The Summer of Lost Things

by Chantele Sedgwick

  “I improvised.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know why I always embarrass myself around you. I’m really good at doing that.”

  “I’m just lucky.”

  We both laugh, then the truck grows quiet again, the silence ringing in my ears.

  “Well, thank you anyway, for teaching me how to ride a horse. Even if I was scared out of my mind. And sort of bad at it.”

  “You’re welcome. And you weren’t that bad. Promise. I’ve seen worse.”

  I stare at him, not convinced.

  “Okay, maybe you’re in the top three, but still. You’ll get better.”

  “Thought so.”

  He laughs. “You can come riding anytime. I teach kids some mornings, and work on roping when I can, but if you ever want to come over . . . I mean, come see the horses, that’s fine.” He pauses. “Do you have my number?”

  “I don’t.”

  He pulls into my driveway and parks the truck before we exchange cell numbers. I don’t know if I’ll be brave enough to text him.

  “Great,” he says.

  I smile. “I think you need to go get cleaned up. You’re a walking mud ball.”

  He glances down at his clothes, stained with mud. “And whose fault is that?”

  I sigh. “Mine. I’m sorry about that. Again. I owe you . . . something, I guess. For ruining your clothes. And your pride.”

  He laughs. “My pride?”

  “Okay. My pride.”

  “I’ll think hard about what that something you owe me should be.”

  I open the door. “Don’t make it too crazy.”

  “No promises.”

  I roll my eyes and he laughs. “Thanks again,” I say. “And tell Mira to call me if you see her.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He watches as I jump down. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  After explaining my muddy appearance to Mom, I head to my room to grab some clean clothes. I need a shower, stat.

  As I grab a few things from my dresser, I spy something white on my desk.

  It’s another letter.

  “No,” I say. “Not now.” I pick it up, turn it around in my hands for a moment, run my fingers over my name in his handwriting, then let out a deep breath and shove it in the drawer on top of the other one.

  I put my face in my hands, suddenly tired and lonely and upset.

  I’m not writing him back. I don’t want anything to do with him.

  But I know deep down that’s not true.

  I miss him.

  I miss Dad.

  The stories he’d tell me as a child to help me go to sleep at night. The tickle fights, the nights we’d stay up singing songs as he strummed on his old guitar. The memories flood back.

  There were good times. Lots of them.

  I miss so many things about Dad before the drugs. The late-night ice cream runs, making up songs while he played his guitar. He’d listen to me talk about my problems or my successes while he painted something beautiful like a mountain scene or a beach. I’d watch, fascinated as he dipped the paintbrush in one color, mixing it with another, before he slid the brush against the canvas, nodding at my words and letting me talk. He was always listening, even if I thought he was more concentrated on his work.

  In sixth grade, he came to my art show and bought my drawing of flowers in a vase that I’d done with pencil and some oil pastels. It hung in our living room for a few years, but one night he threw a beer bottle in its direction and the glass in the picture frame shattered and everything fell to the floor.

  We haven’t bought a new frame yet, but I do keep the picture rolled up under my bed, waiting for the right time to hang it again.

  At first, we just thought he was busier than usual at work since he wouldn’t come home until the early hours of the morning. He’d finally come in ragged and tired, but then he wouldn’t sleep. He’d stay up all night, watching movies, attempting to paint or write songs for his guitar.

  Maybe Mom knew something was wrong. But I was so naïve.

  At first.

  Then he started disappearing for days at a time. He’d come home and he would be so angry. Mom and Dad would yell and scream. He never hit her. That I know of. But still. The yelling.

  When he’d sit down to paint, I’d notice his once steady hand would slip and shake. He mixed the wrong colors, stared at the canvas for far too long, the paintbrush held tight in his shaky hand. Instead of smooth lines, the paintings would turn out choppy and uneven, so different from the beautiful and flawless outdoor scenes I was used to seeing. I thought maybe he was tired or something, but the shaking got worse as time went on. He was twitchy. Nervous. Looking over his shoulder or jumping every time there was a noise. It didn’t matter what we were doing, or how much Mom tried to help him, the paranoia only grew.

  After a few months, we noticed things in the house were disappearing. Game systems, a television, tools, money. He lost his job and decided to take care of himself again, try rehab. Got a new job but lost that one, too. We had a glimmer of hope again with the next job, but he soon lost that one, as well. He’d turned back to the drugs.

  I researched symptoms. Paranoia, depression, angry outbursts, and so, so twitchy.

  They all pointed to one thing. Something I never thought anyone in my life would actually seek out.

  Meth.

  How could my dad be on something like that? I didn’t believe it at first. Or at least, told myself I didn’t. But I knew it was true. What else could it be? So, months went by. Things got worse. Mom filed for divorce and Dad begged him to take her back but would disappear again and he’d get caught in the same cycle.

  An endless cycle.

