Page 41 of The Five Year Lie

He seems to consider the question. “Show me your boy instead. I love kids.”

Well, that’s easy. I open my phone and the first photo in the gallery is a shot I took of Buzz in the park last week. He’s got his foot on a soccer ball and he’s smiling into the camera.

Bert’s expression softens as he admires Buzz’s photo. Then he sighs. “Shame about Drew. Liked that kid. Always polite. Never late with the rent—until the day he split. Sent me a text to apologize. Pain in my ass—I had to haul all his stuff out of there. Not like there was a lot of it. Still, pissed me off.”

I eye the box. It takes physical effort not to jerk it out of his hands. “I’m sorry.”

He looks down at the carton. “I donated his clothes and his kitchen things. But there’s some stuff in here I thought he might come back for. Suppose I could give it to you. Five years is a long time to hold on to them. Guy’s not coming back, is he?”

“No, he isn’t,” I say quickly.

“All right,” he grunts. “Here you go, then. Best of luck to you and your kid.”

I can’t hold back any longer. I reach for the box, and he passes it into my hands. It’s heavier than I expected. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

He nods, shoves his hands into his pockets and then disappears around the back of Drew’s old building.

I grip the handles of the file box and start off down the street. It’s a twenty-minute walk home. But I only make it around the next corner before I pause to brace the box on my hip and nudge open the lid with my thumb.

The first things I see are gold buttons on dark blue fabric. It’s the dress uniform that used to hang in Drew’s closet. The bulky material covers up whatever else is in there.

I hoist the box and shamelessly plunge my nose down into the fabric, inhaling deeply. But all I get is a musty basement smell. There’s none of the spicy aftershave and clean cotton T-shirt scent of Drew.

Chastened, I force myself to nudge the box closed and then carry it home as quickly as I can, stashing it in my bedroom just as Buzz and my mother arrive in the kitchen downstairs.

“Mama!” he yells up the stairs. “I’m home from Grandmaaaaaaa’s!”

I pull the bedroom door shut and hurry down to meet them.

I’m all out of pink wine. But as soon as I’m sure Buzz is asleep, I make a cup of Raspberry Zinger tea and then carry it up to my bedroom. I pull the curtains, turn on the overhead light and lift the box onto my bedspread.

When I lift the lid, those shiny gold buttons look up at me again. I rest my hand on the heavy fabric of the jacket and make myself pause.

This is the last moment when anything is possible. For one more second I can still believe that the box is full of answers. I might find a diary explaining everything. A heartfelt goodbye letter with my name on it. An apology. An explanation.

That’s a lot to ask of this box.

After a deep breath, I lift the jacket out and give it a shake. It’s heavy, and wrinkled from spending years folded up. I spread it carefully on the bed. It still looks snappy, with a couple of medals pinned above the pocket. Someday I’ll give this to Buzz. I’ll have it cleaned, and I’ll hang it in his closet. He can invent worshipful fantasies about his hero dad, and I won’t contradict a single one of them.

Even if I can’t figure out why he left meandthe uniform behind.

The uniform trousers make up the next layer in the box. I lift those out and set them aside. Beneath that I find three books. Two of them are expensive-looking computer programming texts. But there’s also a hardcover copy ofThe Hobbit. I open the cover, and find an inscription.

With love always

—E

Hell. I don’t know who E is. And I’m not sure I want to. But I guess I’ll be readingThe Hobbitto Buzz when he gets a little older.

Beneath the books I find a small wooden picture frame, upside down. When I turn it over, my heart flips at the familiar sight.

The photo is just a four-by-six snapshot. But it’s the only piece of decor that Drew had on the wall of his tiny apartment—a view of the peaked roofline of a house against a blue sky. The house is dark red, and the clapboards have that slightly uneven look of a century-old New England home. But they’ve been recently painted. And centered in that peak is a circular plaque. It’s white, with eight painted hands forming a circle. The hands are carefully rendered in different skin tones, each one clasping the wrist of its neighbor.

When I asked Drew about this picture, he told me that this was a shot of his foster father’s house. “One of the younger kids painted that plaque, and I helped him hang it. I took the photo to make the kid happy. But then I kept it because that’s the only real home I ever had.”

It’s another little piece of Drew. I’m going to hang it up, too.

I set that aside and reach back into the box. There’s a little leather tray where Drew used to put his change when he emptied his pockets at night. There’s a tin for storing shaving soap. Drew bought it at a Portland shop one Saturday when we were out wandering after breakfast.