Authors: L.L. Muir
Jamison pulled up in his mother’s car as she was walking out. Watching him unfold himself from the driver’s seat was riveting, he moved so smoothly for a tall boy.
“How is he?” Jamison rubbed his hands together then stuck them under his arms.
“Distracted. You know, you might want to give him a few minutes before you go in. He wanted a little peace, I think.”
Jamison looked at the doors, then back at her.
“Should I not go in?”
“Oh, no. I think you should go in, but just give him a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“It’s cooling off. Come sit in my car.”
“’Kay.”
She turned on the engine and heater. Jamison always looked cold; his shoulders were often pulled up close to his ears, his hands buried under his arms or in his pockets, as if Colorado were more like Alaska when compared to Texas.
He also looked tired.
She knew he hadn’t had much sleep. His bedroom window had been lit up so late she thought he might have fallen asleep with the lights on, or else kept them on out of fear. Just as she’d begun to feel guilty over that, his light had gone off. She’d stopped worrying about him, at least until English, when she was afraid Lucas had tampered with too much of his memory. He said he’d only taken the memories of the ceremony, and all contact Jamison had had with Ray and Burke since he’d returned to Flat Springs. What she’d feared to most was Jamison not remembering her. But so far, so good.
Skye was also aware that Jamison and his mom had likely awakened without a care in the world. Even though it was a nice little mental vacation, a gift even, she disliked the fact Jamison’s mind had been manipulated...along with memories of a half dozen other people last night. As far as she could remember, no clean-up had gone that far before, and it probably could have ended with Jamison had she told the others Jamison was still in the tree house. But whatever the ultimate fall-out over the incident, she couldn’t let it interfere with her assignment.
Skye checked her internal thermometer, then reached for the knob on the car heater. Jamison’s sudden growl made her snatch her hand back before she could turn it down.
His feet stomped, his knees bumped the glove box, and his hands pounded the dash a dozen times. He got some good force behind the fist that slid sideways against the door with a boom, and the violence ended.
“It’s so unfair! I just got him back!”
“It’s all right, Jamie. Really it is.”
His hands started pounding again, as if the car had decided to fight him back, but it ended after a couple of thumps.
Maybe calling him Jamie, as Kenneth did, wasn’t such a hot idea. But it had felt good, like she’d finally pronounced his name right.
When he could catch his breath he muttered, “I’ve had to do without him for five years. I feel so cheated.”
“I’m so sorry.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry for you all. But Kenneth is going to need something from you.”
Jamison turned to face her. “What?”
“The time will come when you’ll have to let him stop fighting.”
“He fights because he’s a fighter.” He faced forward again and glared at the offensive dashboard.
“Maybe he was once. But now he fights for his family. He’ll keep on fighting, even after it’s useless, if you let him. You’re going to have to watch for the time when he should let go. And he’s going to need convincing that you’ll be okay without him.”
“What do I do? Pretend I don’t need him anymore, so he can let go and die? I couldn’t do that. I need him and he knows it.”
“Yes, he knows it. And for now, he needs you too.”
His hand smoothed over the abused leather of the door. “Sorry. I’m not the tantrum type. I promise.”
He’d changed the subject. She took the hint.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a tough car.”
“Yeah. My Honda would have been totaled.” He faced her and smiled. Then he looked at her mouth and the smile dropped away. While she watched in fascination, Jamison’s arm snaked behind her. “I’m so glad you were here.” He gave her a little hug.
She hugged him back, wishing so much to have been able to feel the pressure of it. When he eventually loosened his hold, she looked in his eyes. Their faces were only inches apart. She could almost taste the warmth of his skin.
She’d imagined all kinds of cravings, for all kinds of flavors during her short existence, but never for the taste of someone.
He was looking at her lips so intently she didn’t dare move them. His lashes were incredibly long, golden brown. His nostrils flared suddenly and the entire world tilted with his face as he moved forward. His mouth met hers as smoothly as...breathing.
