Secret for a Song (24 page)

M
y
palms were slipping off the wheel as I drove to Drew’s apartment the next day.
It was six a.m. so I didn’t expect him to be awake, but still. Maybe he’d
changed his sleeping habits in the last month.

The
good thing was that the mailboxes were at the end of the street, so I could
slip the envelope in without him having to see me. But there was a small part
of me that hoped I’d get a glimpse of him anyway, just so I could carry one
last picture with me to North Carolina, a picture where he wasn’t crying.

As
I drove past his apartment to get to the row of mailboxes, I glanced quickly to
the right to see if maybe, just fortuitously, he was at the window. That’s when
I saw it: the yellow Roman shade, pulled down.

I
slowed down and pulled into someone’s empty parking space and sat there,
staring at the shade. I remembered Drew’s words that day at Prescott Park.

“I’m
not a big believer in a loving god, but I do believe in destiny. Fate. So I
think wherever I go, I’ll be okay.”

“Just
look for a yellow Roman shade,” I’d said.

And
he’d laughed. “Yeah. Something like that.”

I
got out of the car, leaving it running. My entire body seemed to be trembling.
I walked toward his apartment, feeling as if the snow might as well be
molasses, the way I was trudging through it. When I got to his door, I lifted
my hand to knock on his door and then let it fall again. There was an envelope,
taped to the door. It said
SAYLOR
on the front in shaky writing,
probably Drew’s. I thought it was funny, how I felt my heart was crumbling to
sand, how much this boy had insinuated himself into my life, and I still didn’t
know what his handwriting looked like. I didn’t know how long the envelope had
been there, but the black lettering was smudged from the snow and sleet we’d
had, so I guessed at least a few days. I walked back to the car, tears dripping
off my cheek and splattering onto my jacket.

I
considered waiting to open the envelope till I got to North Carolina, or at
least out of Ridgeland, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I ripped it open, the
flap slicing my hand, drawing blood. I pulled out the paper and read.

Dear
Saylor
, it said in
the same shaky hand,

If
you’re reading this then you probably know that I’m gone. I hope you don’t
think I refused to say goodbye out of pique. It wasn’t that at all. I just
think goodbyes are best left unsaid. That way, you feel like a new chapter
could begin anytime, however unlikely that may be.

I
like to imagine a future, maybe in a parallel universe, where you and I are
together, healthy and whole. We’re unmarred by the past, by our psychological
pathologies, by the mutation of our genes. I’d ride up to you in a Harley, maybe
wearing a black leather jacket. You’d be at college, with a pile of medical
textbooks in your arms. I’d offer you a ride. And even though your intellectual
friends would tell you not to bother with the likes of me, you would. You’d hop
on as if you’d always belonged there. Your curls would fly out behind us as I
gunned the motor, and we’d fly down the highway to our future. I’d write songs
and you’d be a country doctor. That’s what I picture for us.

I
imagine you might have some things you want to say to me. I’m renting a
temporary P.O. box for the next month, just in case. I’ll enclose the address
here.

I’m
not good with letters, so I hope you’ll forgive me for ending this one with a
song. I’ll always think of you when I hear it. Be well, Saylor.

Under
his letter, he’d penned the lyrics to Secret for a Song.

I
closed the letter that was now smeared with blood from my paper cut and tears
from my bruised heart and stared straight ahead at the yellow shade. I didn’t
know if we had a future in a parallel universe. What I did know was that Andrew
Dean was going to be okay. And, for the first time, I truly felt that I was
too.

I
began to drive.

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A
huge fan of spooky stuff and shoes, S.K. Falls enjoys alternately hitting up
the outlet malls and historic graveyards in Charleston, SC where she lives and
imbibes coffee. Her husband and two small children seem not to mind when she
hastily scribbles novel lines on stray limbs in the absence of notepads.

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