My Name Is James

The Cabin and The Note

Afternoon light streamed through a pair of compact windows into the cluttered living room. Minuscule particles floated gently in the dusty old cabin until I breathed out. My exhalation made them fly aggressively about the space as if they were running away from each other in some mass hysteria. A thin blanket had accumulated on all of the pillows, rugs, smooth wooden floors, and couches and chairs in the dusty old cabin.

In the center of the room was a dark, stout, warped wooden coffee table with beautiful swirls and waves of pearl ebbing and flowing against the grain. It was still beautiful under the many layers that had accumulated over the years, much like the beauty of an aged grandmother with many wrinkles and the memory of youth and beauty in her eyes.

The carpet underneath was entirely out of place against the old, graceful coffee table. It was flashy and featured bold colors, reminiscent of the '60s. Bright triangles and lines were layered over a neon yellow shade, much like the color of a child's rendition of the sun after using a batch of Crayolas.

This is where we're staying for the next two weeks? A nauseous shiver ran up my spine and into my stomach which churned at the thought as I slipped off my heavy backpack stuffed full of my technology, blankets, and assorted toiletries onto the nearest chair with a flat, apathetic pffffft as the heavy bag sank deep into the dusty mustard-yellow La-Z-Boy.

The other chair in the compact room was similarly shaped, but, unlike the other furniture, was covered with a cloth. I tilted my head like a curious dog as I walked over to the figure. I crouched down and grasped the edges of the cloth.

I took a breath and yanked it off with a flourish like they do in movies. Dust flew like a stampede of buffalo. Underneath was just a chair and a note. The cloth revealed another mustard-yellow La-Z-Boy (it was significantly cleaner, almost like it had been used much more recently than the other furniture) had a handwritten note on printer paper that read,

"My Dearest Grandson," the note started. I whispered in disbelief, "Oh my god... Grandpa?" I paused, realizing something, How is it possible that you could know about me? I continued to read, "I realize that you may have thought I have been dead since the Vietnam War. You were wrong. I faked my death and left for a new life."

What do you mean, you faked your death? "I was bored with my past life and wanted adventure. I was selfish and wanted only the best for myself. I now realize that was wrong of me. I should not have left your father and grandmother." Oh, good. Something we can agree on.

"I returned to the cabin this year, 1996, and wrote this note. Please tell Elizabeth about the irreversible mistake I made. I am so, so sorry... Please help them forgive me. I need you.

Love, Grandpa James"

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

What felt like hours passed. I stood in front of that old, mustard-yellow La-Z-Boy and sorted through how the extent of my life was changed by that sheet of printer paper with neat little pencil scratches on it. I only awoke from my trance when my parents shoved the door open, grunting and dragging their heavy bags stuffed with clothing. I rushed to fold the note away and shoved it into my jeans pocket.

"James! Come help us!", Mom cried out desperately, "What have you been doing for the last few minutes? Grab your suitcase. It's in the trunk." I let them pass through the doorway with a nod of obedience and slipped behind them so I could grab my suitcase that was still in the back of Dad's red pickup truck. I got to the trunk and lifted up the blue tarp where my sleek dark red suitcase was waiting for me. I picked it up and lugged it inside the eccentric cabin.

I found my room, shoved my suitcase inside, and explored the rest of the little cabin. It's anatomy consisted of one living room and kitchen, two bedrooms (one master and one with a bunk bed) down a small hallway, and, at the end of the hallway, one singular, musty, cramped bathroom with barely enough space for one person. Each of the bedrooms had the same shallow, but long closet for clothing.

I spent the rest of my time before dinner laying on the top half of the boxy bunk bed. The whole time, I kept thinking about it, the note. The note that changed me. Changed my perception. Made me question and hate my grandfather instead of regard him as a hero.

I took it out and read it again. And again. And again. And once more for good measure, letting the reality that it presented expose itself repeatedly. I denied it, I see that now. My grandfather, my namesake, the one who I had been told died a hero in the Vietnam War, had abandoned my father and grandmother for his own gain. What was the catalyst that had made him flee his perfect life?

I brainstormed possibilities. An addiction? A mental disability? Was it spontaneous? What was he like?

Dinner time arrived and I scrounged together a PB&J sandwich which I ate at the smooth wood and pearl coffee table. I looked out the window and saw the sun just begin to dip below the horizon and distort the sky into a calming rainbow of colors.

I was enjoying the break from obsessing over the note, when a new question sprung into my head. What made Grandpa selfish?

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Thank you so much for reading! It's really amazing to have a chance to have my work on display. I hope all of you enjoyed the first part of this descriptive piece. Don't forget to please vote on my work! It gives me a huge confidence boost.

Much love, Sophia <3