Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

covers,

which means

the other footsteps, breaths, heartbeats

belong to him.

I slide the covers back and tiptoe to the door,

not wanting to scare him,

just in case.

Turn the knob so slowly there isn’t even a click

and sneak down the hall to Jake’s doorway.

And there he is,

digging through a desk drawer.

He dyed his hair black,

lost some weight,

has different clothes

that look

frayed and worn

like the rest of him.

But it’s Jake.

It has to be.

It has to be.

“Jake,” I whisper, and he snaps up, spins to face me.

We stare at each other, me and this man who is

not

NOT

NOT Jake.

At first I want to scream,

run,

call the police,

and then I notice what’s in his hands:

Jake’s Wildcats sweatshirt.

The one I gave him last Christmas

that has the ketchup stain

right in the middle.

The one that’s not worth anything

to anybody but us.

And then I see a list in his other hand,

and I know who wrote that list,

because only Jake makes the lines so dark and thick.

I think of how this person

passed by the TV downstairs,

and the laptop and the iPad,

and I know that he’s not stealing from us.

He’s stealing for Jake.

And then I recognize him.

I even remember his name.

“Hey,” I say, “you’re—”

But he cuts me off.

“Not anymore. Are you going to call the police?”

I think of the tall police officer’s face,

hear her words.

Let me know if you hear anything.

Anything at all.

BUT

she is not here,

and he is, and

I’m sure he is the one

who helped me once

the time I was most afraid,

when nobody else was there.

What if he’s trying to do what is right,

and the cops are too?

What if we all are?

“Would it help Jake if I called the police?”

He shakes his head. “I promise, it wouldn’t.”

I am afraid,

but the same amount of afraid

as when the police were here.

The same amount of trust too.

So

finally

“Okay,” I say.

“I will not tell the police

if you tell me something:

Is he okay?”

The man stops.

Thinks.

“He will be.”

And even though he broke into our house

to take Jake’s things,

I know he is telling the truth.

I can tell he is trying to help.

I remember a speech Coach B gave

when they dedicated the gym to him.

If you want somebody to do what’s right,

let them see you believing that they can.

I remember Bishop Gregersen telling us a story

of an escaped prisoner

and a priest

and candlesticks.

And then I know what I need to do.

The man is already at the door,

reminding me I never saw him,

but

I say,

“WAIT.”

He turns,

eyes narrowed like a cat,

but he waits while I run to my room

and back again

with something in each hand.

I look him straight in the face

so he’ll know this isn’t some kid game,

but also

so he’ll see I believe he can do what’s right,

and I hold out

The Book of Luke and Jake

with that same dark, thick handwriting

and

my duct-tape wallet

with all my money

($239)

still inside.

“You forgot these,” I say.

“The most important part.”

He looks at me real close,

then slides the notebook into the black garbage bag

with the rest of Jake’s stuff

and the wallet

into his own pocket.

I’m glad he doesn’t ask me if I’m sure,

because it’s hard for me to be sure

of anything

anymore.

I keep my promise to the man.

I will not tell the police.

But there’s someone else I have to tell

because brothers deserve to know.

It’s my third trip to the grocery store since he disappeared. Everything is split neatly now into “before” and “after,” like a great chasm in the earth, a divide we can never cross but only gape at.

It was Luke who spurred me to come to Price Saver today, not just because the kitchen is bare and he’s finally feeling well enough to eat again. We’re also here because of the square on the calendar I should have noticed weeks ago.

“I want pad thai and chocolate cake for my birthday,” he told me. “And we need other food. I made a list. Your wallet is in your bathroom. Your outfit is fine, and your hair is fine.” I’m about to tell him I’m not sure where my shoes or my keys are when he hands me both.

There’s no excuse, then. So we go to the store, and I pray we won’t see anyone we know. It will be hard enough to smile at all the well-meaning people who somehow know us.

Not somehow. We all know exactly how.

We nearly make it through without a single sad smile or forced conversation. But as we wind through the produce, Mrs. Braithwaite rounds the corner, pushing a cart of fresh vegetables and nutritional supplements.

I can’t talk about Jake right now. I just can’t. So I search my mind—and my shopping cart—for any other topic.

My answer comes in the cake-mix box, lying right on top like my own Betty Crocker cue card.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I still have your platter. The cake was delicious, and I washed it and was ready to return it the very next day, but…”

She brushes the words away. “Keep it as long as you like. I’m not worried about the platter, honey. I’m worried about you.”

My mouth goes dry even as my eyes well up. I try to bring the conversation back to safe territory, to subjects that won’t make me break down in Price Saver.

“Why coconut cake?”

She smiles and lays a soft hand on my sleeve. “Because he told me it was your favorite, but that you always make chocolate instead for your kids.”

The tears come, swift and sudden, as I stare down at the chocolate cake mix and frosting in my cart. “Jake told you that?”

She nods. “That boy loves his mother,” she says, and I’m grateful for the present tense. She thinks a moment. “I’ve changed my mind. Bring that platter back, and I’ll make you another. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that,” I say, desperate for this small thing that will connect me to my son.

She gives me a smile and ambles away. Soon Luke comes back to the cart with limes and red