  When he came around, he still managed to find time to tell me he loved me and to sit and listen to me talk. His face was all wrong, though. Tired, dark circles under his eyes, the skin not as tight as before and the bones in his cheeks poked out more than I remembered.

  This person was not my dad anymore; it was only a shadow of him. But I held onto that shadow, determined not to let him slip through my fingers and fade away.

  Then, one day, he was gone.

  The phone call was the worst. I didn’t hear the voice on the other end, but I did hear my mother. Her sobs, her anger and sorrow as she curled into a ball on the floor and didn’t move until morning. I didn’t bother her. I just stayed in my room, wondering what was wrong but too afraid to ask.

  I didn’t want to know.

  She told me the next day after all her tears had gone.

  Even though the accident happened after she had filed for divorce, she still loved him. She still does.

  His arrest was all over our state’s news. The newlywed couple he hit while under the influence died. A second-degree felony. Up to fifteen years in prison.

  It’s only been six months.

  I don’t know when I’ll see him again. If I’ll see him again. If I want to see him again. Mom made it very clear that we were starting over somewhere new after I finished my junior year of high school. And now here we are. Starting over. Far away from him and our old house and town and all the memories they held.

  If he hadn’t made those stupid choices, that couple would still be alive. They’d be living their new life together, making a family, having adventures.

  He’d still be here with us, too.

  I stare out the window, thinking of the letter from their family. Wondering what it says. Thinking about Dad’s letters, knowing he’s waiting for me to respond.

  What is it about a letter?

  I know I can’t write him back yet.

  I can’t open that family’s letter either.

  I do want to know what both of them say but . . . not yet.
>
  I’m not ready.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.”

  —Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  Jack calls me a few days later.

  He doesn’t text. He calls.

  No one calls anymore.

  I adore it.

  “Hey,” I answer, plopping down on my bed.

  “Hey. What are you up to today?”

  “Nothing. Already helped my mom take that hideous yellow wallpaper down. We’re painting tomorrow, since she has a lot of work to catch up on.”

  “Cool.” He pauses. “Hey, I was wondering if you want to go swimming and maybe cliff jumping today. There’s a place close to here with some natural pools, waterfalls, and great places to jump.”

  “Really?” My stomach sinks.

  “Yeah. It’s kind of a . . . we’re doing a group date sort of thing and I’d like you to come with me. If you’re up for it?”

  “A group date, huh?” I smile.

  He chuckles. “Yeah.”

  “Sure. I’d love to!” Cliff jumping?

  “Great! Sorry it’s late notice, but my Uncle Mike didn’t need my help today. I wasn’t even planning on going, but then Mira told me to take you out, so I told her I would.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Because I want to take you. Not because she told me to. Just so we’re clear.”

  “I wasn’t doubting,” I say. His nervousness is so cute.

  “Good. Let’s say noon? I’ll pick you up. Ashton already picked up Mira. We’ll meet them there.”

  “She went with Ashton?”

  “Yep.”

  “Awesome. Okay, I’ll go get ready. See you then.”

  “See you.”

  I smile as I hang up.

  This day is starting out pretty perfect.

  Then I realize we’re going cliff jumping.

  How did he manage to talk me into doing that?

  I’m such a sucker.

  And I’m probably going to make a fool of myself.

  Again.

  The upside? I can cross Do something scary off my list.

  I hurry and change, then go downstairs and talk to Mom.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, looking up from her laptop in the kitchen.

  “Jack asked me to go on a date.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “A date.”

  “A group date,” I clarify. “Not just the two of us.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I hesitate. Mom would never let me go cliff jumping. She’s so overprotective already. “Just swimming. They’re going to some natural pools or something. There are waterfalls there, too.” Which is true, so technically I didn’t lie. I just didn’t mention the cliff jumping part.

  She studies me. “Do you know how long you’ll be gone? We really need to go pick up some job applications around town.”

  “I’m not sure. Most of the day, probably.”

  Her eyes fall on her computer again, though she doesn’t type or anything. She’s quiet so long I’m afraid of what her answer is going to be. Finally, she looks up again. “If you text me when you get there and when you’re leaving to come home, you can go.”

  “Really? Thanks, Mom!”

  She points a finger at me. “And if you’re really going with a group.”

  I let out an annoyed breath. “Mom, I’m really going with a group. I promise. You can even ask Jack when he gets here.”

  She nods. “Okay. If you forget to text, you’re grounded.”

  “Deal.” I race back upstairs to get ready.

  The drive to wherever he’s taking me is comfortable. It’s been about fifteen minutes and we have about fifteen minutes to go. Which is good. I like spending time with Jack.

  A lull in the conversation prompts me to ask a question I’ve been meaning to ask him for a while. “Will you tell me about your friend Ben?” I look at him, hoping I don’t put him in a bad mood because of it. I just really want to know about his best friend. It would be hard to lose a best friend. Or a dad for that matter. “I mean, if it’s not too hard to talk about.”