She focused her conscious thought to the rise and fall of his chest, to his nearness, and she could have wept for her lack of taste in her mouth or sensation in her lips. For the first time, she mourned for the depth of experience lost to her. This wasn’t the smell or feel of peaches, or the taste of corn coming apart in her mouth. This was mortality beneath her hands, against her fingers...and completely out of her reach.
He pulled his arms from around her, put his hands to either side of her face, and looked into her eyes. And suddenly Skye felt ‘seen’ for the very first time. She imagined her true self inside her head, jumping up and down, waving at him, yelling, “hello!”
She was struggling for the right words to say; something cool, something appropriate—anything that wouldn’t ruin the memory of her first, and possibly only, kiss. Very soon, they were going to go through Hell together and then she’d take her place in the circle. Nothing could stop either from happening, but she had this one mortal-esque memory she could take with her.
If she didn’t say the wrong thing now.
Her lips moved. No words came out, but the movement got his attention and he pulled her mouth close and kissed her again. For a moment, she imagined a tingling in her toes. She pulled back and wiggled them, testing. Nothing.
“Sorry.” Jamison dragged his hands slowly off her face, like a blind man, memorizing.
“Please don’t be sorry. I didn’t mind.”
Oh great. She may as well embroider “take me, take me now,” on her shirt. He was probably thinking “easy lips, easy hips.”
He was frowning. “Sorry if I’m not any good. I haven’t kissed much.”
She pulled herself back to her side of the car and looked out the window. No one was gawking through the glass, thank Heavens. A nurse made her way across the parking lot and got into her car.
Wow. Even if she had no sensation and no taste, she still realized what an incredible kisser he was. She’d seen women weep over such kisses, and not in the movies, either. His first serious girlfriend was in for a happy surprise. It shocked her, the sudden understanding she had for women eaten alive with jealousy.
He rubbed his hands on the knees of his jeans. Sweaty palms? Nervous maybe? She needed to acknowledge what he’d said.
“I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you I’ve never kissed anyone before, and even I know that was...staggering.”
His hands stopped moving. He turned to her and grinned.
“Staggering’s good, right?”
“Oh, good. Definitely good.”
She gave in and grinned back.
Eventually, he looked away. “Well, I guess I’d better go see him now.” He flicked the door handle.
“Yeah. He’ll be wondering if you’re coming.”
He wasn’t moving. Did he want a kiss good-bye? Oh, wow. Did she want a repeat of ‘staggering’? Of course she did, but should she? Wouldn’t she just be more upset, being deprived again?
What the heck? She could always go pretend to cry in the field, not that it would give her any relief.
Jamison turned to her quickly, as if he’d just made up his mind. He reached out with one hand and laid it along her neck, his fingers pulling only slightly. She could easily resist.
But she didn’t.
Oh man. She was so going to be spending some time in that field tomorrow!
“Don’t forget the letter,” she whispered against his lips.
“Letter?”
“You need to find the letter and make your mom read it.”
“Oh, that letter.”
She hoped he’d remember. She didn’t even remember him getting out of the car.
Jamison begged his mom to let him miss school on Wednesday to unload boxes, even though he’d miss seeing Skye and wouldn’t be able to mess with Mr. Evans. He had to find that letter. He couldn’t sit through another day of classes while he could be helping his granddad. He would spend all day with the man if he were allowed to, but finding the letter would be better in the long run.
Because his mom stayed home too, he couldn’t tear the place apart and then put it back together again, so he searched in spurts, between unloading boxes. After only a couple of hours, Jamison was freaking. The house wasn’t large. He’d searched everywhere.
It was getting to be lunch time and his mom hadn’t been making any kitchen noises, so he went looking for her. He found her in the small room off the living room, the one she’d put her desk in. The carpet was orange and yellow retro shag and the light fixture was a milk-glass ball surrounded by white wrought-iron swirls. The walls were covered with small yellow and white squares that had always seemed cheerful; now it all looked like a Hippie hate-crime. It almost took away his appetite.
Almost.
“Hey, are we going to eat?” He stopped and stared.
Mom was crying. She never cried; she knew what it did to him.
