Page 44 of The Wrong Drive-
I don’t fall asleep holdingEmersyn. I just let her think I do. I can’t stop wondering about the journal upstairs. I didn’t go through his things after everything happened. I knew that my psyche couldn’t handle it, but…
She thinks he actually left.
She has no idea he’s buried in my backyard.
Swallowing hard, I unentangle myself from her, slipping out of the bed in total silence. I glance at the window. It’s almost sunup. I need to finish Em’s present, which is a second reason I have to brave Tommy’s room.
I need a chain—and the only one I have is from my dog tags, which are in the box at the top of the closet upstairs. I only know that, because I saw it once, back when I was trying to cope instead of just descend into darkness.
I pad out of the room, carefully shutting the door. If something goes terribly wrong, she’ll be hopefully out of sight and out of mind—maybe. I stop at the pile of clothes in the hallway, and fish out the wooden pendent I made for her.
I then start the ascent to the second floor. I’ve done it hundreds of times since everything happened, but this time, itfeels like I might be taking a walk to my doom.Maybe I should just leave the journal. I’ll just get the chain.
My new plan brings me little relief as I turn the knob and creep inside the room. I shut the door behind me, and kick on the light. “Just get the chain,” I tell myself. “Just the chain.” I make my way across the floors, ignoring the pictures, obituaries, and everything else.
My hands are trembling by the time I make it to the closet door, but it doesn’t cloud my mind. I take a deep breath, and open the door, ignoring Thomas’s things—which are still there, covered in a thick layer of dust. I should’ve done something with it all, but I couldn’t bring myself to. If Em would’ve opened the closet, maybe then she would’ve realized that Thomas is a different kind of gone.
I abandoned him, not the other way around.
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I reach up and grab the cardboard box, tucked in the back right corner. I pull it down, and set it on the floor, staring at the words scrawled in black sharpie marker.
Turner’s Keepsakes.
I pop my jaw, as I kneel beside it, carefully peeling back the tape—tape that Tommy put there. He was the one who collected all my shit, put it all together, and then made sure it didn’t get lost in transit. He did everything for me, and I killed him. I leave the tape hanging off the side and fold back the lid.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose as I flip it open. There on top is a folder, and I pull it out, dropping it on the floorboard beside me. It’s more than likely discharge information and whatever else they felt the need to send me home with. I lean over the box and start sifting through the contents, trying not to look too hard at the patches and pictures.
I used to love this life.The thought comes without warning, leaving a sick taste in my mouth. That was a long time ago, andI don’t know how I could say I loved it when it took my brother and my sanity.But did it take my sanity? Or was I always destined to fuck up like this?
Pushing it away, I finally locate the dog tags at the bottom. I don’t look at them. I unclip the chain and slide it out, dropping the tags back into the box. Taking a deep breath, I take out the pendent and slide it through. I nearly scoff at how childish it looks. The woman is probably used to diamonds and gold, not fucking cedar and cheap silver.
I stand to my feet, surprised I’m not losing it, and walk over to Tommy’s desk, opening the top drawer and pulling out a blank piece of card stock. I grab a pen, and click it, hovering over the paper.What the hell do I say?I stare at it for a few moments longer, and then scribble something down, signing my name at the bottom.
Only then, when I’m all finished and the pendent with its chain is laying on the desk, do I start to think about the journal again. I open each drawer, and it takes until I make it to the bottom before I find the leather-bound book. My heart thrums in my ears as I pick it up, knowing I shouldn’t.
Don’t fucking do it.
But the warning to myself is useless. I flip the damn thing open, and it falls to the last entry on the day before Thomas died, and as I read his final words.
December 24, 2013…
I snap the book shut and toss it into the drawer, slamming it shut. “Permanently broken,” I say the words aloud. “You thought I was permanently broken.” I stare at the now-closed drawer, my ears beginning to ring, but it’s not the war that comes rushing back this time. It’s Christmas.
“I don’t know why you don’t want to put up a Christmas tree,” Thomas scoffs as he pours milk into his bowl of cereal. His hair is already graying, and I’m pretty sure it’s because ofme. He’s three inches taller than me, and with little effort, he could’ve outdone me at my best. He looks up at me. “I’ve done it for years here, and never once caught the cabin on fire.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding in my ears. “I don’t know. Just seems like a bad idea.” I don’t really care about the Christmas tree. I just don’t want to think about the memories that go with it. My head has been buzzing the last few days, my body’s felt antsy, and I can’t figure out what’s going on. Maybe I just need to get out of the house for a while.
“Hey,” Tommy calls after me as I head outside, Gunner hopping down from the couch to follow me. “Where are you going?”
“A walk,” I call over my shoulder to him as I step out into the frigid December air. It’s been mild this winter, but the chill has finally settled in. I rub my hands together, as my boots crunch in the snow.
“You need a coat,” Thomas appears in the threshold of the backdoor. “What’s going on with you? I noticed Gunner keeps?—”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m fine,” I cut him off. “He needs more training or something.”
“Are you… Are you sure?” Tommy joins, falling in step beside me. “Something is off, Turner. You can talk to me about what’s going on. I can take you to see Dr. Newcomb next week. We can work this out. Maybe you should trying an in-house treatment?”
I turn to face him, throwing my hands up. “Why do you always assume something is fucking wrong with me? Maybe if you quit assuming that, I wouldn’t feel so… Messed up.”
