A box of belongings sat on my bed. Mama had probably put them there. Inside I found my Motorola Razor phone, Buick keys, and wallet. Wallet was empty, which was no surprise. I never used to let bills get too comfortable.
My fingers tingled as I checked the back pocket of the old wallet. I’d spent hours of my life worrying someone would find the note tucked there. The message on the tiny pink post-it note still sent a shiver down my spine, although the words weren’t new. They were seared into my brain years ago.
My neck broke out in a sweat.
I returned the note and pocketed the wallet in my state-issued khakis.
The closet was full of storage bins. I cracked a container open and rifled through the ancient t-shirts. Thought a baggier one might still fit. The shirt hugged my biceps and barely stretched across my broad chest. It ripped at the armpit when I pulled it off. Apparently, I’d grown more than I realized.
I followed the creaky floor boards to the master bedroom, hoping Mama had kept some of Daddy’s clothes around. I wracked my brain, trying to remember if she’d ever let them go. Probably did. She was too sensible to let tubs of clothing jam up her closets. Which was unfortunate, because getting out of my oversized button down would be one giant step towards normalcy.
Though the search was likely in vain, I freed the mahogany wardrobe from its protective plastic and peered inside. No clothes. It was empty except for a few photo albums in the bottom drawer.
Photo albums.
I stooped to get a better look at the collection.
My reasoning mind told me albums were a bad idea, but my hands were already pulling out the dusty books, hoping age hadn’t harmed their quality. I sunk into the overstuffed chair nearby, not bothering to remove the plastic before laying an album across my lap.
The first photo was of dear old Daddy holding me the day I was born. He looked so spry and full of enthusiasm. He’d honestly looked that way his whole life. The day he died, he’d chucked the football to me from the other side of the house—front yard to backyard. We didn’t have a little house either. It’d hurt like the dickens when the football smacked me in the chest, but we laughed and hooted, delighted it had cleared the distance. And even more delighted I’d caught the dang thing.
He was far too young to go.
In only a moment’s time, I found myself swiping tears off the album’s page. What I wouldn’t give to have one minute with him. What would he think of who I’d become? The thought had haunted me many, many nights.
The next picture was of Mama in the hospital bed smiling like a champion. She was a woman of pride and strength with a moral compass as straight as an arrow. She was tough on me, but her fierce love was like no other. I mopped the mess on my face with the ripped t-shirt.
The walk down memory lane was torture—their pictures my only company.
Mama and Daddy were by my side for each milestone in my life. Then, without warning, there was Gracie. Gracie and I had our arms slung over each other’s shoulders. We were absolutely filthy. Mud was caked on our t-shirts and smeared across our faces. Gracie’s wild hair was flowing in the wind, and I was grinning like a fool.
The color drained from my knuckles as I gripped the sides of the album. Hot tears streamed down my face. I’d ruined every good thing in my life. Easing the picture out of its slot, I studied it. We were so happy back then. Life was so simple.
Where was she? The possibilities were as painful as a dagger to my gut.
I struggled to take a deep breath as my situation hit me like a ton of bricks. How would I ever survive being here? Hearing their voices and yearning for them every moment? Something hot and empty boiled within me until my hands trembled with rage. I threw the album at the wall as a yell ripped up my throat.
The spine split.
Sobs I’d stifled for years wracked my body. Plastic crinkled as I slid off the chair and onto the carpet. I knew my emotions would hit at some point, but the weight of grief twisted my body. I screamed at the empty house. Or maybe at God.
Maybe he’d pity me and end my miserable existence already.
* * *
The late morning sun was already hot. The emotion of the previous night had left me sleep deprived and exhausted. Now, the heat drained my remaining energy.
I slammed the hood of the Buick and brushed the sweat off my forehead. With Danny’s help, I was able to push the blasted thing into Daddy’s old shop, drain and replace the gasoline from the tank, change the oil and filter, replace the spark plugs, clean the cables, and jump the battery. The humming of the engine was a sheer miracle.
Must’ve been holding together to spite me.
The piece of trash was my current ticket to the world. I muttered, “Okay, old girl, get me to the dealership, and I’ll officially let you retire.” I backed out of the driveway and down the street—even used my blinkers at the stop sign. I had missed driving, and the know-how flooded back to me. Like riding a bike.
There was a Nickelback CD still in the player. It reminded me of the days when Gracie, Nate, and I would whip the Buick around the backroads singing. I smiled, remembering how we had pestered Gracie half to death because she couldn’t carry a tune. But our teasing had only caused her to sing louder.
The towels I’d thrown over the seats and console kept slipping down. Even though it looked like Mama had tried to clean the mess up, old blood stains were everywhere. I didn’t want to see them, but the towels were a shoddy fix. So I did my best to keep my eyes focused on the street lines. My heart raced as a wave of panic swept over me.
I forced a couple deep breaths and jammed the off-switch on the CD player.
