Little fella, please come back!
You know that old saying; someone walked over my grave? Well, it feels like there’s a rave going on over mine. I turn, pointing a finger after the kid. “What…?” The ever-loving fuck?
Articulation might be an issue, along with brain-based reasoning, but I don’t need to rely on the intellectual because every fibre of my being tells me what this is. Who this is. It was like watching someone walk away with my heart. I guess this is the reason my old mum didn’t eat us when we were young. Or leave us on the doorstep of the orphanage, though she threatened often enough. It seems Mother Nature really knows her tricks. Biology really is a kick in the head.
I rub my hand down my face. How can it be that I didn’t know I have a son? I notice my hand shaking as I press it to my mouth, turning back to the person I’d only recently given up on ever seeing again. Kennedy. Lovely Kennedy. The woman I haven’t seen for almost eight years, the woman who, up until a couple of minutes ago, felt like the elusive centre of everything.
“How…?” See? Articulation: fucked.
“Wait.” She almost dives for the front of the old-fashioned wooden counter. Pushing up onto her toes, she leans over it, grasping for something out of sight. I’m definitely in shock because I only vaguely appreciate the view. She pivots and thrusts a manila envelope my way. “For you.”
Kennedy has these big, dark eyes that have always made me think of a woodland creature. A rabbit maybe, or a deer. Once upon a time, they were innocent and trusting, but right now, they look very fucking wary. How is it she looks so different yet entirely the same? Her hair is shoulder length now, tied back from her face by a knotted pink bandana. Her jeans have turn ups at the ankles, and over her T-shirt, she wears a retro, flowery apron.
“The keys.” My hand rises slowly, folding over the bump in the envelope. “There are directions in there, too,” she says, pulling back as though my touch burns.
This is like some cosmic joke. She’s the girl I’ve never forgotten. Never really tried to. I look at her and am reminded so much of that night. The night when time stood still, when everything was wonderful. Until the morning came, and everything had changed.
“Far out.” The understatement of the century. I blow out a harsh breath. “I had—” No idea—not a fucking clue. How could I not know a piece of me was wandering around the planet? “Kennedy, listen—”
Her lush lips part like an invitation to a kiss. An invitation imagined as one low, adamant word falls from her mouth.
“No.”
My attention shifts, moving to the curtained exit after the kid. I dunno, but her reply sounded a lot longer than the word no. More like fuck no, hell no, and not on your life. But I’ve never really been big on what other people think I should do.
“No?” Like Kennedy, I’m aware that no is a whole sentence all of its own, though mine holds a boatload of really? You think that’s gonna work right now?
She nods, her non-verbal response all, glad to see your ears aren’t painted on. But, Jesus, her expression. It reminds me of those stories you see on the news from time to time. Accounts of a mother who wrestles a crocodile to protect her kid, punches a bear out, or turns into the Hulk to singlehandedly lift a station wagon to save one of her brood.
Kennedy’s expression right now? Come at me, bro. Fight me on this, and I’ll fuck you up good.
But is she seriously trying to warn me off? The kid is the spit of my brother Byron’s son, the double of Matty. Which means, well, I guess it could mean a number of things. I do have three brothers, but I’ll bet my life I’m the only one of us who spent the night with her. Spent the night inside her.
“I mean, not now.” The way her words tumble out feels like a relief. “Let me show you how to get there—how to get to the pixie house,” she adds, grabbing my hand.
“The pixie what?” Maybe I’m having a psychotic break?
Somebody poisoned my water bottle! The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Woody from Toy Story, which used to be one of Matty’s favourite movies. Because what boy doesn’t love his woody? Maybe that’s it. Maybe some bastard slipped acid in my bottle of mineral water, and that’s why I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’ve been spiked. I mean, my heart is beating fast enough to support the theory. If she tells me to follow the yellow brick road, I’ll—
“You have to go.” The touch of her hand is as real as her scent. Summer magnolias. The perfume of my memories. She tugs on my wrist, but my feet aren’t budging because there’s trippy, and then there’s whatever this is.