The Song Remains the Same by Scotch Allison Winn

Author:Scotch, Allison Winn [Scotch, Allison Winn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9781101561751
Google: iDZTyzbIX4QC
Amazon: B005GSZJ7K
Barnesnoble: B005GSZJ7K
Goodreads: 17134596
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2012-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

16

Peter is working late, so Jamie and Samantha, who slips out of work for an hour before having to return, join me for pizza slices at the corner Ray’s, while I flip through the notebook, trying to make sense of the images. I’d called Anderson, too, but he wasn’t picking up, and I figured he was tipsy, asleep, or potentially on the other line with his agent.

“Maybe you should call your mom and ask,” Sam says, blotting the grease from the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“If she knew about this, she’d have told me.” Really? How can you be so sure?

“People do strange things in strange circumstances,” Jamie offers, like he’s reading my mind.

“Meaning what?” Sam counters.

“Just that in my experience, I’ve seen an awful lot of people try to play the odds in their favor rather than show their full hands. The kids mourning their parents who don’t disclose that they’re anxiously awaiting their inheritance, the husband who doesn’t report his car accident until he’s gotten his mistress safely away from the scene. That sort of thing. Everyone has their secrets.”

Sam raises her eyebrows and turns her attention to her BlackBerry.

“So you think my mom isn’t telling me everything?” Of course she isn’t telling you everything.

Jamie pops part of the crust into his mouth by way of an answer, and I concede my agreement with a long sip of Diet Coke.

“You’re very smart, you know.”

“Ha, not so much!” he says. “But years with nothing to do on my parents’ farm except sitting around observing—figuring out the story, the beginning, the middle, the end: I guess I got good at it. My mom always told me I’d be a good novelist because of my love of the story.”

“And my story? Have you figured it out?”

“That’s trickier because the only person who knows the truth and nothing but it can’t remember it in the first place.”

“She’s not the only person who knows the truth,” Sam interjects, back from typing a reply to her boss. “We’re here. Her friends, family, we’re trying, too.”

“You’re right, of course, Sam.” I rest my head on her shoulder as my way of thanking her. I know that she’s needed at the office, I know that she rarely has a spare thirty minutes to see her husband, work out at the gym. She doesn’t have to be here, grubbing on slices that have been sitting under a warmer for the better part of an hour. “But still, Jamie, thank you, too—I know that you didn’t have to, didn’t have to push for your producer connection, help link me to Jasper.”

His own e-mail vibrates, and he holds up a finger to say hold on, and then starts typing, greasy fingers and all, with fervor. I fold my chin into my palm, staring down at the images in the notebook. Sam leans over to take a peek, too.

There are abstracts, exaggerated notions of what appears to be fields, sun, sky, stars, what? They should be telling me

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