Page 28 of Beyond the Stix

“I barely remember it.” I drop myself into the chair and eye the box with curiosity. “I forgot what’s inside it.”

“You put your favorite matchbox car, a homemade card, and a box of Swedish fish—your father’s favorite candy. I swear that man ate all of them in a matter of seconds.” She chuckles, but I see her eyes fill. “Your father cherished this box as though it was made of gold.” She wipes her tears away with a tissue she snags from the side table.

“That’s right.” I reach out to open the box, but stop myself as though I need permission to touch it.

“I hadn’t seen it in years. Then right after you and your friends won the band contest two and half years ago, he took it out of where ever he had stashed it. I asked what he was doing with it, but your father refused to tell me. Yet, he was excited.”

A large lump forms in the back of my throat as I listen to my mother ramble on about my father.

Jesus Christ, I’m going to miss my old man.

“About two months ago, and this was so strange, but your father made me promise if something ever happened to him, that I’d give the box to you. I never looked inside it.” She then leans in, kisses the top of my head, and walks away.

“Where are you going?” I ask, while tenderly holding onto the box as though it is precious. And it is.

“It’s been a long day, Con, and I need to lie down.” She points at the box. “Your father loved you.”

Those four words slams into my chest like a battering ram—no, it’s the word loved—No. Not the word, but the past tense meaning of it. Helovedme.

I swallow down the absolute grief barreling toward me like a runaway freight train, on a collision course with my already-battered heart. My mother might not realize how her sentiment affected me, and she doesn’t need to see how twisted around my insides are. Or how the thin veil of control I have on my emotions is about to shatter into tiny shards.

After she leaves the room, I sit there alone, but instead of looking at the pictures on the wall, I’m now staring down at the box my father kept for all these years.

I think about calling John inside, but I know he won’t want to intrude.

After placing the box on the coffee table, I scoot forward to the edge of the sofa cushion. I move the box closer to me, and a shot of apprehension runs through my body at what I might find inside. But I push pass the unsettling feeling and slowly open the lid.

Right away I see the empty box of red gummy candy, along with an unopened bar of my favorite chocolate candy.

I burst out laughing while tears begin to slip down my cheeks. Then I spot the pristine toy car, and the card I made him—with different colored pencils. Then at the bottom are two envelopes. I hesitate to touch them, but finally pick them both up. Each one has my name on it, in my father’s scrolling cursive, but with two different dates.

I carefully open the oldest one—the date after we got second place for the Midwest Clash of Bands contest.

It’s a letter from my father. I take a lungful of air and release it, and begin reading.

Dear Connor,

You know I’m not good with words, but I want to let you know how proud we are of you and your band on getting second place in the contest. You’re the best damn drummer this world will see. I always knew you’d be doing great things in your life. And this is just the start. Remember what I told you. Go beyond the stix, and you will do great.

I love you.

Dad

My father’s words break through the last vestige of control I have on my emotions. Next thing I know, John’s sitting beside me, asking what’s wrong.

“My father…” It’s all I can get out before a deluge of tears bursts from me.

NINE

John

I sit beside Connor,pull him into my arms and hold him tight. For a moment, I look around for Amanda, but she’s nowhere in sight and so I assume she’s in her room.

Right now, Connor is my only concern. I don’t know why the man’s crying, but I can guess and it’s about fucking time. He’s been keeping his emotions so tight to the vest that he has me seriously worried for his mental health. And from the way he’s gripping a piece of paper tightly in his hand, and the open shoe box on the coffee table, I believe that it has something to do with those items.

Instead of asking him to explain, I sit there holding Connor until he pulls himself together. Eventually, he leans away from me, and wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.