16. Jasmine

Chapter sixteen

Jasmine

T he house alarm has been set, with a sensor at every window and door, sealing off the outside world. No one is getting in or out, and a car is parked on the large driveway as added security. Rather than feeling this as a lack of trust towards me, I see it as devotion to us both. Zane wouldn't leave the boy with me if he didn't trust me completely. Alex is a bundle of restless energy, tugging at my hand and pulling me down the house hallway. The confinement doesn't bother him; he sees this as an opportunity to explore, and I am part of the adventure.

"Come on! I gotta show you my room first!" His voice echoes against the walls, a cheerful note amidst the silence over the rest of the home. I feel just a little guilty about snooping around without Zane here.

Alex leads me into a wonderful space, devoted to his needs. The walls are bathed in a gentle blue, covered with decals of superheroes in mid-flight, their capes trailing behind them as if caught in an eternal breeze. A model solar system dangles from the ceiling, planets spinning slowly in a silent celestial dance. The bedspread is a riot of colour, featuring a scene from what Alex informs me is his favourite cartoon, meticulously made, without a single crease betraying its use. The bookshelf is a mix of literary classics and more appropriate middle-grade series I've never heard of.

"Look," Alex said, pointing to a shelf lined with trophies and medals of various sizes and shapes. "I won these." His voice is full of pride.

"Wow, that's impressive, Alexei," I respond enthusiastically, the loud sound feeling out of place in the quiet house but is well-received by the boy. "You must be really good at..."

"This one is for cross-country cycling. I ride my bike when Dad goes out running, so I've gotten really good." Alexei's hand moves from one award to the next. "This one is for swimming. Dad's boss, Knox, has a swimming pool, so I swim a lot when I'm over there. He has nothing else to do, except sometimes he lets me go to the stables to play with his donkeys."

"Donkeys are lovely," I agree, but my contact with them is limited.

"This one is for the school chess championships. I play chess a lot when I'm at Edward's house."

"You are a very clever boy."

His chest puffs out slightly with pride as he nods, already darting towards the door. "Now you gotta see my dad and Uncle Lenny's rooms!"

I feel pity for this boy. Every part of his life seems built around the fact that his dad won't let him out of his sight. Alex has built hobbies around what he can find at other people's houses.

We continue our tour, leaving the vibrancy of youth behind as we step into a different kind of time capsule. Lenny's room is a stark contrast; it is utilitarian with a bed that looks too immaculate, as if every morning it was reset to factory settings, untouched by dreams or restless sleep. Posters of old rock bands, their edges curling with age cling to the walls, and a guitar rests on a stand gathering dust in the corner.

"Uncle Lenny used to play all the time," Alex says, his small hand brushing against the strings, coaxing a melancholic yet slightly off-key twang from them.

"Doesn't he play anymore?" I ask, drawn to the instrument and the stories it holds.

"Only when he visits Grampy," Alex replies, his attention already waning as he hurries to the next room. "Dad says he prefers playing card games now, and they cost more than music."

Marcus' room is another shrine of nostalgia, with high school football memorabilia proudly displayed on shelves and walls. The bed is large, meant for a man's frame, yet it bore the same undisturbed perfection as Lenny's. On the nightstand, a photo of Marcus in his jersey, frozen forever in youthful triumph, smiles back at us.

"Dad is the best," Alex said, a note of reverence in his tone reserved for heroes and dads. "He could've gone pro, but he has family responsibilities. Dad says I'll have responsibilities, too, when I'm older. I have some now. I'm getting good at stacking the dishwasher so we only have to turn it on every four days."

Owning a dishwasher sounds like a dream come true. Since I only have one of everything, washing up after every meal is a must.

Was.

I'm not sure where I stand anymore, but I really like the view from here.

"Sounds like he was quite the player," I remark, tracing the edge of the dustless frame, bringing the topic back to Marcus's football dreams.

Alex is already at the door again. These familiar sights hold no interest to him beyond my initial smiles. "There's more I wanna show you!" he chirps, oblivious to the quashed dreams of the children raised here before him.

"Over here," Alex calls, his voice guiding me through the hallway. He skips ahead, pushing open the door to the spare room with an eagerness that seems to fill the space around us.

This room feels different—less a part of a home and more a sanctuary of solitude. Boxes are stacked in one corner, neatly labelled in Zane's writing. Dust particles dance in the stream of light from the window, each one swirling over a box marked 'Izabella.'

"Look at these." Alexei's small fingers pry open the flaps of the nearest container, revealing a careful arrangement of personal items: a woman's scarf, a small jewellery box, and assorted trinkets that hold memories I can only guess.

"Who's that?" I point to a framed photograph Alex pulls from the depths of memories encased in cardboard. The image is of a younger Zane, his arm wrapped around a pretty woman whose laughter seems to leap from the picture.

"That's Grampy and my Gran," he says matter-of-factly, brushing a film of dust off the glass with the hem of his shirt. "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"

"Very," I agree, my voice hushed by the expression on the couple's faces. Their smiles are wide, eyes locked on each other with an intensity that speaks volumes of their connection—a depth of love that transcends the confines of the photograph.

"Mum used to say…" Alex cuts himself off. "Hey, wanna watch some TV?" His attention veers as swiftly as his emotions.

The gravity of the photo, the life it hints at before his time, seem lost on him. Zane's wife was lost a long time ago, but his mother is clearly more recent, leaving him with memories he can't acknowledge.

"Sure, buddy," I agree, setting the frame down gently. "You go on ahead. I'll be there in a minute."

The hum of the television filters through the closed door, a distant backdrop to the silence that envelops me. I stand alone amidst the remnants of a once vibrant life, each object in the room a testament to Zane's enduring affection for the woman who had captured his heart.

My fingers trace the contours of a hand-carved jewellery box; its lid is left ajar. Inside, a tangled array of necklaces and rings lie abandoned. This room feels unused—more of a resting ground for a past too precious to discard, than a memorial shrine to everything he has lost. I fear Marcus has a room like this in his home, and one day soon, Alex may too.

A worn leather journal rests on the edge of a shelf, the pages filled with a looping script that dances with the rhythm of innermost thoughts and dreams. Page upon page of Zane's heart pours out as letters to a dead wife he can't be without. Twenty years of updates for the dead, starting out as daily accounts of his struggles, slipping to weakly and then monthly entries as the years passed. Now it looks like years have passed since Zane last reported to Izabella. His healing may be slow, but at least the signs show that he is ready for a new life.