Page 53 of Taste of Addiction

It feels like I just broke the law, which is completely absurd. I just need to get away from here. I have been back in Portland for a day, and I already need to clear my head from all of the clutter. Graham does that to me. But I don’t need him to point out my flaws and imperfections. I do that well enough on my own.

I run around the back of the houses and sneak into my car. I close my eyes for a moment as the engine purrs. I take a deep breath. It is time to face my fears head-on. I cannot hide anymore from the nightmares that haunt me. I need to go pay homage to my past. I need to go back to Baker City.

I blink a few times in hopes of getting my vision under control. I pull out the knife and place it in the cupholder—just as I remember from the night of the accident.

Glancing in my rearview mirror, I back out. I take a few side roads and then work my way north until I am entering the on-ramp for I-84 going east. I roll my shoulders and lean my head back on the headrest as I settle in for the five-hour trip back to my once home.

My phone buzzes with incoming calls and texts. Only one person in my life blows up my notifications like this. I groan and shut off my device. I really just need to decompress. Graham thinks I am some sort of addict. I don’t need this type of negativity in my life right now. I already have so many other things on my mind.

Momma, I miss you. If she were here, I know she would know what to say to help me get through this chapter that seems to be titled, “Failure.” It makes me nauseous when I think of all the hard work I put in over the past year with nothing to show for it. I am just wasting away the days. Living life on a hamster wheel with the destination being to nowhere.

I am alone in this world. And the revelation that I may stay in this limbo state is a hard pill to swallow. Graham accused me of being a druggie. Dad is guilting me for money to cover his growing debts. Claire might leave for L.A. Zander and I might never recover our friendship fully. Dr. Williams thinks I am a failure.

I am an hour into the trip when I think back to the maple tree that was situated in the large front yard. It was the same tree that helped to secure our playhouse. The same tree that was used for our tire swing. And it was the same tree that sheltered one of mom’s last wishes—our treasure capsule. Seven weeks before she passed away, she made James and me promise to wait until after our eighteenth birthday to dig it up—preferably after the start of freshman year. She would ramble on and on from her home hospital bed about us having a lot of living to do and that we should experience our freshman year of college with full vivacious spirit without her illness influencing our big decisions. She knew her time on earth was limited. I knew it too. I just always thought I would have one more day.

Momma said that it was a gift to know that she was going to die ahead of time…that not everyone gets that privilege. While true, I can never be thankful for cancer. Cancer isnota gift. She wanted to prepare us for the chapters in our lives that would be tough without her in it. When James died, I couldn’t bring myself to dig up the capsule without him being there to experience it with me. It is as much his as it is mine.

But James is gone.

Momma insisted that her life should be remembered and celebrated. She didn’t want us to spend a lot of time mourning her. And here I am, not living out her wishes. Because every single day, I mourn her. I miss her.

Anger rises inside of me at the thoughts of my maple tree now belonging to another family. I remember the exact moment when I tried to go home and realized that it no longer could be called mine. I guess in a way, it died with Mom. James and I tried to hold it together, but that didn’t last long. And when it was just me and Dad, I failed at it as well.

Now some other little kid has the blossoming memories of a big yard and a beautiful tree. But my capsule is still there—completely hidden from view. And today is the day I am going to go get it.

* * *

I glance in the rearview mirror as I enter the Baker City limits and am in uber-paranoia mode. Every car that takes the same turn or two that I take makes me question whether or not Graham is following me. Every dark car with a driver wearing a pair of sunglasses makes me think that they work for Graham.

I am afraid to even get out of my car before I reach my destination, but I really have to use the restroom. I swing into the parking lot of the gas station and hobble inside, trying not to pee myself. I am going to burst.

It feels weird being back in the town I grew up in. So much has changed. Many of the buildings that held an iconic place in my heart were gutted to keep up with the modern demands of society. Nothing stays the same.

My feet carry me down the sidewalk and into the little store that specializes in lawn and garden upkeep. If I’m going to make any effort at digging up the time capsule, I better have the right supplies.

When I’m behind the wheel again, I place my bag of snacks and the gardening tools beside me on the passenger seat. I check my phone and shoot Graham a quick text. It is unfair to make him worry. Even with telling him I am here, it will be impossible for him to get here before I check the items off my to-do list.

I drive through the center of town and look at all the architecture from the various shops and restaurants. Being a historic city, at least there is a level of preservation when it comes to maintaining the outward appeal.

My heart rate quickens as I get closer and closer to the house that helped raise me. I imagine that I will have to just look from afar as another family inhabits it. When I came back here with Claire, it was shocking at first to see another child running in the backyard. To see a dog prancing around the wraparound porch, guarding its territory—one I used to call my own. It wasn’t a bittersweet moment. It was purely bitter. I cried the entire trip back to school. I vowed never to come back.

And here I am.

I turn onto the narrow road that my childhood house resides on. The houses in this section of the town are sparsely situated, with huge front- and backyards. The public water system doesn’t stretch out this far, so everything is well and septic. However, the land is flat and the view of the mountains in the far distance is breathtaking. It is the perfect town to raise a family. We were the perfect family.

I see the “For Sale” sign with the little bar that states a foreclosure before I see the actual house. I pull up the gravel dirt driveway and park. I look up at the once light-blue exterior to see a dingy gray with badly painted black shutters. Boards line the upstairs windows, and it appears that the house is getting ready for a typhoon to hit. I stare in silence; even my own thoughts have quieted as I look at the skeleton of a house. Coming back after all of these years and witnessing the lack of life in a house I once loved is like trudging through a graveyard of memories.

I cut the engine and get out with my gardening tools. I guess I have little worry now of getting arrested for trespassing; looks like no one has been here in over a year. I walk along the side to get a closer look at the maple tree. No swing hangs from the strong branches. No names are carved into the side. To anyone, it is just a tree. But to me, this tree represents hope. It is the tree that we would take family pictures in front of. The tree that supported our swing that I would spend hours on. And at the back location, diagonal from the house, approximately three feet from the base, the time capsule is buried. I use my shoes to judge where to start digging. I sit down on the ground and spread my legs out on the cold grass. I take my little garden shop digger and start to pull up the earth.

I am about to start second-guessing my time capsule geography when I see the tattered piece of plastic poking through the soil. I continue digging and after several more minutes, I am resurrecting the old metal thermos that is sealed in a ziplock bag.

I hold the DIY capsule to my chest. The smell of the earth penetrates my nostrils. I scoot back to the tree and lean my back up against it. I sit for…

I don’t even know how long.

When my breathing returns to normal, I remove the plastic shell from the thermos and twist off the cap. Inside, there are two envelopes that are rolled to fit along the edge of the container. One for James. One for me. These are the notes that Momma wrote and made us promise to wait to open them. We waited. Unfortunately, a bit too long.

I open the envelope with my name written in marker in Momma’s beautiful handwriting on the front. She was always the most elegant woman I knew—even when she would wear an old apron when baking. It was all about how she carried herself. With dignity and grace. Everyone loved her. She was easy to love.

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