At that same moment, a man walks up the back steps, crosses through the screened porch and comes into the kitchen. He’s thin, mostly bald, with a trimmed graying goatee and blue eyes. He wears faded jeans and a Seattle Mariners t-shirt. He smiles and says, “Hey, you two, I’m Peter. So, you got here okay. How was the drive?”
He comes to the table and shakes our hands while we introduce ourselves. Then he goes to where Jessica stands placing boxes of tea onto the counter. He rubs her shoulder, lowering his voice to a whisper. “How’s it going, honey? Doing okay?”
Jessica nods, meets his eyes and smiles, but I can tell something’s off. I glance at Lauren, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly, the message being, Yeah, I see it too. No idea.
Jessica turns to face us directly. “We need to go into town,” she says. “We weren’t sure exactly when you’d show up and there’s really not a whole lot here. I also need to check on the shop.”
“I can go, if you’d rather,” Peter says.
“No, it’s fine,” Jessica says, lowering her voice for him before raising it for us again. “Are you two okay with hanging out here for a while?”
Lauren and I exchange glances, then shrugs. “Sure, of course,” I say.
The tea kettle whistles and Jessica fills the mugs. “I’m just going to run upstairs for a moment,” she tells Peter.
She leaves the room and Peter brings the mugs to the table. “Sorry about leaving you two here but Jessica wanted to make a nice dinner. And, like she said, we need to check on her shop. Anyway, we won’t be long. Sit out on the porch if you feel like it or just watch TV.”
Always the one to be up front about things, Lauren asks, “Is everything okay?”
Peter hesitates, then says, “Well, this might seem a little weird but Jessica kind of…well, she gets feelings about things. And she’s sort of had one about the two of you coming here.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Peter shrugs. “She really hasn’t told me all that much. Just that it means something. That something is going to change. I don’t really know. Probably, it’s just the old band stuff coming up for her. A lot happened back then and she’s done her best to put it out of her mind over the years.”
Jessica’s footsteps sound on the stairs. “Ready, Peter?”
A few minutes later, they’re gone and we sit at Jessica Malcom’s kitchen table, looking out at the water.
“Okay, that was strange,” I say.
Lauren sips her tea. “Which part?”
“Well, for one thing, they just left us sitting here in their house. And Jessica Malcom is not exactly known for inviting strangers into her life. Scratch that—she’s not known for inviting anyone into her life.”
“True. But it’s probably safe to guess we didn’t drive three-thousand miles, and contact everyone she knows, so we could show up here to rob her. I mean, she knows why we’re here.”
“Yeah, exactly! Did you see how she reacted when I tried to bring up the guitar? It was like she just…” My words trail off since I have no idea what happened in that moment.
Lauren leans in closer. “Couldn’t quite handle it? Yeah, I totally noticed that.”
“And then there was the part Peter said about her getting feelings about things. Don’t you think that’s kind of…” This time, I don’t finish because I already know how Lauren will react. And I’m right.
“That part I don’t find strange. Honestly, I’m not all that surprised.”
“What are you thinking?”
“What I’m thinking is this,” she says. “This whole deal—this little adventure of ours—started out with you getting a really strong feeling. Well, that’s kind of a two way street. I mean, if your phone rings, someone dialed it, right?”
“Could have been a butt dial,” I say.
Lauren dips her spoon into her tea and flicks it at my face. I wipe the tea off my nose without comment. After all, I deserved it.
“Like I was saying—if you can manage to stay with my analogy—is that you got a strong feeling at your end because a strong feeling came at you from the other. So, it stands to reason that both involved are highly intuitive. And, obviously, there’s a reason why the person at one end is feeling it and the other one feels it too.”
“Hang on. Are you saying there’s some sort of personal connection going on here?”
Lauren’s eyes meet mine. “Jack, really? Did you ever doubt there would be?”
~~~
Maybe she just needed to get out of the house but Jessica appears more relaxed when she and Peter return. It seems strange that she’d just been worried about not having what she needed for dinner but maybe that had been the case. She puts on music, lifting the energy, while she and Peter prepare food. While I wasn’t sure if maybe Jessica Malcom might have remained obsessed with her era in music as so many middle-aged people do, that definitely isn’t the case. She plays mostly current bands.
Lauren and I sit listening on the screened porch, watching as the sun starts to sink behind the mountains and as boats continue to drift out across the water, all of it cast in golden, glimmering light. What must be familiar to them is spectacular to us. It seems like both Jessica and Peter understand that, since they go about preparing the meal quietly, with just the music playing, almost like they don’t want to disturb us.
We have dinner out there too, gathered around what Jessica tells us is an old farmhouse table she found one day at a yard sale. She seems fine now as we eat fish tacos made from Alaskan halibut and the four of us talk about pretty much everything but why Lauren and I are there. I know there’s something to what Lauren said before about Jessica not being ready to handle some aspect of that, so I do my best just to go with it while we answer questions about high school, life in Virginia and our trip across country. We learn about the shop Jessica runs in town, a combination bookstore and gallery featuring the works of local painters and photographers. “More a hobby than a business,” is how she describes it, but she smiles while telling us about the place. These days, Jessica paints and produces digital art as well. She doesn’t go into detail, but Peter mentions a website which must not be connected with her original name. He teaches English at a nearby high school and, yes, he once had musical aspirations but these days jams with friends on weekends. “All things considered,” he says, “it seems the better way to go. I’ve heard the musician’s life isn’t all that enviable.”