  He smiles. “You would have liked him. He was . . .” He shakes his head. “Crazy. Kind of like Mira, actually. Just without the sass.”

  “Sounds dreamy,” I say.

  He shoots me a look and I laugh.

  “I’m joking. He sounds like a fun guy.”

  “He was.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I wish I could have helped him more. I didn’t know he was so bad until . . .” He shakes his head. “I still remember every single tiny detail of that day. I was in first period when my mom came to get me. It was like a bad dream. Like everything was moving in fast motion and I was stuck in this slow reality, trying to process things. It was really coming out of that fog.”

  “I know the feeling.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand then lets go quickly. Too quick. My skin tingles and I want to reach for hand and hold it again.

  “I know there’s nothing I could have done, but I still feel guilty. He was my best friend and I didn’t know how bad he was. I should have known. I should have gotten him some help.”

  “You never know what’s going on in someone’s head, no matter how well you think you know them.”

  He nods.

  “It wasn’t your fault though,” I say.

  “I know.” He smiles. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to who wasn’t close to the situation. No one else really understands. It helps to talk about it sometimes.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You can always talk to me, too.”

  “I know. I have a bad habit of holding things in. But I’m trying.”

  “You miss your dad?”

  He has no idea. “Yes.” I really do. But he thinks he’s dead. Not sitting in prison in a different state. My stomach twists at the lie that I’ve woven. The lie I still haven’t owned up to. I miss my dad and I could still see him if I wanted. Yet, I don’t. I’m pretending he’s gone, just like Jack’s friend, Ben. How can I do something so selfish and pretend he’s not there? How can I lie to my new friends? To myself?

  It’s quiet and I look out the window, wishing my hand were still in his. Wanting to tell him the truth. My heart beats fast in my chest. I take a deep breath. What will he say once I tell him the truth? Will he think less of me? Will he think I’m going to turn out to be a horrible person because of Dad’s choices and actions? I open my mouth to say it, but a new song comes on the radio just then and he reaches over to turn it up.

  “Great song,” he says. “Do you like Blue Fire?”

  I smile. “I do.”

  And just like that, the lie stays hidden.

  I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes, defeated.

  Jack doesn’t know the comfort he’s given me. Even though the lie hovers in the back of my mind, the truth is, I know I can talk to him when I’m ready. I just need to find the courage to do so. I need to stop being afraid of the truth coming out and how it will affect my family. Especially me. Because last time, with Dad being all over the news? It wasn’t pretty.

  And Jack trusting me enough to tell me about Ben?

  He trusts me.

  I feel sick all over again and stare out the window, wishing my guilt would go away and knowing I’m the only one who can make it so.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”

  —William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

  We arrive a few minutes later. Jack grabs my bag with my beach towel and carries it for me as we head toward the water.

  It’s beautiful here. Trees everywhere. A few areas I’d call pools are filled with blue green water, with a few cliffs surrounding each area, some higher than others. Some people are jumping off a waterfall, as well, though it’s not really high. The cliffs ma
ke me nervous, though.

  Mira is in the water with a group of people and shrieks in delight when she sees us. She scrambles out of the pond and runs over to us, throwing her arms around me and soaking my shirt.

  It’s a good thing I already have my swimsuit on underneath.

  “Oh! Sorry,” she says, attempting to wipe the water off my shirt, but it’s already soaked in.

  “It’s fine. I’m getting wet in a minute anyway.”

  “True. I’m so happy you came! Everyone’s already swimming if you want to join us.” She gestures to the pools and a few of them wave. Summer’s here with Brody, but Ashton is dunking him under water while she stares at Jack as he takes off his shirt and sets it on a rock with his towel. He puts my bag next to it.

  “Well?” he asks. “Let’s go.”

  I smile, suddenly embarrassed. I know I’m in my swimsuit, but I have to strip down to it.

  I pull my shirt off, since that’s the easiest, but taking shorts off in front of a really cute guy is kind of—no, not kind of, really—uncomfortable. “Turn around,” I say to Jack.

  “Okay?” He laughs but does as I say.

  Mira laughs as well.

  I slip my shorts off and stuff them in my bag. “Okay. Ready.”

  We follow Mira over to the closest pool. The water is so green now. It looked blue from further away.

  Jack looks at the water a moment before diving right in.

  There are a few people I haven’t met before talking to Summer and Mira, and Mira quickly introduces me to them, but I forget their names the second after she says them. Ten more people are ten too many to remember names for.

  Jack grabs my hand under the water after I get in and tugs me toward the waterfall. “Come on. Let’s go jump.”

  “Is it safe?” I ask.

  “Very. Promise. The waterfall isn’t high.”

  I swim after him until we reach some rocks and then follow him out of the water and up a tiny trail. He takes my hand as he crosses a few slippery rocks until we’re staring down at the pool.

  He’s right. It’s not high.

  “Ready?” he asks, still holding my hand.

  “Uh . . .”

  He jumps, pulling me with him.