Page 139 of Old Habits

Chapter 37

Jovie

I read somewhere that when you remember something, you’re not really remembering the event itself. You’re actually remembering the last time you remembered it. Details fade. Colors become less vibrant. Voices get distorted. It’s like playing telephone with your own brain. Sooner or later, you won’t be able to picture things the same way as you used to but you’ll be none the wiser.

That’s what they mean when people say that time heals all wounds. Memories fade as quickly as any bruise or scar. Some take longer than others but, eventually, it all disappears because emotions, painful or otherwise, are only as present as the original event that made them.

So, we keep mementos and keepsakes. Tie a memory to an object, something real and tangible, and that memory becomes one with that object. It can be simple. A coin or a ring.

Or, for an average wanderlust like myself, postcards.

I sit at the kitchen table in my father’s house with all of them spread out in front of me. Each a photo of a landmark. I made sure to pick out postcards with some significance, some memory that I could easily tie to it and recall five, ten, or even twenty years from now. Some bad. Some good. All worth remembering.

I grew up between these postmarks. I learned how to talk to strangers in the big city. How to stretch every dollar. How to stay alive, even after the last penny was spent and all I could do to stay warm was laugh at myself.

But there’s still so much I don’t know. The education of Jovie Ross is far from complete.

I get up to refill my water glass and glance out the window above the sink. A tuft of brown hair pokes up and I lurch so badly I nearly drop my glass.

“Jovie? Is that you?”

I gawk at her. “Sara?”

She stretches on her tippy toes. “Can you let me in? I need to talk to you.”

I sigh with rolling eyes and set the glass down before walking to the back exit.

“What are you doing?” I ask her through the closed screen. “We have a front door, you know.”

She checks the bottom of her shoes for mud and leans down to swipe a dead leaf off her scrub leg. “Would you have answered it?”

“No,” I say, truthfully. “What do you want?”

Her head nods over my shoulder into the kitchen. “Please? It’s about Will…”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Cool. Thanks for the update.”

I move to close the door.

“He told me what really happened.”

My muscles lock as hesitation sets in.

“And then…” she sighs, “he kicked me out of his house and slammed the door in my face.”

“Wow. Sucks to be you,” I mutter.

“My brother has never talked to me like that before. But, in his shoes, I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same. He was just protecting what’s his.” She pauses, pressing her lips together. “Can I please come in? I’d rather not discuss this outside.”

I study her desperate face and tone. It’s honestly fascinating, like watching a bird try to swim through jello.

“Fine,” I say, stepping back. “Make it quick.”

Sara opens the screen door and carefully wipes her shoes on the mat as she walks inside.

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