Chapter TEN
Jamison read the letter aloud, following his mother around the kitchen while she slammed things around, pretending not to listen. Finally, when his mother dissolved into tears, he handed her the little blue page and a wad of unused tissue and went to his room. He figured she’d be ready to go to the Recovery Center in about an hour or so.
There were still a few things of his grandmother’s in his room; a housecoat on the back of the door, a fishing pole mounted above the window, and a strange little table next to the bed. She used to keep old Harlequin romances in the drawer. He’d tossed the books, but the table was all right staying. The bed, finally, was his own.
The housecoat had to go, and as he was taking it off the hook, his eye caught on an envelope propped up against the blue and silver drum that had served as his piggy bank for as long as he could remember. He might have never noticed the envelope if he hadn’t been so recently obsessed with finding a mysterious letter.
He draped the quilted housecoat on the back of his desk chair, taking a second to feel the satiny fabric his grandma had been so fond of. He remembered finding her in her bedroom one day lying on the floor in her pajamas, laughing her head off.
“Watch this, Jamie,” she’d said to him. Then, wearing her satin pajamas, she stepped back into the corner, then ran and jumped on her massive bed, sliding across the tricot sheets, and with no friction to stop her, landed again on her butt.
She hadn’t repeated the trick, claiming that she’d never walk again if she did, but the two of them had laughed for a week, every time their eyes met.
Jamison smiled. He’d been so worried about his granddad he hadn’t spared much time thinking about Grandma. If she were alive his life would have gone happily along as it should have.
Strange. He didn’t remember writing on that envelope, but it was his handwriting, only it was more legible than usual. And there was something heavy inside.
To be opened if something happens to me.
He would have laughed, but then he remembered Texas. He could very well have written something four years ago and forgotten about it. But knowing that he was safe now, that it was all behind him, he didn’t want to open it. He didn’t want to know what the lump was, or relive any of it. He was home. Life was going to be tough enough. He didn’t need any more grief—even old grief.
He dug through a green metal tackle box, another one of Grandma’s treasures he’d decided to hang onto for a while. There was an old Bic lighter she’d kept handy for when she wanted to melt a good and tight knot on a fishing line.
He flicked the lighter and a healthy flame jumped to attention, like a genie, happy to finally be let out of the box. That’ll work.
He pulled out the mesh garbage can and held the letter above it, then flicked the Bic again. This time the genie was hungry and made quick work of the envelope. Unlike his mother’s old letter, this one wasn’t discolored and crusty, or at least not until the flame aged it, liking its way along one side, the blackened edge rolling along behind the fire, begging for more attention.
The fire went out, but the envelope was only half gone.
He flicked again, starting with the lower corner, and the flame jumped to do its duty again, to eradicate the entire state of Texas. About a quarter of the envelope was left, the corner he’d been holding.
He shifted his fingers to the very tip and flicked the Bic again, and the heavy lump slid out and landed in the bottom of the garbage. With nothing but a few carbon curls to cushion its fall, the clank was loud.
Jamison frowned at it for a minute. For the life of him he couldn’t remember ever making a tape recording. The only mini tape recorder he’d ever seen was the one in his granddad’s ‘odd things’ drawer. He’d poked his nose in that drawer the day they’d arrived, looking for old treasures. There’d been no computer to play on, so he’d killed some time looking through the ridiculous stuff the old man hadn’t been able to toss in the trash, or rubbish bin, as Granddad called it.
A powerful magnet, a slingshot, and the mini recorder were rescued; the rest got dumped. Maybe the old house was ready to let go of the past, like Jamison was.
He looked at the three items now taking up space on what might soon be called his ‘odd things’ shelf.
That was so stupid. If he’d made a recording in the last couple of days he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten it. Would he?
He got that fish-flapping-in-the-stomach feeling. Hadn’t he felt all day yesterday like he’d forgotten something? Had he forgotten a tape?
Jamison moved to the wall behind his closed door, backed up against it, and slowly slid down to the floor.
Breathe.
He breathed.
Think.
He didn’t want to think. He’d rather throw up. If the message on the envelope wasn’t written in Texas, then whatever was on that tape might be as bad as what happened four years ago. Only something bad would have made him write that kind of note.
Maybe he didn’t want to know.
Maybe it wasn’t his handwriting.
Maybe he should use that Bic one more time. If it was ruined, there’d be no going back. No knowing.
Holy crap. It would drive him crazy.
Breathe.
He breathed.
He’d toyed with the idea of asking his mom if he could see a therapist. Lots of people, normal people—well, normal-ish people—saw therapists. Now he wished he would have asked her. What he was really afraid of, was that he’d left it too late, that he’d pretended too much for too long, and now the transmission in his brain was slipping.
It was a long time before he moved a muscle or a brain cell. When he stood, he tried not to think. He wasn’t going to make the choice; he’d just see what his body decided.
He watched calmly as his hand took the mini-recorder off the shelf. His legs took him back to the garbage can and he wondered if he was going to trash the recorder, but his other hand scooped out the tape. His mouth blew black bits of ash out of the two little holes. His finger pushed a button and the machine opened. A thumb pushed the tape into the hole.
He pushed rewind but the button popped back up. Maybe someone had already rewound it. It took a couple of minutes before he could push play, but his body had gotten him that far. He could at least do that much.
“Okay, seriously. If I, Jamison Shaw, turn up dead or missing, or if the sheriff tells you I’ve been taken out of state for drug rehab, don’t believe it.”
He pushed stop. He wasn’t dead or missing. Technically he could stop listening. His stomach churned, letting him know it voted to run away. But if he really wanted to put Texas behind him, running away wasn’t the way to do it.
He crawled on his bed and scooted to the wall, then settled back against it. Again, he pressed play, but his thumb rested on the stop button in case his mom came in. His eerie voice was hushed, so he turned it up a little.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen now, so I’m making this tape, just in case. I only hope the Somerleds don’t get a hold of it. And if you’re listening, you murderers, you stay away from my mom or so help me...
“If you’re not a Somerled, then this is what has happened since I moved back to Flat Springs on Friday...
Jamison listened. Of course the voice sounded like him, but it freaked him out the way it freaked out anyone who listened to themselves. But hearing it on a recording he didn’t remember making was jacked up. He was jacked up, and by the time he got to the end of the recording, he was pretty sure his whole life was permanently jacked up.
His mom pounded on his door and he nearly shat his pants.
“Jamie, honey?” She cracked the door open and lowered her voice. “I’m going to go down to the Recovery Center in about an hour. Do you want to come with me?”
He was on auto-pilot
“Y..yeah. I mean, no. I mean, if you can be nice, I’ll let you go without me. He’s going to be getting some test results back today, and if it’s bad news, um, he’ll be glad you’re there.”
“What kind of test?” She finally looked at him. Her eyes were swollen, her mascara gone. Anything he said would turn the water works back on.
“To see if the cancer is responding to the treatments.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She flew across the hall. “I’m leaving in five minutes if you’re coming.” She slammed her bedroom door.
Of course he wanted to witness the reunion, but a tearful reunion? Not so much. Of course he wanted to find out the test results, to be there for Granddad if they weren’t good, or to celebrate if they were. But he needed a quiet hour to wrap his head around the story he’d just told himself.
Then he’d need another couple hours to figure out what to do with the murderer he’d been kissing the night before.