“What’s going on? Don’t cry, Mom. What is it?” He hurried to her side, feeling his body gear up for horrible news. “Is something wrong with Granddad?”
“Sorry, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m just getting old. Old people cry over stupid stuff.”
Jamison looked at the papers in front of her. A pile of bills, a pile of stamped mail ready for the post office, and some legal documents.
“That Granddad’s will?”
“Yeah. I’m not ready to read it, though.” She shoved it all back in the fancy folder and tossed it in the top middle drawer. She might not be ready, but ready wasn’t far away.
Then he saw it. The letter. It had to be.
“What’s this?” He snatched it up before his mom could stop him. “It’s addressed to you, in Texas.” He moved to the other side of the desk and sat down, ignoring his mom’s outstretched hand, holding it easily out of her reach. “You wrote ‘return to sender’ on it? Why?”
“I was very angry with him, and you know it. It’s why we left.” She put her elbows on the desk and bracketed her face with her hands, pushing back her hair, but still hiding her face.
“This is dated—uh, that would be—six months after we left. I thought he didn’t know where we were. You said that’s why I never got any letters, because he couldn’t find us, because you didn’t want him to.”
“Yes. I didn’t want him to.” She slammed her hands down on the desk and reached again for the letter.
“And did he? Did he send letters to me?” He ignored her hand.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Jamison let the pain wash over him.
Invisible.
Invisible
.
He couldn’t look at her.
“I’m sorry. At least I didn’t let you think it was because he didn’t care. I didn’t take that away from you. I just took
you
away from
him
.”
“I should have asked,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t asked because he didn’t want to hear something he couldn’t handle. Now Jamison knew, no matter what his granddad had done, he wouldn’t love him any less. It wasn’t possible.
“You should have asked what, if he was sending letters?”
“No.” He looked at her then and had the same knowledge hit him again. No matter what she’d done, what poor choices she’d made, he wouldn’t love her any less.
Now the only thing to do was to get these two back together, the two people he loved, the two people he’d like to beat senseless.
“I should have asked what he’d done to make you angry enough to leave and never come back.” He leaned forward. “I’m asking you now.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re back. You can spend as much time with him as you can, as much time as he has left.” A tear ran down her cheek, but Jamison wasn’t dishing out pity.
“It does matter. I’m going to read this letter—”
“No—”
“—and you can’t stop me. So, would you like to explain before I do?”
His mom glared at him. He didn’t care.
She tipped back in her chair and he thought she wasn’t going to answer him, but she started playing with the stack of envelopes and talking in that odd voice a mother uses when reading a bedtime story, as if she hopes the kid would fall asleep before she had to read the whole thing.
“I got pregnant at seventeen. Before you were ever born, your dad left me. Actually he left two days after the wedding at the courthouse and never came back to Flat Springs. Your granddad took me back home, said at least Shaw had given my child a name and that any man who could leave a pregnant wife was doing her a favor by going.”
“You’ve told me this before.”
“Hush. You asked, now shut up until I’m through.”
Jamison sat back in his seat.
“We got along just fine. You were happy, so I was happy, and that was enough for me then. I believed I could find love after you were older, but I always hoped...I hoped that Mickey would have a life-altering experience and come running back. I suppose I hoped for that harder than I realized. I guess I was counting on it.
“So, eleven years went by and no Mickey. Momma died. So young—she was so young! A girl is never the same after her mother dies, you know?”
“Yeah. I know. I think a boy is never going to be the same when his grandfather dies. You know?”
“Yeah. I know.” She seemed to shrink a bit then, as if the guilt of that realization was more that she could face and still get the story out.
“Go on.”
“Momma died. Daddy was a mess. Momma had always done the bills and the legal stuff. I was a paralegal by then and offered to take care of things, and when I went through boxes of documents I found a letter, from Mickey, to me.
“Oh, God!” She started sobbing. “I did the same thing to you that they did to me! But at the time, it felt like I was doing it to
him
, you know? It didn’t occur to me I was hurting you. You were always so...fine. I never had to worry about you.”