When Peter says it, Jessica smiles back at him but her eyes tell a different story. Something about her past still haunts her, even now.
The sun is long gone when we finish dinner and it never occurred to me, until Peter says it, that it’s pushing ten o’clock. Peter laughs at my surprise. “In the summer this far north,” he says, “it gets dark late. It can be a bit disorienting if you’re not used to it. Sorry to bail guys, but I’m beat. I think I’m going to hit it.”
As soon as he says it, Lauren yawns and Peter adds, “There’s a room upstairs for each of you. Lauren, are you tired?”
Lauren’s eyes meet mine and I see the message there—do I realize I’m being left alone with Jessica for a reason? I keep my eyes on hers as she pushes her chair back from the table.
“Definitely tired,” she says. “It’s been kind of a long week.”
Lauren doesn’t look back as she follows Peter through the kitchen and into the hall leading toward the staircase.
After they leave, Jessica clears the last of the plates and I remain on the screened porch. Strangely, even this late, the last pink rays left from the sun are still fading behind the mountains, the water between here and there just now finally turning black. A few minutes later, she comes back and sits down again. She’s brought a lit candle in a glass cup. She also holds what looks like a cigarette in her hand. But when she takes a puff, I realized it’s an e-cig. At the end of it, a little blue light glows as she inhales.
“Back in the day, I was a big smoker,” she says. “How about you? Do you smoke?”
“Not my thing,” I say.
“That’s good. Totally deadly stuff. Hopefully, this isn’t so bad. We’ll see. But the way I figure it, I’ve survived way worse. You probably already know that about me.”
Which is true, I do. Well, at least I sort of know. According to things I’ve read online, Purge was known for some serious drug use. “I’ve heard some stuff,” I say. “But it looks like you’re doing good now. I kind of got the feeling you don’t want to talk about it anymore but Purge was a seriously amazing band.”
“Thanks,” Jessica says. “We were. And way more, in many ways. Do you really think you found my guitar?”
The screened porch is dark now, except for the flickering candle, Jessica’s face mostly a shadowed profile.
“I’m pretty sure,” I say.
“Would you mind getting it now?” She still doesn’t turn to look at me, that little blue light glowing as she inhales again from her e-cig.
In that moment, it seems like part of her remains hesitant, possibly even fearful, even while she’s allowed us to come here. I get up and cross through the house, then down the front porch steps toward the van, thinking how at first it seemed like a little mystery, and then an adventure, to deliver this guitar all this way. An escape, a risk, a series of boundaries to break while deciding to face the consequences later. But now, it feels different. There’s meaning here, I know. An impact of some sort on a person we don’t really know. We’ve brought the past back to the present, and the past always carries weight.
While I expect to join Jessica out back again, she stands waiting for me in that dining room used as a study. She looks at the guitar case, then at me, then back to the case again. She takes a breath I don’t think I’m supposed to hear. Then, she sits on the ottoman.
“It’s even the same case,” she says softly. “It really doesn’t seem possible.”
I place the case at her feet, flat on the floor for her to open. I step back, not sure what to say or do. Either way, it doesn’t seem to matter. In that moment, I feel sure Jessica has forgotten me even being there. She reaches for the clasps, opens them and draws the case open. She stares at the guitar for at least a minute without saying a word, then nods and closes her eyes.
Whatever thoughts pass through Jessica’s mind I can only guess. After all, that guitar is a direct connection to her past, a time that she’s for some reason chosen long ago to abandon, at least as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Still, unlike Trevor and Michelle, it doesn’t appear Jessica has tried changing herself dramatically while creating a new future. In fact, despite being the one who completely vanished, Jessica seems the one most like her past self. Which makes me wonder if in some ways, for whatever reason, Jessica has always remained most connected to that past. Still, all I can do is wait for her to return to the present moment.
Finally, she surprises me by quietly asking, “Jack, do your parents have any idea where you are?” It seems as if somehow she knows.
I hesitate before answering. “No, they don’t.”
Jessica’s eyes meet mine. “You need to call them. To let them know you’re okay. Do you have a phone?”
I admit that I let the battery die days ago but Jessica doesn’t seem to judge me at all.
“Oh, I’ve done way worse than that,” she says. “But you need to call them. I know what I’m thinking just isn’t possible. I know it’s just that you found my old guitar. Nothing more than that. But do me a favor. Tomorrow morning, call your parents and ask them where you were born. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, of course,” I say. “Why?”
“Like I said, it’s totally impossible. Just humor me. Thank you for bringing my guitar back.”
