to know I’m sorry about the fire. I’m glad none of your cars were damaged. I know you’ll see in the end that Tim had nothing to do with it. And with the anniversary of his dad’s death, I hope you’ll agree that he should be at Talladega next week.”
Devalon stared daggers at her dad. “He’ll be in the pits over my dead body.” He stalked away and the camera followed. He angrily picked up his phone and clicked the intercom. Before he got out of camera range, Mickey showed up, craning his neck to see behind Devalon and looking like a human apology.
Jamie’s dad walked past her and grunted, “That went well.”
Chapter 19
Scrawled Writing
TIM STAYED IN HIS ROOM or went to the Maxwell garage most of the weekend. Mrs. Maxwell had let him take a day off from school the week of the fire, and he spent it looking at maps of places where he could run away. Maybe his mom had a good idea after all. She had run from Florida, and it hadn’t caught up with her. Maybe he would do the same.
Still, the advantages the Maxwells offered him—not just the nice room, three squares a day, and a family atmosphere he’d never had but also the chance to work with an actual race team and the prospects for his future—were all hard to leave. It just seemed that no matter where he lived, no matter how hard he tried, the world was against him. And the people who were his friends paid for it.
On Saturday Tim heard the mailman pass and drive off. Mrs. Maxwell and Kellen had gone to some car wash the Sunday school was having at the church. The money was supposed to go to save orphans on Mars or something like that, and Tim said he’d pass when they invited him to tag along.
There was a box from the local bank—some checks Mrs. Maxwell had ordered—the latest issue of NASCAR Scene magazine, the water bill, and a few fan letters. At the bottom of the stack in a plain white envelope was a letter addressed to Tim Carhardt, written in pencil.
Finally somebody knows how to spell my last name, Tim thought.
He opened it on his way to the house and unfolded the piece of notebook paper. The letter was written in pencil too, on the front and the back, and the handwriting was scrawled, like somebody who had bad arthritis had written it. Either that or a really intelligent monkey at the zoo.
Timmy,
I suppose you knew this letter would come at some point. And if you’re wondering, I saw a write-up about you and the Maxwells in one of those NASCAR fan magazines. That’s how I gotthe idea to write. I can tell you how I got the address at a later time.
I haven’t been a very good mother. I haven’t been a mother at all. I wish I could make up for all those years behind us, but I don’t think I can. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for walking out on you when you were little. Sure wish I could take that decision back and have a do-over. I wish I could make my whole life a do-over.
I read about what happened last year at Talladega. I went looking for you in Florida, but you weren’t where I thought. Then I saw the article about the Maxwell family. They look like really nice people. To take you in, they’d have to be, right? Yuk, yuk.
I hope one day you’ll be able to find it in your heart to forgive me, but I know that’s too much to ask for in the first letter. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but the one thing I know is you’re not one of them. Even though I was really far away, there wasn’t a day that I didn’t think about you and wonder what you were doing or if you ever thought of me.
I have this dream every now and then thatyou’re playing by a swing set and then you get on and ask me to push you, but for some reason I can’t. My feet and my arms are stuck where I am, and I want to move toward you, but something is holding me back. Well, I don’t want to live in that dream anymore, and I hope that one day I can reach out to you and give you a push or a hug.
I hope you’re doing okay. I’ll be in touch
Devalon stared daggers at her dad. “He’ll be in the pits over my dead body.” He stalked away and the camera followed. He angrily picked up his phone and clicked the intercom. Before he got out of camera range, Mickey showed up, craning his neck to see behind Devalon and looking like a human apology.
Jamie’s dad walked past her and grunted, “That went well.”
Chapter 19
Scrawled Writing
TIM STAYED IN HIS ROOM or went to the Maxwell garage most of the weekend. Mrs. Maxwell had let him take a day off from school the week of the fire, and he spent it looking at maps of places where he could run away. Maybe his mom had a good idea after all. She had run from Florida, and it hadn’t caught up with her. Maybe he would do the same.
Still, the advantages the Maxwells offered him—not just the nice room, three squares a day, and a family atmosphere he’d never had but also the chance to work with an actual race team and the prospects for his future—were all hard to leave. It just seemed that no matter where he lived, no matter how hard he tried, the world was against him. And the people who were his friends paid for it.
On Saturday Tim heard the mailman pass and drive off. Mrs. Maxwell and Kellen had gone to some car wash the Sunday school was having at the church. The money was supposed to go to save orphans on Mars or something like that, and Tim said he’d pass when they invited him to tag along.
There was a box from the local bank—some checks Mrs. Maxwell had ordered—the latest issue of NASCAR Scene magazine, the water bill, and a few fan letters. At the bottom of the stack in a plain white envelope was a letter addressed to Tim Carhardt, written in pencil.
Finally somebody knows how to spell my last name, Tim thought.
He opened it on his way to the house and unfolded the piece of notebook paper. The letter was written in pencil too, on the front and the back, and the handwriting was scrawled, like somebody who had bad arthritis had written it. Either that or a really intelligent monkey at the zoo.
Timmy,
I suppose you knew this letter would come at some point. And if you’re wondering, I saw a write-up about you and the Maxwells in one of those NASCAR fan magazines. That’s how I gotthe idea to write. I can tell you how I got the address at a later time.
I haven’t been a very good mother. I haven’t been a mother at all. I wish I could make up for all those years behind us, but I don’t think I can. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for walking out on you when you were little. Sure wish I could take that decision back and have a do-over. I wish I could make my whole life a do-over.
I read about what happened last year at Talladega. I went looking for you in Florida, but you weren’t where I thought. Then I saw the article about the Maxwell family. They look like really nice people. To take you in, they’d have to be, right? Yuk, yuk.
I hope one day you’ll be able to find it in your heart to forgive me, but I know that’s too much to ask for in the first letter. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but the one thing I know is you’re not one of them. Even though I was really far away, there wasn’t a day that I didn’t think about you and wonder what you were doing or if you ever thought of me.
I have this dream every now and then thatyou’re playing by a swing set and then you get on and ask me to push you, but for some reason I can’t. My feet and my arms are stuck where I am, and I want to move toward you, but something is holding me back. Well, I don’t want to live in that dream anymore, and I hope that one day I can reach out to you and give you a push or a hug.
I hope you’re doing okay. I’ll be in touch
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