“How do people write this stuff?” I wondered, setting the guitar down, as the key burned a hole in my pocket.

It was a legit question.

How do they pick up an instrument and create something out of nothing? The amount of inspiration they’d need…

“I can’t even rhyme words together,” I continued to mumble.

I grabbed my empty plate and removed my lunchbox from my bag. Mom always hated when I didn’t put it in the sink for her to rinse. She said it would end up smelling bad. At least she would have one less thing to complain about when she saw it.

I walked out of my bedroom and stopped at the stairwell. I looked at her closed door, contemplating waking her up to sing. She’d spent the afternoon with me when I got home from school before she wanted to nap. It’d been a nice time singing. She wrapped an arm around me, holding me tight before her tears started. I knew not to bring that up. I pretended she didn’t cry, and she soon excused herself from the room.

It’d been some hours since. She wouldn’t mind if I woke her up. She was good at rhyming. She might know some words.

I walked down the stairs instead, opting to put the lunchbox away first before I pestered her. In the kitchen, I decided to take an extra step and rinse it myself. I scrubbed it and set it on the dishrack, and then I dried my hands, as the key burned a hole in my pocket.

She was going to be happy I did something. Maybe she’d give me a real smile. I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time.

I was just about to go up the stairs when the phone rang. By the fourth ring, I picked it up and answered.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, buddy,” replied Dad. “What’re you guys up to?”            

“I’m making a song,” I told him. “I can’t get the rhymes right, though.”

“That’s why you have to keep practicing. Is Mom helping you out? She hasn’t called me yet and it’s not like her.”

“No, she’s still in her room.”

He was quiet for a moment. “What is she doing, Carter?”

“I think she’s sleeping.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you go and check?”

“Sure.”

I walked up the stairs with the phone held to my ear. I kept trying to rhyme things in my head with each step.

What rhymes with step?

Hep? Pep?

“Did you hide that key, by the way?” Dad then asked. “I gave you it in the morning because I’m staying back.”

I paused outside the bedroom door. “Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

“Pull it out for me.”

I dug my hand in the pocket I put the spare key in. When I felt nothing, I confusedly swapped hands with the phone and dug into my other pocket.

Nothing again.

“Carter?” Dad pressed on the other end, his voice sounding strained and anxious.

“I…I put it in my pocket,” I swore to him. “It’s gone.”

“Oh, God,” I heard him say under his breath. “Okay, look, I’m coming home right now. Don’t open the door. Just stay in your room, alright?”

“Alright.”

He got off the phone, and I stared at the door for some time.

There was no key burning a hole in my pocket.

Why?

“Mom?” I called out to her.

He told me not to answer, but…

“Mom?”

I started to worry.

I put my hand on the knob and turned. The door creaked open, and nothing but darkness greeted me. The curtains were closed, the bed was messy, and she wasn’t in it. I looked around the room as I walked in. Light flooded the bottom of the closed bathroom door, and I walked toward it.

“Mom?”

No answer.

I stopped in front of the bathroom door and pressed my ear against it.

Nothing.

My heart skipped a beat. A bad feeling came over me.

I put my hand on the knob again, and I turned it. Pushing the door open, I stood still as I took in the sight before me.

The medicine cabinet was open and empty. Pill bottles lay scattered across the floor.

“Mom?” I trembled out, feeling weak all over.

Mom was on the floor, and she wasn’t moving.

Dad.

I wanted Dad.

Eighteen

Carter

Light and blue everywhere.

Colours danced in my eyes.

I swallowed cold water and saw a burst of white light approaching.

Dad?

There were arms reaching out for me.

Without pause, I reached back.

Dad.

Leah

“Breaking news: Footage of a rescue took place close to an hour ago. The video, which was taken by a chopper surveying the damage, shows a man being pulled from the waters and on to the rescue boat. His identity has not been released yet, as the boat continues its search for more survivors.”

“It’s Carter,” said Melanie, pointing to the screen. “You can tell it’s him.”

I couldn’t tell it was him, actually, but I didn’t say that.

As the reporter spoke, the video was being aired in the background. It was too high up to make out anything, and I was on pins and needles waiting for them to identify the man.

Please, God, let it be him.

My phone suddenly rang from the bedroom, but I made no move to answer. It was probably Cheryl wondering where I was. I didn’t care for her shit right now. I needed answers.

“What do I do if he’s dead?” I found myself asking aloud.

Melanie’s head turned to me. “He’s not dead.”

“What if he is? I’m going to regret so much, aren’t I?”

She didn’t respond to that. “Have faith.”

I scoffed. “Don’t give me that, Mel. I’m not buying that Hallmark shit.”

When you’ve grown up in a trailer park filled with drug addicts and pimps, and your aunt, in particular, was a hooker, you learn having faith is nothing but bullshit you feed to privileged kids. Kids who don’t have to go to bed hungry at night. Kids who hide their tooth under their pillow and magically have money there the next morning. Those are the kids that grow up having faith.

“It’s not Hallmark shit,” she replied, shaking her head. “You can’t say that. Look where you are now after what you’ve been through. You’re the epitome of why people should have faith.”