All The Shadows We Made

Chapter 31 - April - Jamie

April

Jamie

You'd think I'd have known something was wrong. I should have, right? It seems like it should be the kind of thing that should, I don't know, cause a disturbance in the Force somehow. Something should have told me to get up and go, to leave the house, to head over there before it was too late.

You'd think that would be what happened. But it wasn't. Instead, I'm sitting on the couch fighting with my little brother over who gets to use the Xbox, and I'm about to rip the controller out of his grubby little hand and maybe send him flying over the side of the couch for good measure, when the landline starts blaring and we both jump.

"You get it," Josh says.

"Screw that noise," I reply. "You do it."

"You just want to take the controller," Josh whines, which is true, but he doesn't have to be such a baby about it.

The phone stops ringing and then starts up again almost immediately. I sigh and haul myself off the couch. "Hello?"

There's dead silence, and I'm starting to think it's one of those stupid robo-calls where a real person only connects when you pick up, and then I hear my mom's voice. She sounds small and scared and completely unlike the woman who called me at five to remind me to put the casserole in the oven. "Jamie?"

"Yeah, Mom, it's me."

"Honey, I-" My mom pauses for a second and then takes a deep breath. "Something's happened. I...I wanted you to hear it from me first."

Even then I don't know what she means. Mickey has been so happy the last few days. When I saw him yesterday, he was hopping around like a frickin rabbit. Everything was good. Mickey doesn't even cross my mind.

"Honey, it's..." My mom takes another deep breath. It sounds like she's trying not to cry. "It's Mickey. We just got the call here at the hospital. He, um, he..." My mom bursts into tears. "He killed himself, Jamie. I'm so sorry. He was gone by the time the medics got there. There was nothing we could do."

"No. You're wrong, he can't, he wouldn't have, he-" I can't accept it. I won't accept it. She must be wrong. It must be some other kid with almost-black hair and green eyes and a stupid, loud voice. There are other Michael Connors in the world, right? It must be one of them.

My mom sniffles. "I'm so sorry, Baby Bear."

My mom hasn't called me that since I was in second grade, when I told her I was too old for nicknames, and the fact that she's using that name now, the name that Mickey used to give me shit for when we were in kindergarten, makes it real. I didn't think she remembered it. I didn't think I did. "I- I gotta go," I say, and I'm not even sure if I end the call before the phone hits the floor.

"You better pick that up," Josh says from the living room, but he shuts up as soon as he sees the look on my face.

"I'm going out," I tell him. "You stay right here. Don't move until Mom gets back."

I'm out in the garage as soon as I can pull on my boots. My dad has been moving the booze around every couple of weeks, but I know it's back out in the garage now. I'm pretty sure it's in the same damn box it was the last time I needed it. I've been keeping tabs on it mostly so I'm not tempted if I run into it by accident, and I was thinking about not doing that anymore, but right now, the only bright spot I can find in the whole damn world is that I know where the booze is.

My mom's voice keeps running through my head, small and frightened and sad: "He killed himself, Jamie." It's on a loop, repeating over and over and over again, and I can't seem to turn it off. But I know what will.

I lift the cardboard flaps and sure enough, there it is. Staring me in the face. Dad seems to have invested in a bunch of mini-bottles and 375 mls during his last booze run. There's some Crown and some Jack and weirdly, a few mini bottles of cheap vodka and gin. I grab a 375 ml of Crown. I haven't had a drink since Mickey threw my beer out the window last month. Not a single drop. And even the wanting has eased up a little. But now all I want, no, all I need, is to get so fucked up I never have to think again.

I untwist the cap and raise the bottle to my lips. The smell of whiskey is strong and clean and burns my nostrils just a little. I can already taste it, feel the burn as it slides down my throat.

Dude, what are you doing? A little voice asks me. My little voice hasn't sounded like much of anyone lately except for me, but in this instant it sounds so much like Mickey that I almost jump. You can't do that. You promised.

"You're fucking dead, what do you know?" I ask it back, and the sound of my own voice is so angry and scared and loud that I do jump this time. A little of the whiskey splashes onto my boot.

I try to raise the bottle to my lips again, but I can't do it now. Not with a dead man in my head reminding me about promises I'm not sure I can keep.

So I do the only other thing I can think of. I slip the whiskey into the side pocket of my cargo pants and head out the side door into the night. I don't know where I'm going or if I'm headed anywhere at all. I just know I have to be out. I have to leave. I have to be anywhere but here.