Page 108 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Dr. Jain hums thoughtfully. “What coping techniques do you think you could use next time?”

“I think if I had slowed down and reminded myself it wasn’t an emergency, I could’ve explained myself. Peyton probably would’ve understood I needed space without me even having to ask.”

“That sounds like a strong plan.” She pauses and sets her glasses down on the end table.

I start fiddling with my old phone, turning it over in my hand. I’ve been holding onto this voicemail for too long. And if I’m serious about healing, I know I need to listen on my own. Especially this one.

The final keepsake.

The day of his funeral.

I unlock my phone and stare at the voicemail length beneath the harrowing date. Three minutes and twenty-three seconds long.

“One voicemail left. Do you want to listen to it today?” Dr. Jain asks.

“I think… I think I want to listen by myself. The timing’s never going to feel right. I just need to accept the fact that it’ll be unbelievably hard, and do it anyway.”

Dr. Jain says something, asks about my plans for the rest of the day, maybe, but I stand abruptly. It has to be now. I walk straight to my truck, the cold wind barely registering against my face.

My surroundings seem hazy as I sit in the driver’s seat. The parking lot’s a black blur as my focus zeroes in on my phone. The little gray bubble with Tammy’s initials watches me, and I brush my thumb over the letters. Giving the screen one last glance, I press the blue triangle and flip it over.

“Hi, Cal, it’s Jeff.”

“And Tammy. Your mom said we could call. We missed you at the funeral today, bud. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it, but we saved you a seat next to us in the pew. It’s strange not seeing you come by the house every day.” Her voice hitches. “Not seeing both of you, now.”

I hear muffled sniffles through the static, and there’s a long pause before Jeff takes over.

“Cal. What happened isn’t your fault. We don’t blame you. People leave the earth every day. But very few of them can say that their last moments were spent doing the thing they loved most with their best friend.”

The sadness in his tone seeps through the line, and it feels real, tangible, like he’s here with me. Like I’m watching him sob.

“Don’t surrender your future to your past, Cal. When Tyler’s memory knocks on your door, don’t let the painful parts in. Not on his behalf. I think you know him well enough to know he wouldn’t want it. He’d hate to be the reason you…” His voice falters. “He’d hate to be the reason you’d stop living life the way it’s meant to be lived.”

Jeff’s voice is hoarse. Raw. “You’re allowed to move on. You’re allowed to be happy. You’re allowed to celebrate good things without letting tragedy define you. Let that day make the sweet moments of your life sweeter, because you know what it’s like to go through something unfathomable.”

I hear uneven breathing, then Tammy’s voice again. “Last night, I dreamt of your last soccer match. Do you remember when the team hoisted him up on their shoulders for scoring the game winning goal? I swear that smile was glued to his face for an entire week. His smile is so vivid in my dreams, Cal. And I think if I could take one memory to heaven, it’d be that one.” Tammy exhales a deep breath. “It’s possible to carry a memory close without letting it bind you. When we picture Tyler from now on, we’re not going to picture him as he was today. We’re going to picture him at his absolute best.

Scoring that game winning goal.

Diving into the deep end at the community pool.

Playing with Zebra.

Laughing with you.

We love you big, Cal. And so does Tyler.”

Three minutes and twenty-three seconds.

It’s all it took for me to feel a sense of mental stillness I’ve never felt before.

I wasn’t sure how I’d feel once I finished the voicemails. But now I know.

A life-altering calm.

No yelling, no blaming, no guilt-tripping. None of my assumptions took shape. And it’s only now, with the last keepsake unveiled, that I know what I need to do.

Buckling my seatbelt, I reverse out of the parking lot with urgency. I glance at my watch—4:30 p.m. Tammy’s a kindergarten teacher, and Jeff owns his own farm equipment business. I don’t know if they’ll be home. Nevertheless, I drive to the Sheldon house, filled with newfound purpose and determination.