Page 45 of On Your Life

I bounce up the front steps and don’t bother knocking. When I open the door I’m hit with the sweet smell of something baking. My steps slow. The house is warm.

I follow the smell through the living room and into the kitchen, where his mother is humming softly as she sways in front of the oven. She pulls out a massive tray of cookies and places them on the counter.

She looks different. Healthier in a good way. Like she finally managed to put on some of the weight she’d lost during years of drug abuse. When she turns, her rosy cheeks pull back into a large smile.

“Fox!” she exclaims. “I wasn’t expecting you sweetie. I would have made breakfast for you.”

I almost ask her about the password but instead, I bite my tongue. The likelihood that she would know anything useful about him is slim to none. There’s no use in spreading salt on the wound she is obviously trying to hide.

She spent most of her time lost in one mess or another. Begging Conner for money or asking him to bail her out of whatever she’d gotten herself into that week. All while he was begging her to just be his mother.

“I’m good.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I needed to see if I could find one of my shirts. Can I go up to his room?”

Her face drops when I ask. The sadness in her expression lasts for a moment before she shakes her head, as if to throw the feeling to the side.

“Sure thing,” she says with a sad smile. “Take as long as you need.”

Like I would have gone home if she’d told me no but better to be polite for the time being.

I take the steps two at a time and make my way down the dark hallway. The floor boards creak exactly where I remember. His bedroom door still stands closed at the end of the hall, like nothing has changed. Except everything has.

I stand in front of the door like it will open on its own, like Conner is going to swing it open with his stupid half grin wearing nothing but basketball shorts because he was too vain to put on a shirt half the time.

His room looks exactly the same. The bed is still unmade. Clothes are piled at the foot like he didn’t want to deal with putting them away before going out that night.

I’m not sure where to start. I step inside and make my way over to his bedside table and open the drawer. Shiny condom packages and lube roll to the front and I have to fight the urge to slam the drawer shut again.

“Seriously dude? Disgusting.”

I glance around the room. There has to be something. Anything that might give me a clue.

I spot an ink pen on the dresser and grab it, using it to move things around in the drawer instead of putting my hand in what I’m quickly deciding is a biohazard bin.

I almost give up.

Just as the drawer begins to close something crinkles. I pull the drawer further open.

Towards the back is a crumpled up sticky note. Just as I move to reach for it, I hear a creak on the steps. The small yellow paper disappears into my pocket before I can even take a look at it.

I cross the room in two strides and yank open the closet, pretending to search through the clothes. The bedroom door opens behind me and I turn to find his mother standing in the doorway.

“Find it dear?” she asks.

I hold a random shirt in my hands like I had been standing there for ten minutes unable to process my grief.

“I haven’t yet. He was the worst at organizing so it’s taking a while, sorry,” I sigh, like it has been taxing to search through his belongings.

The drawer was more traumatizing than anything else. She smiles at me sympathetically.

“That’s okay. Just checking in, take your time. I’ll look and see if he had extra clothes in the laundry room. Maybe it’s in there.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She disappears back down the stairs. I wait until I hear her footsteps fade then I pull the sticky note from my pocket. It feels like it’s burning straight through to my thigh.

My hands shake as I unfold it, careful not to tear the fragile paper.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Some master list of passwords? A phone number? Instead there is one word scribbled in black ink.