Page 101 of Josephine and Clay

Heavier. Older. The paper has yellowed at the edges, softened from being handled, then stored away. My name is written across the front in black ink.

Clay.

I know the handwriting immediately.

My chest tightens before my brain catches up.

Dad.

His handwriting looks exactly how I remember it. Strong, slanted, impatient-looking. He pressed too hard because the pen wasn’t moving fast enough for him.

I turn it over. Sealed once, then opened and tucked closed again.

“Mom?” I say.

She looks up. “What is it?”

The papers crinkle in my grip.

I should hand them over. Ask questions. Let her explain.

But my lips tighten. This might just be for me. “Never mind.”

My thumb slides under the flap.

Bank documents?

Several sheets, folded together. Account summaries. Deposit records. My name printed in black and white.

Clayton James McCoy.

My full legal name always looks strange. Too formal. Too much not mine.

I scan the first page. Then the second. Then I stop breathing right.

It’s an account.

In my name.

This thing goes back years. Years of deposits. Regular ones. Some small. Some larger. All made over time with the kind of patience that doesn’t happen by accident.

I flip another page. The balance at the bottom makes my stomach drop.

And still I keep my mouth shut, for reasons I cannot fathom.

I stand too fast.

Pain flares bright up my leg, and the crutch clatters against the side of the desk before I grab it. Rusty jerks awake, scrambling to his feet, nails clicking on the floor.

“Easy,” Mom says, rising. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together, unsure if I can trust myself. “I need some air.”

I head out, letting the silence damn near consume me. That’s the problem with silence. It lets your worst thoughts speak first.

I look back down at the papers, at the years of deposits, the careful account, the proof of something planned without me.

The account feels like it’s been sitting here waiting for me.