The door is locked. Of course it is and I have the key. Both of them had me down as executor in case something happened to them. But I don’t think this is what they had in mind. I try not to notice the tremble in my hand as I slide the key into the lock. I refuse to acknowledge the chill I get when the door swings open. The loft. I don’t want to be here. Closing the door behind me I take a moment to get myself under control. I close me eyes against the normality of it all. I don’t even have to try to hear Sandburg moving in the kitchen, hear his voice asking Jim what he wants for dinner. Don’t have to try to hear the basso rumble of Jim’s reply from upstairs. I can see them going about their lives, the movement a well-choreographed dance of friendship and trust. God this hurts. I have to force myself to walk further into the loft. The meager light from outside shines on the hardwood floor. I can see the dust motes trapped in it. The thought of Jim’s displeasure about the dust is a deeper pain. Jim won’t ever have to worry about cleaning the loft again. I’ll never hear him bitch at Sand—Blair for leaving hair in the drain, or his books on the sofa. My knees are suddenly traitors and I sink to the floor, back against the door. I don’t have any more tears to cry, but they still burn in my chest. Still the question runs the treadmill of my mind. How did it come to this? I look at the closed French doors that lead to Blair’s room. I remember the weekend that Jim put those in place of that god-awful blanket to give the kid some privacy. I remember the stunned look on that face when he realized that was Jim’s way of saying welcome home, kid. I think that’s when everyone knew that Sandburg wouldn’t be moving out any time soon. I’m hoping that the answer to my question lies behind those doors now. Somewhere in those journals and notes that the kid kept, there has to be the answer. It takes more willpower to get to my feet and open those doors. I still keep expecting one of them to come through the door or down the stairs. Expecting to hear Sandburg’s cheery “Hey Simon!” or Jim’s gruff, “Simon.” It’s even worse when the doors swing open on the kid’s room. His backpack is still lying where he dropped it, his jacket thrown over the end of the bed. His latest book, open with a pen marking the page he was reading. I hesitate for a moment, then remove the pen and close the book on the chapter that he’ll never finish. His journals take up three shelves of the small bookcase Jim had made for him. Three shelves of the slim, leather bound journals. I know what I’m searching for will be in the last volume, the one that is in his backpack; but curiosity has me reaching for the very first on the first shelf. The weight of the book is nowhere near the weight in my chest as I open it and see the neat, precise handwriting. How different from Sandburg. I almost expected an excited scrawl, something indicative of his frenetic personality. Not this, but it makes a weird sort of sense. Sandburg was a scientist first and foremost. Something that was forgotten by everyone. I make myself as comfortable as I can with the ghosts, and begin to read. Return to Contents