Page 17 of Where the Music Grows

Michael laughs. “Yeah, sleeping in your truck. Real independent.”

He argues with me for another ten minutes, but I don’t budge. “Fine. But if you starve to death in a ditch, I’m gonna be real annoyed.” Michael sounds pissed, but I also hear a sense of pride in his voice. Yeah, I’m not making rational decisions, but it’s a decision. I know I’ll figure something out.

I grin despite myself. “Noted.”

When I hang up, the quiet feels heavier.

I should look for work today. Should drive into town, ask around, scrape together enough for gas to get to the next place. I’m sure I can find some work as a day laborer. Farms are always looking for guys like me to do some grunt work. I could easily make a hundred bucks. Cold, hard, cash. That’s a good meal and another tank of gas.

But the thought exhausts me.

I need one day. One day to just breathe, and then I’ll figure it out. I’ve been working every day of my life since I was a kid. Living on a farm is all about work—even on Sundays. When Mom was alive, we’d get up early to do chores, go to church and usually have a big meal, but once we got home, there were always more chores to do.

I pull out my backpack and carry it to the tailgate. Inside, there’s a stack of photos, a few letters, and Mom’s necklace.

I spread the mementos of my mother and a life that feels like it was a million years ago out on the tailgate.

The first photo is all of us—Mom, Dad, Michael, Caleb, me—standing in front of the farmhouse. I’m maybe ten, grinning like an idiot. Dad’s hand is on my shoulder. He’s smiling. Caleb is scowling. Michael looks like Gumby—all arms and legs.

It’s such a foreign concept to see Dad smiling. I honestly don’t think he’s smiled since Mom got sick. I can still remember the sound of Mom’s laugh, loud and full-throated, ringing through the house. I must have been nine or so. Michael and Caleb were trying to teach me how to play poker, which was really just an excuse for them to take my allowance. Mom caught us, and instead of getting mad, she pulled up a chair.

“Deal me in,” she’d said, her eyes twinkling.

Dad was there too, leaning against the wall, watching with this half-smile that I’d forgotten about until just now. He wasn’t scowling or barking orders. He was just...present. Happy.

Mom cleaned us all out in less than an hour.

“Never play cards with a gambler’s daughter, boys,” she’d said.

We’d laughed until our sides hurt.

That was before. Before the doctor visits started. Before the hushed conversations behind closed doors. Before I found Mom crying in the bathroom one night, clumps of her beautiful auburn hair in her hands.

I remember how music filled the house back then. Mom was always playing something on the radio in the kitchen while she cooked. She didn’t listen to just one kind of music. Sometimes, she’d be banging her head to some eighties metal hair band. Other times, she’d be crooning to Patsy Cline. Mom loved music—all of it. At night, she’d put on jazz and rock back and forth as she knitted a sweater for one of us boys.

She rarely watched TV unless it was some cheesy musical. Oklahoma. She loved that movie. We all hated it, but honestly, I often found myself feeling nostalgic and watching clips of it when I lay in bed at night.

I pick up another photo. This one is just Mom and me. I’m sitting on her lap with my toy guitar, strumming away while she beams at the camera. I was maybe five. She’d gotten me that plastic guitar for Christmas, and I’d carried it everywhere for months.

“You’re going to be a star someday, Jackie,” she’d said, ruffling my hair. “Just wait and see.”

I wonder what she’d think of me now. Sleeping in my truck, broke and lost. Would she still believe in me? Or would she tell me to swallow my pride and go home?

No. She’d understand. She always did.

I pull out her necklace. The tiny silver guitar catches the morning light. I slip it over my head, tucking it under my shirt. It’s not exactly manly, but sometimes, I wear it. When I need to feel close to her, I put it on.

“I’m trying, Mom,” I whisper. “I really am.”

My fingers brush another picture—one I didn’t mean to bring. I groan and seriously consider tossing it. The picture was of me in my goofy suit. It wasn’t even my suit. It had been Caleb’s. The pantlegs were too short, and the jacket looked like I was wearing a box.

It was at my eighth grade school picture. I remember it like it was yesterday. Eighth grade had been horrible for me. That’s when shit really got bad with the bullying. I’d grown a good three inches that year. The boys hated me, but the girls thought it was cool.

Aiden Miller. The asshole had shoved me against the lockers, his breath hot and sour in my face. “Stay away from her, farm boy.”

I didn’t even know who he was talking about. Just some girl who asked me about homework. But Aiden’s fists didn’t care about details.

The memory stings. Not just the punches—the way Dad had looked at me afterward, my split lip and black eye. “You let him do that?” Like I’d chosen to lose.