Page 14 of Broken Lines

She rolls her eyes.

“Well, he was drunk one night—this was right before he got together with Chrissy, of course—and I guess he was feeling nostalgic. And he sent this off to Jackson.”

Chrissy would be the aforementioned Victoria’s Secret model Will ran off with, who ended up dying in the same motorcycle crash that took his life.

“Wait, heknewwhere Jackson was?”

Judy shakes her head.

“He thought he might. But…” her mouth twists as she passes me the postcard.

The front has a cartoonish picture of the Statue of Liberty with the words “The Empire State!”. The back has mom’s apartment address as the return, with the “to” address crossed out with red pen and a rubber-stamp over it that reads “Discontinued address. Return to sender”.

Also, there’s just two lines as the message.

Jackson - I hope the world is treating you kindly. Miss you so much, brother.

I stare at the card, running a thumb over the handwritten words.

Will didn’t live with us all that long, but he was definitely mom’s longest fling. And he was kind, and was good to Judy and I, which is more than I can say for most of the dickheads that came before or after him.

And yes, obviously, the question of Will being my father has come up before. Being that he lived with us for almost three years and took such an active role in taking care of me. Not to mention, buying us a freaking apartment to live in.

But for a woman who blathers to anyone and everyone about every single private matter she’s been involved in, it’s the one thing Judy’s kept tight-lipped about. She’ll never tell who my real father was. Or the hard truth is, it’s likely she doesn’tknow.

Either way, I stopped asking a long time ago.

But I did use to imagine it might be Will. I was only twelve when he and Chrissy died. But I remember Judy being exceptionally sad. And for some reason, that made me sad, too. Even if I didn’t fully grasp that a man who’d lived with us for those years—who’d cared for me and even taught me to play the guitar and how to sing—was dead.

In high school, I used to put pictures of myself up on my computer screen next to tabloid shots of Will and try and spot the genetic similarities. Sometimes, I thought I could see them. Other times, they weren’t there anymore.

So, maybe my dad was Will. Or maybe my dad was some random roadie for Pearl Jam. Who the hell knows. And at this point, who even cares?

My eyes slip back to address—a Falstaff Island, in Maine—with the “Discontinued address. Return to sender” rubber stamp over it.

“I have no idea why I kept it. I found it under some junk mail in a drawer maybe a year after he and Chrissy got together.”

Judy lifts a shoulder before she drains the last of her champagne. Her phone buzzes on the couch behind her, instantly yanking her attention. I watch her eyes gleam for a second as she dives for it.

My mouth thins.

I know this face.

“Listen, Mel, I have to run out for a quick thing. Feel free to stay?”

Drugs. She’s running out for drugs. Nothing in theworldsnaps her attention faster than that.

“I have to go too.”

“Oh, great!”

She smiles a fake, distracted smile at me as she practically levitates off the couch and brushes past me for the door.

“Just let yourself out, then?”

I don’t have time to answer, much less fake a “good to see you, mom” at her back before she’s out the door.

Same as it ever was.

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