Finally Home

"Would you take $1500.00 for it?" I ran my hand down the fender, impressed with the condition of the truck but trying not to show it.

She didn't answer right away, and I was worried my offer had offended her. I didn't have a backup paln if she refused; that was all the money I could scrape together.

"Jeremy, you said your name was, right?"

I nodded, and she added, "I could probably get more for it, but there's just something about you that makes me want to help you out. Plus, I don't want this to drag on forever, and I have too much going on right now to risk tempting karma to throw another curveball my way."

I smiled, relieved. "If karma works that way, I sure must have done something good somewhere along the way to have this truck in front of me now."

She returned my smiled. "This truck belonged to my Uncle Pat. He died a few weeks ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that..."

She waved away my attmept at condolances. "I didn't really know him. In fact, I only met him twice that I remember, because he was a bit of a hermit. I never knew the whole story, but a long time ago his wife left him or something, and after that he kept to himself. He didn't trust banks or the government, so he lived off the grid. He wasn't that old--late 50's, maybe--and was killed in a hunting accident. I live the closest, so I was asked to deal with his belongings. Which really isn't much: this truck, and a little cabin on a piece of land out in the bush.

Pushing herself away from the box of the truck where she'd been leaning, she brushed off her hands and held one out for me to shake. "So, do we have a deal?"

I grasped her hand, surprised by the firmenss of her grip, and said, "We do. Thank you. I'll send the money right now, and then we can load the truck on the trailer."

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An anxious feeling followed me all the way home. I parked and turned the truck off, but stayed sitting inside. I leaned my head against the steering wheel, then forced myself to breathe deeply. My earlier excitement was gone, replaced by the fear that comes with knowing I'd just spent all my savings on something I dind't even need. I now had no cushion for the rest of the year, which meant I'd be dining on ramen most nights just to be able to afford rent on the old, run-down mobile home where I lived.

It's not a great place, parked on an overgrown lot about half an hour out of town, but it's all I can afford. Between having to look after my Mom when she was sick, her funeral expenses and my crappy wage, there's been no way to afford anythign better.

I picked my head up, then flipped down the visor to look in the mirror. I stared at myself, trying to see beneath what I saw on the surface. I wanted to be more than what I knew to be true: a kid who was abandoned by his Dad, then his Mom. I'd grown up in an angry system where kids like me survive--sometimes--and once we turn 18, the best we can hope for is to cut out a hard existence on whatever minimum wage job we can find.

My thoughts drifted back to a conversation I'd had with Mrs. Williams, the last foster mom I'd had before I'd aged out of the system.

"You're a good kid, Jeremy. Don't ever let that change. You grew up hard, but you have a philosoper's mind. Feed it with books and always keep learning. You can make something of yourself."

"I want to be a mechanic," I admitted sheepishly. "All I know about my Dad was that he was a car guy. I don't know if I want to work with vehicles because I'm trying to faricate some kind of emotional connection to him, or if the love of cars, horsepower and speed is genetic--something I was born with."

Mrs. Williams chuckled softly. "A bit of both, I'd reckon. And you just proved me right, kid. That mind of yours...feed it. Don't get led down the wrong path, and you'll make it."

"Mrs. Williams, I know you mean well and all but...I don't see how I'll ever afford school. Sometimes wanting what I can never have drives me nuts, and when that happens, I'm scared that my Mom's craziness is genetic, too, and will take me down like it did her."

She placed her hand over mine. "I don't know your Mom's story, or why she surrendered you to the system. But you have a good heart and a good mind. If you want something so bad that not having it drives you crazy, God put it there for a reason. It means you're supposed to go after it."

I blinked away the memory, then opened the door and stepped out. Keeping my hands buys always worked to quiet my mind, so I worked on getting the new truck unloaded. Once it was, I climbed inside the cab and started digging, fully expecting to find at least a little garbage. But even though I dug between, behind and under the seat, the truck was clean. As my fingers swept the carpet under the seat one last time, something in the back corner felt different. There was raised tuft that didn't fit smoothly with the rest. Scared that meant the floor had rust damage I couldn't yet see, I hopped out to grab some tools.

