A Different Blue(18)

I looked down at my paper. Wilson's life was a neat little row of events and achievements. So he

was smart. That was fairly obvious. And he was nice. And he was nice-looking. And he came from a

nice family. All of it . . . . . . nice. So different from my own history. Did I have a defining

moment? One moment where everything changed? I had actually had a few. But there was one moment

when the world spun, and when it settled, I was a different girl.

[page]I had been living with Cheryl for about three years, and in that time there had been no

word from Jimmy. Nevada search and rescue had eventually suspended the search effort after they

had been unable to find any trace of him. There was no outcry, no public awareness of his

disappearance, no demands that the search continue. He was an unknown. Just one man who meant

the world to one little girl.

During that three years, I had tried my hardest not to give up on him. Not in the first weeks

when my social worker told me they had to put my dog, Icas, down. Not when, week after week,

there had been no sign of Jimmy. Not when Cheryl smoked incessantly in the apartment, and I had

to go to school smelling bad, my hair and clothes reeking of cigarettes, friendless and

clueless, awkward and strange, in my own eyes and the eyes of my classmates. I was not willing

to admit that Jimmy was gone, and sheer stubborn will kept my eyes straight ahead and made me

strong.

If not for the occasional teasing, I would have really liked school. I liked being around other

kids, and school lunch seemed like a daily feast after years of eating from a camp stove. I

liked having more books at my disposal. My teachers said I was smart, and I worked hard, trying

to catch up, knowing how proud Jimmy would be when I showed him the books I could read and the

stories I had written. I wrote down all the stories he had told me, all the things that were

important to him, and, therefore, important to me. And I waited.

One day I arrived home to find my social worker waiting for me outside. She told me they had

found my father. She and Cheryl both turned toward me when I approached the apartment. Cheryl

was blowing huge smoke rings, and I remember marveling at her “talent” before I saw the

expression on her face, the tight look around her eyes and the down-turned mouth of the social

worker. And I knew. A hiker had been climbing around in a crevice, and had seen something below,

wedged deep into the bottom of the crevice, and somewhat protected from the elements and the

animals who would surely have scattered his remains. The rock climber thought it looked like

human remains. He had called the authorities who sent in a team. Jimmy's remains were brought up

a few days later. He had fallen from a significant height. Had the fall killed him, or had he

been unable to climb up out of the crevice? His wallet was in the pocket of his pants, which was

how they had known it was him. Mystery solved. Hope dashed.

After the social worker left, I went into my room and laid on my bed. I looked around the room

that I always kept tidy and impersonal. I had never considered it my room. It was Cheryl's

place, and I was staying with Cheryl. I still had the snake I'd been working on the day Jimmy

disappeared. I had kept the pieces that he hadn't yet sold or completed and they were pushed in

the corner, collecting dust. The tools were shoved under my bed. And that was all that remained

of Jimmy Echohawk's life, and all that remained of my life . . . before. Dark descended on the