 

The entire weekend I spent putting myself first, taking care of my needs, convincing myself that what I did was the best I could do at the time and that Katrina will eventually come find me. 

The entire weekend I was happy. I was proud of where I was in my life. There was even a spring in my step this morning. And that whole time she had been dead.

She died last week.

I stood up not listening to whatever it was Agnes was saying and paced the room. I felt sick to my stomach.

How could I?

How could I have kept going living my life not knowing where she was or how she was doing?

How could I claim to have loved her so much when I spent most of my waking moments pushing her off my mind?

I’m a horrible person. I knew something was wrong. I felt it.

I felt it and I did nothing.

“I think he took Marin.” I faintly heard her say and it made me stop at my tracks.

Who took Marin and why was this relevant?

Marin was Katrina’s favorite doll growing up. I remember because it was the very first one I made her. Marin was a mermaid because I couldn’t figure out how to make her legs. She was originally named Marina but 3 year old Katrina had trouble with 3 syllabled words and always just omitted the ‘a’ at the end.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I think Ben took Marin.” She repeated.

I remember my mom telling me Katrina ran off with some guy named Ben.

“Ben the guy she ran away with took Marin?” I tried making sense of what she was saying.

 She looked at me like I was crazy not to be concerned but Agnes’ face fell as soon as it dawned on her that I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh dear. You don’t know.”

“What don’t I know, Agnes?” I was having a hard time processing Katrina’s death that I couldn’t guess what the doll had to do with anything even if I tried.

She took in a breath making me even more anxious.

“Marin is your niece. Katrina’s daughter. She wasn’t in the house the day I found Katrina.”

I was dumbfounded.

“Katrina has a daughter?” I couldn’t stop the tears that formed in my eyes as I digested the new information. 

Somehow learning I had a niece softened the blow of my sister’s death and I was able to start thinking again. Knowing there was still a little piece of her left made losing her a lot less feeling like it was the end of the world.

“I’m sorry, Agnes, but how is it that you’re the one who found Katrina? Who are you?” I ask her after regaining a bit of composure.

“I tried to help her..” She said apologetically.

Turns out Agnes was Katrina’s substance abuse social worker. One day Katrina walked in on a free group therapy session she was conducting and even though she said Katrina sat in the very back and didn’t say anything Agnes recognized her as someone who needed urgent help and made sure to try and strike a conversation with her after the session. 

She learned that Katrina was pregnant and came to seek help because of it.

“I shared our session schedule with her and told her to come as often as she could. It’s important not to overwhelm them you know..especially since she was so young..And she came on her own, Katrina did, for the baby..that’s why I wanted to help her.. I was so sure she was gonna make it..” Agnes couldn’t help but tear up recalling how she met Katrina.

I handed her a tissue.

Agnes continued her story stopping every so often to wipe a tear or restrain a sniffle. I was struggling with my own sadness and guilt just barely fighting it by paying close attention to everything she was saying. 

I wanted to absorb all the information she was sharing about my sister and I couldn’t help but feel both gratitude and jealousy hearing about her conversations and visits with Katrina.

She was there for her when I wasn’t. 

It should have been me that she called when she needed reprieve or support or help or whatever it was she needed. 

It never should have been Agnes. 

If she had come to me she would still be alive. 

Not that I thought that what Agnes did wasn’t enough. She already went beyond what any other social worker would do by giving her personal number to Katrina, bringing her food, and giving her money when she could spare some.

But I could have done so much more. I could have taken her away from that life. I could’ve gotten her out of that situation. She should’ve been with me when she gave birth. I would’ve gotten her all the help she needed, the best help, and she would still be alive today.

If she had come to me she would still be here. 

No, I correct myself, if I had tried harder I would’ve found her, I would have made sure she healed, and I would have had both her and Marin in my life. They would’ve been happy.

It took so much of my willpower to stop wallowing in guilt while Agnes described Katrina’s home life and how she ended up seeking help.

By the time she got to talking about the last time she saw Katrina alive, I was consumed by anger. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend how terrible and tragic my sister’s life was.

More than the guilt of not being able to save her from her fate, I was enraged.

Agnes’ story gave me someone to blame other than myself. 

Ben Caddel. The monster. He got her into drugs, made her addicted, took her from the only home she knew, beat her up, got her pregnant, and beat her up some more.

I was so angry that I couldn’t see straight. He beat her. Not just once. He beat her repeatedly. Before she got pregnant, while she was pregnant, and when she had just barely given birth. 

My sister had the most horrible, painful death. She was beat up and left for dead.

How long was she in agony before she finally breathed her last? I was sure that at that point she must have already craved death.

Agnes and I were both quiet for a long time after she finished telling me Katrina’s story.

I couldn’t find anything to say after what I learned and she couldn’t muster up the strength to console me either.

She sat staring at the floor dabbing her eyes from time to time while I stood by the window looking at the city below but seeing nothing.

“Sandra?” Agnes finally broke the silence.

I couldn’t even acknowledge her anymore. I just stayed still.

“Katrina wrote you letters.” She said.

I perked up at that and turned to face her slowly.

“It was part of our recovery program that she reached out to people she needed to forgive or make amends to.” Agnes continued.

“They’re all here in this envelope. I’ll leave them with you to do what you think is best. I don’t know what she wrote but I do know they will be hard for you to read so if you decide you want to, take your time.”

I just nodded at her.

“I’m sorry, Sandra. I really did think she would come out of this.” Agnes expressed again.

“Thank you. You were there for her. At least she had someone.” I was genuinely grateful.

“I’ll take my leave now. My contact information is written down on the envelope as well. Please call if you need to talk. Call anytime.” She tells me.

“I will, thank you.” I say as she walks out of my office.

I stare at the Manila envelope on the table. Katrina wrote several letters judging by the thickness. I absentmindedly pick it up and pull the first one out.

It was neatly folded with my name written with a scratchy penmanship on the front.

Katrina wrote this. She wrote to me. I would break down before I could bring myself to open the letter so I put it back in the envelope and stash it in my file cabinet. 

I’ll read it. I’ll read them all. Just not today.