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“Are you having a memory?”
“I feel like I’m familiar with this house, but it wasn’t home. I think I recognize the teen who just drove off but younger.”
“That guy on the billboard has your face,” The Smurf squeaks.
“Whitman Cambridge,” Tucker reads out loud.
“That would mean my last name is Cambridge,” I say it all together to see how it feels. “Walt Cambridge.”
Tucker’s green eyes watch me for a beat to see if I’ll have a reaction to it. Satisfied, he nods then suggests, “let’s go to the local grocery store. It is easier to gather information around many people.”
The pipsqueak leans in the center. “A lot of people?” She questions Tucker.
“You can stay in the car, Everest. My boys will be nearby.”
Once we pull in front of the store. My smile stretches on my face and I don’t know why. I think happy memories are here. I follow Tucker inside, taking in my surroundings, to see what I can remember. A few people looked at me longer than necessary. I’m not wearing anything special; ripped jeans, a button-up black shirt that I have unbuttoned to show the tank underneath, and my dark cloth scarf. I have some of the jewelry I’ve gotten from the 3Ts (Tucker, Tini, and Tennessee) over the years for occasions like Christmas. I have a light beard and my brown waves fall just past my shoulder.
I feel like some people are taking pictures or videos of me. “Maybe I’m some kind of celebrity,” I whisper to Tucker.
He walks up to the cashier who’s fixing their station. “Excuse me, I have a question about Whitman Cambridge.”
“Mr. Cambridge doesn’t like when people talk about him,” she responds without looking up at him. “He wants to be asked directly.”
“Where in the hell do I go to ask him directly?” I demand, losing patience.
Her eyes snap up. She blinks a few times, and then her mouth falls open like she’s seen a ghost. “He’s... He’s shopping right now, Sir.” She picks up the phone and pages him. “Mr. Whitman Cambridge, please report to customer service. Mr. Whitman Cambridge, please report to customer service, please. It’s an emergency?”
I turn to see a semi-small crowd that part ways when a clean-cut, scowling version of myself moves forward. Our eyes connect and he tilts his head, then shakes it like his brain and eyes disagree.
“Walt?” he whispers, not trusting himself.
I’m in awe seeing the person I was dreaming about. I wasn’t losing it. I have spent most of my life looking into a more serious mirror. My heart pounds in my ears. I have this overwhelming feeling of relief and love coursing through my body. Excitement, even. He stalks forward as his anger takes over and punches me before I can react.
So we sparred!
“Who in the hell are you? Why are you impersonating my brother? What kind of sick joke is this?”
