by Ginger Scott
“Shit!” I laugh out.
Tommy climbed up on Colt’s old picnic table and he’s hugging himself tightly but laughing almost as hard as I am.
“Hannah would call us out for being pussies,” he says.
“No doubt. She’d probably trap the mice and make them pets,” I say, edging my way closer to the crate to peek inside. Nothing else escapes, and judging by the few droppings, I don’t think that’s the nest. I mean, with so many options around this place, why would they settle on the rickety crate?
While Tommy and I may have been the ones to take to cars and engines first, Hannah was always the wildlife nut. There wasn’t much in nature that frightened her.
“Remember when your sister tried to feed that coyote she saw roaming your street when we were kids?” Tommy rocks his head back, laughing at the memory.
“She put leftovers at the edge of our driveway after our parents went to bed. Dad was so pissed when he woke up to a whole pack. And those fuckers kept coming back for more!”
I fall so far down the memory rabbit hole, I lose myself for a moment and forget that the last four years happened at all. Tommy and I pick our way around the outside of Colt’s trailer, reliving our favorite memories. And despite the nauseating task in front of me, I’m genuinely happy for the first time in years.
“God, I’ve missed you, dude,” I finally admit. I stare at my former best friend across the mounds of junk as he kneels and picks through a pile of nuts and bolts mixed with gravel. He pauses long enough to squint up at me and shield his eyes from the sun.
“Me, too, man. Me, too.”
He means it. I can tell. His gaze sticks on mine long enough for a silent agreement to pass between us. Whatever the bullshit of our past, we’re still us when it comes down to it. And he knows I left to keep Hannah safe. He might not know all the details or agree with my ultimate decision, but he respects it.
Hannah is family.
“Well, should we check inside?” Tommy pats his hands together, making faint dust plumes in front of him.
“No sense putting this off. Like ripping a Band-Aid, right?” I reach in my pocket and fish out the key the lawyer gave me.
“Like pulling of an oozing, disgusting Band-Aid, you mean,” Tommy says, preparing himself as he steps up to the door behind me. He’s pulled his shirt up over his nose and is practically burying his face in his elbow.
“Bit dramatic,” I tease, knowing full well I’ll be doing the same thing the moment I push open this door.
I turn the key, jiggling it as I remember from when I was a kid, then brace myself for the impending, assaulting odor. Even through my shirt, the smell permeates. It’s different from before. Worse, maybe. There’s definitely sickness in the air.
“How long was he in here before they found him?” Tommy coughs after talking. I should have warned him that merely opening your mouth comes at a risk in this place.
“I don’t know. Two, maybe three days.” It’s my turn to cough now.
I never thought this place could look less inhabitable, but when I compare the before to now, I realize how wrong I was. The amount of rotten food items outnumber cigarette butts tenfold, and it’s clear that the mice outside were only getting a dose of sunshine. The scurrying action that happened when I opened the door was unreal.
“Yo, I love you like a brother, man, but I can’t. I’ve gotta cut loose and save myself.” Tommy draws a line across his throat, his other hand palming his mouth.
“Yeah, I get it. I won’t be long. I just need to see what I’m dealing with.” I nod toward the door, giving him permission to leave. That he said he loved me and called me brother means more than he probably realizes. I use his words as motivation to keep going through this hellhole.
I can’t fathom Colt was totally clean while he was wasting away in here, even on cancer meds, yet so far, I’ve found nothing from the old Colt’s days. The bottles of scripts on the coffee table are under his name, and the medication names aren’t anything of his usual variety. I’m guessing most of these are antibiotics or some shit like that.
A stack of boxes lines the wall on the way to the bedroom. I pull my pocket knife from my jeans, slice open the box on top, and unveil basic care products like swabs and bandages. The one underneath is more of the same, and a quick glance at the shipping address shows the stuff came from some home healthcare company.
