Keepsakes

an excerpt

Heart trouble ran through the Delaneys like a curse.

Jim sat on his mom's blue striped couch, pulled a shoebox from underneath, and wiped sweat from his nose. His heartbeat raced as he lifted the box. Jim had inherited his father's bad heart. He pulled off the shoebox lid: hundreds of bottle caps. Mom didn't keep regular old lady stuff around. No Royal Doulton figurines or boxes of love letters tied with string. Instead it was mostly junk. Rusty old bottle openers and coasters snatched from bars closed down decades ago. Sticks and stones. Twos of things. She wasn't a pack-rat, just old and tired, and unsure what to do with life.

Jim ran his hand through the bottle caps, enjoying the tinny sound.

“Stop it,” Evie said. “You're such a kid, Jimmy.” She was ten years older than Jim, and when she was a teenager, quick and cruel, she used to call him the mistake. Jim stood up and steadied himself. He took a few seconds to catch his breath. The air in the house was stale. For a while now, he'd been feeling these small but noticeable thumps in his heart as it wavered from its usual beat. Some days it felt like his heart was a small mammal, writhing in his chest.