~~~
As I try to fall asleep that night, my phone finally charging on the bedside table, I wonder why Jessica asked those questions before showing me upstairs. The part about whether my parents know where I am makes sense. After all, we’re staying in her house. At the same time, she didn’t ask earlier and also didn’t ask Lauren the same question. And while Jessica knows we drove across the country to return her guitar, she completely ignored that part when we arrived. Then, later, her old guitar became her entire focus. Asking about where I was born made no sense at all. But that question keeps ringing in my ears as if she’d been waiting all night to ask me. Why?
Still, while Jessica had acted normal most of the time, in other ways she’d behaved kind of strangely. Which makes me come full circle to the obvious fact that I don’t know her at all. She’d once had a reputation for being eccentric and moody. Also, she and Peter were drinking wine both while preparing dinner and while we’d eaten. Maybe she was just buzzed?
At the same time, it makes as much sense as anything to call my parents in the morning. Obviously, there’s nowhere to go from here but back again to face the fire. I don’t even want to think about what it will mean for me in the months ahead. After all, I ran away. There’s no other way to look at it. Technically, I’m a runaway kid, now completely on the other side of the country. I know I should feel guilty about that but, instead, a smile tugs at my lips. I stare at the ceiling, just barely lit by the moon outside, and my smile keeps broadening. Right now, regardless of what might come, only the past few days matter—the first time in my life I haven’t felt alone. I own those days now and will forever.
I don’t know how long it is after that when I see the ghost again standing in the corner of the room. Long enough that I feel sure I really am dreaming this time. But in my dream he looks the same as always, the glowing light around him, the long hair, the rings on his fingers. The only change being that this time he offers a slight smile like we now share a secret. I keep staring at him and he keeps staring back, the smile never leaving his face. Then he nods, just once, and fades out.
~~~
When I wake up the next morning, the dim light cast from the window tells me the sun has just barely risen. I get out of bed, walk to the window and open the blinds. Outside, gold morning light reflects off water and mountains. I wish I could wake up every morning to this same view but I know this will be the last time I do. Still, at least I experienced the days that just passed, all those places and people, now the view from this window that I’m sure I’ll remember. All of it mine to keep.
I stay there as long as I can, the sun steadily rising while I wish for a way to freeze the moment and remain in it. But I’ve run out of time. Finally, I cross the room and pick up my phone. Yes, there’s a truly impressive history of calls. The same for texts. They kept coming even after I contacted my father, of course. I don’t need to hear the messages or read the texts to know what most of them say. My future has radically changed. But I already know this and I’m about to hear the same as soon as I find the courage to dial.
One last choice to make: Mom or Dad. In other words, painful emotional screeching from a victim versus a measured testimony intended to convince me of my own worthlessness. Neither presents a good option. But the fact is, either way, eventually I’ll end up trying to defend my actions. Basically, it’s either tug at the bandage or tear it off. I call my father’s cell phone.
“So, you’re still alive,” he says.
“I texted,” I say. Lame, I know, but it’s all I have.
“Yes, you did. Several days ago. How very considerate. I don’t suppose it matters to you that your mother’s been worried sick.”
It doesn’t go unnoticed that my father doesn’t say the same of himself. Of course, he isn’t one to freak out easily as opposed to my mother. At the same time, it’s totally understandable that she’s been worried. I guess it wouldn’t have killed me to have kept the phone powered up to send at least a few more texts. But there isn’t anything I can do about it now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I mean it but also realize it’s an easy thing to say.
“Thanks for that. I’ll be sure to tell your mother,” my father says. “Now, would you care to tell me where the hell you are? And why?�
�
My eyes go to the window, the sky still brightening. “Seattle. Well, in a town near Seattle.”
Silence. Seconds pass. “Seattle, Washington?”
This is one of the few times I’ve heard my father say something stupid. After all, I ‘m pretty sure there’s only one Seattle. Still, his confusion is understandable and this isn’t exactly the best time to update him on geography. Maybe someday we’ll look back and laugh about this but I doubt it.
“Yes. Near Seattle. In a small town.”
I can almost see my father closing his eyes impatiently while trying to keep his temper. “I see. Tell me, are you in the small town near Seattle because of the girl?”
My heart jumps. They know about Lauren. Of course, they do. They just don’t know anything about her.
“Not exactly,” I say. “And we never planned on going this far. It was just…well…one thing kind of led to another.”
It isn’t hard to picture my father clenching his jaw in annoyance at my evasive language. “Might I ask which things led to which things? Or would you prefer that I keep attempting to tease information out of you one bit at a time? I guess the ball is in your court. But let’s also remember you have more free time than I do.”
While for some reason I imagined him standing in the kitchen at home, that isn’t the case at all. It’s three hours later back east. He’s probably been at his office for an hour already. I get it. He’s on a schedule. After all, he has high-paying clients. I, on the other hand, am taking up valuable time. I’m an inconvenience. The fact is, I’ve always felt like an inconvenience. For some reason, that makes me connect with Jessica’s seemingly random question. It doesn’t seem to make sense or have anything to do with what we’re saying to each other. Still, I get a feeling about it. A very strong feeling.
“Dad, where was I born?”
A couple of seconds tick by. I can’t imagine why. It’s an easy question.
“What do you mean, where were you born?”
My father has now said two stupid things, something that just doesn’t happen. This time I have to call him on it. “Not a trick question,” I say.
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