The Parcel

One downside to living in such a rural location was that their nearest neighbors were a good couple miles away, much farther than a malnourished twelve year old can run in the rain before even the slowest of motor vehicles would catch up with him. Layken Page Walker didn’t much meat left on his bones and Uncle Harvey’s car was by no means the slowest in the area. Laytken didn’t make it all that far from home before Uncle Harvey came after him. Uncle Harvey stopped the car, lumbered out, and launched himself at Layken. They both went down in the mud with a gooey splat.

"You will come back with me," Uncle Harvey snapped as he hauled Layken to his feet.

It took a fair amount of manhandling to get Layken into the car. Layken wasn't about to go quietly even though he feared his uncle might live up to his threats to do more than just hit him this time.

Layken kicked and clawed and screamed; "Let me go! Get off me!"

The other downside to living in such a rural location was that nobody lived close enough to hear a malnourished twelve year old scream as he was hauled into the back of his uncle's car.

"Just come back to the house and be reasonable!" Uncle Harvey growled.

"No!" Layken shouted back. "I'm not going back to that house! You can have it for all I care! Just let me go!"

This, of course, wasn't an option. If Layken simply disappeared, then Uncle Harvey and Lucinda would have to answer a lot of awkward questions and an investigation might take place. And if an investigation took place, then the estate agent would find the place in the garage where they’d made Layken live. And if that happened, they'd end up in jail with no hope of getting their hands on the house ever again. And that simply wouldn't do for Uncle Harvey and Lucinda.

Lucinda came up with the temporary solution by pouring a copious amount of Nyquil into Layken's orange juice and setting him up in his old bedroom. So, when the estate agent came that afternoon, they found Layken sick in bed and too tired and loopy to do more than moan.

"The poor dear was up sick all night!" Lucinda fawned, dabbing at his conspicuously dry forehead with a damp cloth to show how caring and devoted she was to her charge.

So, the estate agent left, satisfied for the moment that Layken was in good hands, and Layken lost his chance to tell anyone about how mean Uncle Harvey and Lucinda were to him and how they made him sleep in the garage.

They let Layken stay in his old bedroom that night, any prospect of the beating his uncle had planned for him put on hold until the Nyquil wore off. When Layken woke up, still groggy and disoriented, the light beyond the shuttered window had receded, leaving the room cast in threads of moonshadows. The clock on the bedside table-- not the one that had been in his room all his life-- read 3:42am.

Layken crawled out of the bed and fumbled his way over to the door. Of course, it was locked. They weren't going to risk him escaping again, even if he was only half in control of his faculties.

Drowsy wooziness overcame him again, and he slid down to the floor, and curled up miserably on the familiar shag carpet. He squeezed his eyes shut and quietly began to cry, his first really good, thorough cry since Mama's funeral. He missed Mama more than ever right now. She wouldn't have drugged him and locked him in his room. She wouldn't have hit him and made him sleep in the garage.

"Why me?" he asked the room at large, but the room had no answers. Why did his uncle and Lucinda hate him so much? Why did they do all these horrible things to him? Why had Mama left the house to Layken since Uncle Harvey and Lucinda clearly wanted it so bad? And, most importantly, why did Mama have to get the cancer and die in the first place?

Layken couldn't fathom the answers. He felt cold and sick.

When he finally did open his eyes, red and puffy from a night's fruitful sobbing, he was met by a curious site peeking out at him from under the bed. A parcel, wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with twine like people used to do in the olden days. Even more befuddling, enough so to make Layken sit up and move a little closer, was that his name was printed on the side of the parcel in a firm swoopy cursive;

Mr. Layken Page Walker

℅ Ms. Helena Tariana Walker

Nowhere, Middle Of

California 95306

Layken Page Walker twisted his head from side to side, as if a different angle would give him some clarity as to what the parcel was, where it had come from, and why it was hiding under the bed in his old bedroom. Lucinda had meticulously gone through everything. Every inch of the house, every single thing organized into things she wanted to keep and things to get rid of. Hardly anything of Layken's or Mama's was left, most of it carted out with the trash. And yet this strange brown paper parcel had remained.

Layken glanced around, half expecting Uncle Harvey or Lucinda to be lurking in a corner somewhere. Having made sure he was, indeed, alone, Layken reached under the bed and pulled the parcel out. It wasn’t a large parcel, only about the size of a very large dictionary. The room was void of anything that could be used as a weapon, so Layken picked at the twine with his fingers until he got the knot untied. The paper fell away, revealing a USPS Priority Flat Rate box. Layken’s stomach lurched at the thought of all the noise he’d make trying to pry it open, but a quick examination of the box revealed that it was held shut with a piece of tape.

He popped the box open and spilled the contents into his lap. There wasn’t much inside the box; a few polaroid photos of an old house in a country field, an older couple wearing plain prairie clothes with their faces turned away from the camera, and a younger man in brown pants and a simple powder blue shirt standing next to a very red and very weathered Toyota pick-up truck. A folded piece of paper fell out with the pictures, and Layken quickly snatched it up, unfolding it. The letter was short and neatly written in a looping cursive;

Dear Layken,

I wanted you to be able to see me and your grandparents (they’re a bit shy...we’re not supposed to take pictures of our faces). Has your mother told you about me? Probably not. Well, anyway. There's a note in here for your Mama. Please make sure she gets it.

Layken picked up the box again. He peered inside, searching for the other letter. He shook the box again until another folded piece of paper fell out. This one was folded the same way as the letter addressed to him, but the name printed on it was different; Helena. His mother.

Layken knew it was wrong to read other people’s mail. If the letter was for everybody in the room, it would say so. Otherwise, the contents were meant to be private. Ms. Helena T. Walker, however, was gone. Taken by the cancer that had riddled her body until she was unrecognizable. She would never read the letter from the strange box under Layken’s bed. Perhaps she’d known about it? Perhaps not.

Curiosity got the better of Layken, and he carefully unfolded the paper. There were a lot more words on this letter, written in the same looping, practiced cursive;

Dear Helena,

How are you? I know it has been a long time, but I still think of you every day. I know our last conversation was less than cordial, and for that I am truly sorry. But, I was hoping you might at least be willing to reconnect, even as “just friends” as you put it. I still stand by my decision, as you do yours, but I would love to see you one more time before I go, and I would love to meet Layken. I’ll be waiting in Merced for your response. That will be my last stop before heading back East, but I hope one day you and our son will come to visit. His grandparents would love to meet him.

Layken felt his heart freeze, skip a full beat and then hopscotch around inside his chest trying to find a new rhythm that made sense. He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again. The words were still there; "our son". Hands trembling, he picked up the first letter, the one addressed to him and finished reading;

I know this is going to sound weird considering we've never met, but know that I love you, Layken. I hope one day we will be able to meet in person. But, for now, take care of yourself and your mother.

Sincerely,

Amos Albretch Fletcher

AKA, Dad

His father.

Mama never said anything about his father. He knew everybody had a father. His had just never been part of his life.

Layken’s father was waiting for him in Merced right now! Or was he? Layken searched for a date, anything to indicate how long ago the letters had been written. It could have been months. Or years. It might already be too late. His father might have already left for wherever he was heading. But, it was worth the chance to Layken. He didn't and anything here anymore.

Whatever happened, Layken Page Walker was more determined than ever to escape from that house.