Page 137 of The Lie Maker

The other morning, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen to get a pot of coffee going. On the counter was the new wallet that Lana had bought me that I had chosen, at the time, not to use.

I thought maybe the time had come.

As was my usual routine, I had left my watch and phone and wallet on the bedside table. I came into the bedroom as Lana was stirring.

“Coffee’s on,” I said. She saw what was in my hand.

“You’re ready?”

I smiled. “I’m ready.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, put the new wallet on the bedspread, and picked up my old one. Held it for a moment. It felt like something that had once been alive, but its life force was slipping away.

“You okay?” Lana asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a wallet, right?”

I opened it up and took out my various cards from their slots. Visa, auto club, driver’s license.

There was a slip of paper sticking out from under the flap that held the cards. I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before. I slid it out. It was light-green stock, ruled, and I recognized it as likely coming from the notepad that had been in the glove compartment of Lana’s car.

I slowly unfolded the paper. On it was a handwritten note. Done hastily. He’d obviously scribbled it in a hurry before folding it and tucking it where he figured I would find it eventually.

He must have done it when we stopped on the way back from New Hampshire for gas. I had left my wallet in the car, taking only my charge card with me. That would have given him about ninety seconds, maybe two minutes, to put his thoughts down on paper. So a few of the words took a moment to decipher, the handwriting was so bad.

But I finally figured out what it said. It read:

Jack—

The remission period has ended. I had a good long run. Docs give me 2months. It’s all through for me. Nothing left to lose. If you find this, I hope it means we got Lana back. What are the odds a shit like me could produce a son like you? I could not be more proud. Have a great life.

Love, Dad

So there had been a plan. It was to die. To die doing something that had meaning.

I held the note in my hand, read it through three times. Lana was sitting up in bed, propped up against the headboard. I handed it to her.

As she read it, I noticed there was something else tucked into the wallet where the note had been hidden.

“What the...”

It took me a second to dig out what was in there.

“What is it?” Lana asked.

Two bills. A ten and a five.

“Fifteen bucks,” I said, leaning over and putting my head in my hands.