I'd need to take the seat out to get a good look at what was underneath the carpet. It was a challenge getting it out by myself, but I managed. Once it was exposed, I grabbed the raised tuft I'd felt and, with a sharp tug, pulled it away from the floor. And there, to my surprise, was a cleverly made trap door.

It was closed with a little latch that moved easily when I tried it. I opened the door and reached inside, then pulled out a black leather notebook, perfectly preserved. A thick envelope was taped to a page in the middle, so I pulled it off and read the entry there.

"The dreams I used to have for my life seemed to simple to some, but the were mine. All I ever wanted was my family and a nice home to call my own.

I had dreams of fixing vehicles with my son. When he was born, I bought this truck to restore with him as he grew; I was going to give it to him for his 16th birthday. But I was robbed; he was cruelly taken from me before I even had a chance to prove how much I loved him.

I don't know where they went, or why. My wife--even now I can't make myself say her name--took my boy and left in the middle of the night. I searched for them for years, but never found them, and that still haunts me.

I probably should have sold this truck long ago, but it helps remind me of what I've missed. Today is his 16th birthday. In a fair world, this truck would be fully restored, he'd be here, and I'd be about to him him the keys. But instead, it's just me and this beat up old truck. This envelope of money is what I've saved over the years. If he'd been here, we'd have put it into this truck, so with this truck it stays.

I can't say for sure who I'd have become if they were still here, but I know I would have loved my boy unconditionally, taught him everything I knew, and kept him safe. God, I wish I knew if he was safe. Does he ever think of me? Does he think I was a deadbeat dad? I wish I could find a way to prove that was never the case. Jeremy, I miss you every day."

My heart stuttered when I read my name on the page, even though I knew it had to be a coincidence. A wild surge of emotion knocked out reason, though, and I couldn't help but wonder, "What if?". I quickly counted the money, then dashed to my truck, wrenched open the door and climbed inside. I twisted the key harder than I'd meant to, amped up on fear and hope. I spun out of the yard, heading down the highway to the palce I'd just come from.

As soon as I pulled into the yard, the girl stepped out of her house. By the time I'd parked, she was standing just a few feet away, and when I opened my door, she said, "Jeremy! Hi! Did you forget something?"

I shook my head. "I found something in the truck that belonged to your uncle."

Her brow scrunched in confusion. "I don't see how--the truck was totally cleaned out."

I drew in a breath to steady myself, then said, "I found a hidden compartment in the floor, and this was in it."

I thrust the notebook into her hands and she opened it, to where the envelope was, a mix of curiosity and wariness on her face. She took out the envelope, opened the flap, and whistled softly. "That looks like a lot of moeny..."

"It's $20,000.00. I counted it. But I didn't take any," I hastily added.

"$20,000.00? But how?"

"It says in there." I nodded to the black notebook. She started reading, and when she was done, I asked, "What was your uncle's name?"

"Patrick Ellis," she replied.

"I don't know how I knew you were going to say that, but...my mom changed my name when I was little, but I was born an Ellis."

It sounded crazy, even to me, and I rushed to reassure her. "I'm not trying to make you give me the money. You can have it. I mean, I never even knew him. But I'm not lying. Look." I took my original birth certificate out of my wallet and pushed it into her hands.

She took it from me, her eyes widening as she read. When she raised her gaze to mine, a single tear tracked down her cheek.

"This is the most heartbreaking thing...he could have known you. You could have known him! I'm so sorry, Jeremy..."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to blink back the tears that filled my eyes. "When I was old enough, I tried looking for him. I never found a trace."

Suddenly she shoved the notebook back at me. "Take this. He'd want you to have it. He saved it for you, after all."

I shook my head. "It doesn't seem right..."

"Jeremy, listen to me. He though about you his whole life, and saved whatever money, always dreaming of puting it into that truck with you. He's gone, and the tragedy of you here now, instead of when he was still alive, is almost too much to bear. But he left you a piece of himself, and you can't let anyone take that away from you. Not again."

She closed the short distance between us and wrapped me in a fierce hug, adn for the frist time that I could remember, I felt like I was finally home.