“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the binder.
He looks down, the same ash blond hair as James brushing his brow. It’s almost like he’s waiting for the binder to explain itself before finally stating, “Let me show you in your room.”
I nod, not sure what else to do, and follow as he leads the way. I can’t tell if this is one of his small considerate gestures or not. I’ve been to this room only a few times on my own, and I still feel awkward finding my way. This could also be because he’s too uncomfortable looking at me and seeing a stranger behind his son’s eyes.
There are three doors from the bathroom to James’s—myroom. I’ll get it eventually. The first is an office on the right, the second is James’s sister’s old room on the left, which is now considered a guest room though the bunk beds inside speak more to a space for grandchildren than real guests, and the third ismyroom—also on the left. There’s also a bend in the hall that leads to the master bedroom where James’s parents sleep.
James’s dad opens the door and sits down in the rolling chair at his—mydesk. My head hurts from all of this mental correction.
The room isn’t very big, and the furniture is crammed in every available spot. A full-sized bed with a black, wooden headboard and footboard is shoved against the wall under a window that looks out onto a tall elm tree in the front yard. There’s a short desk that doubles as a nightstand beside it and has only enough room for a laptop that’s covered in stickers for various baseball teams, a small desk lamp, some schoolbooks, and a cup with various pens and pencils. Across from the bed is a tall dresser with an Xbox One X on it, a small TV mounted to the wall, and a half closet. Abandoned at the foot of the bed is a well-worn gym bag. The room is cluttered with James’s life, but it’s also clean in a way that means it’s been empty for too long.
“You made your bed,” James’s dad comments, staring at the green and navy blue striped comforter that lies neatly over the bed.
“Was I not supposed to?” I ask, hovering next to the door.
James’s life is so loud in this room that it always takes me a minute to get the nerve to walk inside. This is also the only room people seem to be willing to leave me alone in, as if allowing me quiet time among all ofmythings will magically jog my memory. Okay, I know that’s literally how it’s supposed to work, but obviously that’s one bit of magic that won’t be happening. A strange bubble of hysteria climbs up my throat over how little everyone understands the truth about the world we live in. Magic is real. It just won’t make me their son again.
“No, uh, it’s good that you did,” he answers, his voice slightly hoarse.
His words break into my thoughts and bring me back to the present. Back to the binder of great mystery. The color matches the green in the comforter.
“His… My favorite color was green, wasn’t it?” I ask. Before he thinks I remembered something, I motion toward the binder, comforter, and some other odds and ends that are the same green.
“You’ve been a fan of the Hillsboro Hops since I took you to your first baseball game when you were five,” he shares, parceling out the information that makes up my new life’s history.
The little cartoon artichoke wearing a hat on my shirt makes sense now. It’s not an artichoke. It’s a hop in a baseball cap.
“That summer,” he continues, running his fingers up and down the plastic binder, “you begged me to sign you up for T-ball.”
“Which is where I met Dave for the first time?” I follow up, finding it easier to ask him than the guy in question.
“Dave joined the following year.” His lips tighten as he hands me another building block of my unknown past. “You two have been inseparable ever since.”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I quietly request, “Please don’t be mad at him because he didn’t drive me home that night like he was supposed to. I guess he wasn’t really that sober either.”
I don’t remind him that Dave lost his best friend that night, even though the words rest on my lips. It seems cruel to say, especially coming from me, the boy wearing his son’s face.
All the pain of mourning a loved one without the comfort of a funeral to say goodbye. Gone but not really gone.
“I’ll try. It’s all I can promise,” he says, then pats the bed next to him. “Here, sit down. I got something that might help.”
With the invitation, I sit down diagonally from him, the edge of the bed dipping under my muscular body. The air holds a hint of a spicy cologne that feels familiar, but I can’t place it, too faded from the time I’ve been away.
James’s dad opens the binder and turns it to face me. On normal computer paper, there’s a printed copy of a family photo that looks like it was taken the Christmas before the accident. Next to each person, in all capital, block handwriting, is a name, age, and how they are related to me.
My eyes burn and a wobbly smile pulls at the edges of my mouth as I take the offered binder. Flipping through the pages, I run my fingers along the indentations where pen met paper. Each photo has a handwritten note explaining the people and places shown.
“You made me a cheat sheet of my life,” I murmur, my voice thick with repressed emotions.
He nods then holds out his hand in a manner indicative of waiting for a handshake. With confusion, I oblige.
“Hi, James,” he says with a wobbly smile of his own. “I’m Steven. Your father.” He pauses, clears his throat, then continues, “I’m so sorry, son, for how I acted that first night in the hospital. It kills me knowing that your first memories of me are that way…” He trails off, his green eyes bright with tears. James looks so much like his dad… er, I look so much like him. “I hope you’ll forgive me, and we can take the time to get to know each other again.”
My tears lose the fight and drip down my cheeks. I feel so small inside this way too big body, and I don’t know what to do.
“I’d like that,” I whisper, wiping at my eyes with a swipe of my hand. Holding up the binder, I ask, “Wanna start now?”
“Sure.” He smiles, deep wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes. Starting with a deep, shuddering breath, he commences teaching me about my life.