“Fucker had insurance?” I shake my head. I can’t imagine that’s the case, so I assume the government took care of basic needs in return for Colt snitching on a few cartel connections.
I riffle through various drawers in the kitchen and bathroom and weave my way through the mess and filth into my old room. It seems all the hate and resentment Colt had for me, he took out on this room. There are holes pounded in at least two of the walls, and the carpet, where it’s not worn thin, is stained with what I’m pretty sure is urine. Nothing remotely resembling me or the boy who grew up here is visible, so I shut the door and close that chapter of my life.
I make my way down the hall to Colt’s bedroom. I am not ready for the scene I encounter, and I wobble on my legs a little at the doorway. It’s still gross as fuck in here, but I’m hit with the evidence of Colt’s final days in this room. Some monitor-looking thing is bound by its power cord and pushed into the corner, next to the dresser. A drip line for fluids, and I’m guessing pain meds, is stashed away in the opposite corner, and the bed is made as if someone proper lives here and expects to come back home for a night’s rest. Saline packs sit unused in a large, gray laundry basket, and the nook under the night table is stuffed with adult diapers.
Not to be outdone, Colt filled the ashtray on top of the night table to the point of overflowing. And his wastebasket is filled beyond the top with empty bottles of his favorite piss-cheap beer.
“You son of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.
I slide open the closet door, ready for anything but the neatly hung dresses and women’s blouses that fill the right half of space. A definitive line is drawn, a place where the woman my mom liked to pretend she was, or maybe hoped she would become, existed and then a chaotic disaster that was her and Colt’s truth. Two white V-neck T-shirts, large enough to cover Colt’s belly, dangle on wire hangers. A cigarette burn punctuates the sleeve of one of them, and I can’t help but wonder if my mom put it there while Colt was in it.
The floor is a pile of other things, mostly T-shirts and button-downs I’ve seen Colt in over the years. He had a gray and black bowling shirt with his name stitched on the back, and I catch a glimpse of the fabric under the pile. He used to say he bowled before I was born, that he had friends and a life. Hard to imagine that looking at the pile of scraps and dirty laundry, literally, at my feet.
A small box on the top shelf catches my eye, so I grimace and brace myself for something I’ll have to report to the authorities, like a gun. I don’t want to keep anything Colt ever touched while doing something bad. I know better. That shit will become a link straight to me for some heinous deed he probably got away with when he was alive.
The box is generic enough, scribbled on and probably saved from some stupid thing my mom ordered in the mail. The lid is flimsy and falling apart, so it tears when I pull it back and toss it to the floor. The first thing I notice on the inside is a small plastic bag with what looks to be baby teeth. I bet these are fucking mine. I hold it up to get a closer look and count five of them, only one of them a molar. I bet these suckers were full of cavities when they fell out. I’ve been to the dentist a few times out in Oklahoma and got an earful each visit about the neglect my parents must have had for my teeth. Thankfully, only two fillings in my adult mouth.
I flip up a few photos of me as a kid, mostly before I started school and met Tommy. My bowl haircut makes me laugh. I can actually remember my mom giving it to me while I sat on the kitchen counter, her favorite mixing bowl on my head. My hair’s a little curly, so the look didn’t come out quite as she expected, though a bowl cut looks l
ike shit no matter what the expectation.
I come across a folded newspaper clipping under the photos, so I move to the bed and set the box down so I can inspect it. The date at the top is nine years ago, almost to the day, and the photo on the main story is of me and Tommy hoisting this giant gold cup above our heads. We were kings back then, and after winning a dozen races in a row, the local paper did a story. My mom must have saved it.
I rummage through the remaining things in the box, three more newspaper articles and a ticket from the drive-in theater down in the Valley. It’s too faded to tell for sure, but I think I was four based on the date I can read. I wonder if we all went to the movie or just me and Mom. I wonder if she was sober then, or if she drove me around while drunk. Hard to be sentimental when the reality is so goddamned ugly.
