It didn’t take long to get back into the zone. The loft had taken on a life of its own after the hours they’d spent in there. And now, with the brightness beyond the surrounding glass replaced with evidence of the approaching storm, it seemed all the more fitting.
They were down to the final few entries, three dozen at most. And who knew what dates they’d come across with this batch?
So far the entries had reflected a time span within the last five years of his life, the most recent one dated a few weeks before his death. It was a self portrait reflecting the steps he’d taken toward sobriety in a tug of war. Him at the center and a rope at either side. The wordsclean, sober, and freewere scrawled across the twine rope at his left. He leaned heavily toward that side in the depiction. But the rope tugging at his right, the wordsmy infinite vicelabeling the source of that pull, had a grip on him even still.
James mused over those words as he sank back into the beanbag.Infinite vice?Winston had given it so much power. There he was, in rehab when he’d written that entry about the battle he wanted so badly to beat.
“Look at this one,” Camila said, holding out an entry with nothing but text. There’d been a few of those in the bunch, but not many. James leaned in to read it, aware that it could say the very things he dreaded finding. But as he took a closer look at the formation of words, the title along the top, he realized it was a poem.
Once
The steps in my path didn’t feel like my own.
Once, a long time ago.
I fought for a freedom I hadn’t known.
Relished my triumph while claiming my throne.
We danced and you felt like my very own.
Once, a long time ago.
I watched the man I used to know.
Drift from my body and take my soul.
No more a dance—YOU had control.
Once, a long time ago.
Every fiber aches to get me back.
The man I lost when I loosened my grasp.
Once, a long time ago.
An ache tore through James’ chest as he read it once more. He found a date, written upside down along the bottom. “He wrote this, if I’m right about the date, during his second trip to rehab.” He sighed.
Camila rubbed a hand over his back. “I wonder if some of this could help someone. You know, help educate kids in some anti-drug campaign.”
“That’s a good idea,” James said, letting it take root in his mind. The thought was like a hefty weight placed on one side of a scale. One end represented the doom and gloom side of things. The other being its counter, where hope and encouragement lay. Camila’s idea, surprisingly simple as it was, planted a very real layer of hope in him, and James couldn’t help but cling to it. Like Winston clung to the rope of freedom in his sketch. The trick was to let go of the other so it didn’t drag him back down.
The next few put a smile on his face. Winston had given each of his siblings a character drawing. Betzy’s had a literal heart of gold filled in with some sort of metallic marker or pen. It was the biggest thing on her body, aside from the ultra tall high heels she wore.
Zander’s pointed out his obsession for watches. A tiny body with a big head and a giant forearm boasting his collection of watches, everything from Rolex to Gucci to Guess. He got his arched brow spot on.
Duke was sporting a clown nose while performing a juggling act with—what else?—women. James couldn’t help but laugh.
“He was one witty son of a gun,” he mumbled while setting that one aside. And there was his. In his portrait, James had a big head and a massive chest boasting the initials JB. A bright cape flapped in the breeze.
Camila whistled a catcall. “Cute. What’s that by your feet?”
James moved his gaze down the page to see for himself. A furry little puffball with beady eyes sat nestled against his superhero boots. He laughed out loud. “That’s Frank, my gerbil. I loved that little guy.” A deep longing gripped hold of him then. A fresh and sudden urge to talk to Winston about the good old days. And to tell him how much he liked his drawings. He was sorry that he got in so much trouble for doodling at school. Maybe they should have encouraged him instead. Gotten him into more art classes.
Dad wouldn’t have been happy to see one of his kids pursue art over financial education, but if he’d have known where Winston’s misfit path would lead him…
He sniffed as moisture welled up in his eyes. Memories of the time they left the school property during recess and made straight for the gas station to pile up on sour gummies and candy corns. Or the time they went horseback riding and Duke got bucked off. Mom almost had a heart attack as she raced in to get him. And James and Winston, they laughed their butts off while Mom dusted him off.
