Wasn’t a secret from me. It allowed me to keep tabs on my mother, too often weeping. A year ago, she found me with her treasures spread out on her bed. Oh James, she said. Can this be our secret? I nodded as she put everything back. Until one day, just as I was going into seventh grade, she left me and my dad. Gone. But not gone were—
the tiny white pills that made me woozy and didn’t taste good enough to eat them twice.
the jangly bracelet made of champagne tops—ladies in fancy dress and sharp edges—but I know dad hates champagne.
the calendar with days crossed off till the year and month and day Mom left.
an envelope with a photograph of a man with a tiny scarlet birthmark beneath his left eye—identical to mine. He looks like I suspect I will look when I am old enough to drive.
The last time I looked in the drawer, there was a letter with my father’s name on it. Sealed. I handed it over sealed. “They used to kill the messenger,” my father says and laughs. He tells me the story of the doomed messenger after he tears his letter into pieces.
The note with my name, James, on it said she’ll be keeping tabs on me, said she’ll be in touch. Said meantime, there’s a whole world for me to explore. Said to put my curiosity to better use.