Once everything is back in the box, I work the lid back in place as best as I can and take the box and its contents out the door with me.
“Anything good in there? Like, cash?” Tommy’s leaning on the front of the rental car, eyes constantly scanning the property for critters.
“Found my baby teeth,” I say, holding up the box.
I round the car and get in, and Tommy does the same.
“Wanna see them?” I offer him the box and he wrinkles his nose at it.
“Trust me when I say my old teeth are the least disgusting thing in that place.” I toss the box on the floor in the back seat. Tommy might like seeing the old news articles too, but I’m not really feeling it. Besides, I’m pretty sure his parents have actual albums filled with our photos and achievements. And I bet there aren’t any goddamned teeth lurking around.
I drop Tommy off at home, not bothering to kill the engine or ask questions about who may or may not be home. The Supra is there, and that’s all I really care about. My heart squeezes as I drive away, but I have a safe deposit box to visit. I don’t know why, but my gut tells me I need to be alone when I see whatever’s inside that thing.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the bank. I was kind of shocked to find out this place actually had safe deposit boxes. It’s rinky-dink, and maybe the most small-town thing about this place. It’s called Mountain Bank, because it’s on a mountain. Really, more of a hill. Thanks to modern-day criminals, though, the two bankers on staff finally have a wall of bullet-proof glass between them and the public. There was a gun drawn here in a robbery when I was in high school. Nobody was shot, and the only thing taken was the candy machine in the lobby. Because of that, I have to lean down to talk through the holes in the glass so the woman helping me can hear my request.
“I have a key for one of those,” I say, pointing toward the heavy safe door behind her. I pull the paperwork from the lawyer from my pocket and unfold it, flattening it against the glass. I feel as though I’m in prison, though she’s the one inside.
It takes her several seconds to read my paperwork, so I use the time to figure out her name. Her tag reads BETINA, SENIOR BRANCH MANAGER. She finally says “okay” and closes her drawer before sliding one of those rubber key bracelets on her wrist. She hits a button on the wall and waves for me to step through the door to my left.
“Arms out,” a security officer demands, popping up from a chair after I enter. I startle, and his muscles twitch, probably finding that suspicious. The man scared the crap out of me, and the first thing I saw was his Taser. I’ve been shocked before. That’s one of those things I only care to experience once.
Overzealous high school resource officer.
I let the man wave his wand around every nook of my body, and when he’s satisfied, Betina takes my key and guides me to the vault, opening the door and revealing a tiny room lined with even smaller doors that lead to boxes. She bends down, close to the floor, and pushes my key into box one-thirty-four.
“Hit that buzzer when you’re done,” she says, pointing to the bright red button on the wall.
“Or I could just yell ‘ready,’” I joke.
Betina is unamused and straightens the tight salt and pepper bun knotted at the base of her neck as she rolls her eyes.
The moment the door clicks in place, I find it harder to breathe. It’s cool in this space, so I know the AC is working in here. It’s not an oxygen thing. But this room is small, and I can’t help but sense secrets are hidden inside.
There’s not much to the box. Even when she set it on the table, I could tell it isn’t packing gold or family heirlooms. It had no weight to it. I flip the lid up and am instantly disappointed. There’s an envelope inside, the kind people’s bills arrive in, with the small see-through window for the address. It’s not sealed. In fact, the top where it was ripped open is folded over a quarter inch. Whatever’s inside must be pointless.
I pull the envelope out and lean back in the metal folding chair, expecting an even more underwhelming letter or bill inside. That would be just like Colt to leave me some overdue IRS bill. Good thing he never made shit, according to the government.
It’s not until I feel the raised crest from some official seal that I sit up and take this business seriously. My eyes aren’t sure what they’re reading at first. It’s my name. The letters typed on the document, Colt Bridges listed below on the line labeled FATHER.
My birth certificate. I’ve never actually seen it. I partly assumed I was born in the back seat of my parents’ car, or worse, in that fucking trailer.
And then I read the line for MOTHER.
Alysha Solerno.
Not Patricia Miller.
Trisha Miller.
The woman I watched overdose and survive three times.
The woman I never looked like but wanted to just so I didn’t look like my dad.
A stranger. A liar.
A deserter and an addict.
Trisha Miller is not my real mom. She’s some fraud.
So who the fuck is Alysha Solerno?
I close the box and sloppily fold my birth certificate into a square, stuffing it in my back pocket and leaving its half-hearted envelope on the table to be thrown away. I press the red button, but impatience has me holding my thumb on it two seconds later. I can’t get out of this room fast enough, and my manic distress earns me a nasty greeting from Betina. I don’t care, though. I need air—outside air.
“I feel sick,” I announce, making sure to calm the security guard before he can get his hand on his stun gun. He opens the secondary door for me and I stumble my way through the lobby and onto the sidewalk outside.
Fingers threaded across my forehead, I press at my thumbs into my temples and will this reality away. It won’t work. It never has. I tried so many times when I was a kid to wake up and be somewhere different, to be one of the Judges, or even live in Bailey’s house. My life was always the same, though. Cursed. Branded by Colt Bridges and stained by Trisha Miller.
Only neither of them are to blame at all. My fate was sealed by some woman I never met. I mean, I guess I met her once—when I was fucking born!
Wound up and ready to fight, I pace between the bank’s door and the front of my car until my mind is spinning so much I start to feel lost. I get in the car and peel out as I back away, my hand numb against the steering wheel. I’m driving too fast, but my speed feels impossibly slow at the same time. I roar over the highway, cutting through the ranch land on the dirt road marked private and come out at the end of Hannah’s street. It’s barely two, so I know she’s home. The Supra is there, like it was before when I dropped Tommy off. I pull up next to it as my mouth salivates.
I’m actually going to be sick.
I hunch over where the Judges’ gravel meets their driveway and hurl bile onto a cactus. My head is hot, beads of sweat growing large enough that I feel them slide along my skin. At the same time, I’m shivering. I’m near passing out when Hannah rushes out her front door, Tommy not far behind.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
It’s dark in Hannah’s room. Too dark for it to be from closed shutters alone. The sun’s gone down, which means I�
�ve missed a good amount of time. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to my surroundings, and my body is sticky with sweat. I prop myself up enough to work the hoodie from my arms and toss it on the floor. I’m about to test my vocal chords to see if I can manage uttering Hannah’s name when a soft hand on my torn-up arm stops me.
The touch of an angel.
She must have changed the dressing while I was asleep.
“Shhh.” Hannah holds a single finger to her lips while her other hand gently presses the surgical tape in place along my arm.
I mouth thank you when her eyes lift to mine. And that’s when I see it—the break in her walls I’ve been praying for. It isn’t a smile, but rather the soft curve of empathy. Her eyes don’t run away from my stare. They remain fixed on my own. She stays wordless.
She stays.
All through the night.
She stays.
6
The only thing I could think to do was bring Dustin inside. Instinct took over and grudges were put on pause. Seems that’s a constant pattern for me when it comes to Dustin Bridges. Only now that I’ve done it, I’ve fallen down the slippery slope letting him back inside my heart.
Self-control was never our strong point. I’m willing to admit I was usually the bold one. I pushed for every kiss, each touch. I felt it, as I do now—that assuredness that tells me all I need to do is step in close enough and part my lips and four years of heartache and nightmares would be thrown to the side for a moment of bliss.
Addict.
Like I said.
I don’t know what was wrong last night. I only know that Dustin seemed disoriented. He wasn’t on anything; it was more like a mental snap. He never told me what was at the heart of his torment. I never asked. I’m not sure I should. That line of communication between us that once felt so easy to cross, that bond? It broke. Now the space between us is a canyon. I can’t be his home like I used to be. It’s too hard, no matter how natural it feels in my soul.