Page 61 of All The Ways to Miss You

“You don’t recognize that?” My parents would be appalled when I didn’t give them a reason for an item’s importance. “Your grandmother left you those earrings. You won that trophy for long-distance running in the county finals. That was your favorite stuffed animal in the third grade.”

Each time I couldn’t remember, it frustrated me more. And let’s not forget the isolation and self-loathing that claimed me for failing to connect to keepsakes that mattered to them. In their eyes, another epic fail on my part.

But these items are different from the ones my parents deemed important. These are items they would have thrown out.

I pick up a pair of tickets, the paper so worn that the name of the event and date can’t be read. It’s like someone left them in a pocket on laundry day. I set them aside and pick up an empty jewelry box. The outside is dark blue velvet with silver embossed geometric details. I snap it open and closed several times before moving to the next item—the stinky sock with no companion. It’s dry rotted. I toss it aside without looking too close. I reach for a journal book and flip through, finding empty pages. The final item is a red spatula. This is the strangest one of all. I tap the plastic to my chin, considering each item again, but can’t remember anything significant. They spark no memories.

The spatula clanks as I toss it back in the box. The rest of the items follow. Irritated, I mentally chastise myself for wasting my time and mental energy. I should have hidden the package in my closet and ignored it like I originally planned.

I kick it aside and flop onto my bed. With a pillow cradled around my head, I reach for a tendril of hair and wind it around my index finger as I stare at the ceiling.

My past is like a word on the tip of my tongue I can’t recall. I rummage through my mind to find it, allowing letters and sounds to roll along the roof of my mouth and tap my teeth. I’m eager to scream my word to the world, but find none are a perfect fit. When the realization of another failure hits, the letters fade and my anticipation of discovery dissolves.

Memories in general are one thing. But remembering that day—the slash that divided my life—is something else. I teeter, seesawing back and forth between wanting to know nothing and wanting to know everything.

I conclude it’s for the best. No matter how awful, I need to remember this terrible thing someone else did to me so I can heal, forget, and move on. I roll onto my side and draw my knees to my stomach.

Remember. Remember. Remember. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I’m back in the park, lazy with happiness and lounging in the sunshine. I roll over to my stomach and reach for my schoolbook. I crack it open but slam it shut again. Who can focus on homework on a day like today? My phone chirps. I lift my backpack and find it underneath. There’s a message. I swipe through and read the screen.

Sorry I’m late. Be there soon. <3

I smile as my thumbs fly over the buttons. I’ll always wait for you, I type. Before I press Send, my world dives from the highest high to a lowest low with one sound that sets off the beginning of my end.

Someone screams. And that someone is me.

I launch from sleep in tears, my lips quivering. I hug my blankets to my chest as reality fades in, revealing my room. My gaze leaps from my closet to a photo of Aggie and me to my own hands trembling in my lap. I’m safe.

I deepen my breathing, forcing the air in and out. I’m okay. I’m okay.

My phone reads 4:58 a.m. I reach to turn off my alarm. Staring into darkness, I sense the images from my dream brush my mind.

Of the nightmares I’ve had, this one is the most revealing. I can’t even place who I might have texted. Not that this is surprising. I know no one from the years right before. It was as if I lived the life of a recluse when I attended Northwalton. In the after, I only had my parents and extended family.

Shoving the sheets away along with the dream, I stretch. If I don’t allow the dream to fester, I’ll have a better day. If I dwell, that’s when the depression kidnaps me. Some days it’s a crippling arthritis, a radiating burn consuming my mind and affecting everything I do. I can’t allow that today. I’ve been training too long for this marathon.

At seven a.m., I’m leaning over a table in Millennium Park, registering with a race volunteer. A woman wearing a neon visor hands me a paper number, and I safety-pin it to my sweatshirt. She presents a course map. With her pencil, she traces the streets, beginning with the starting line on Lake Shore Drive, traveling north along Lake Michigan, and weaving back and forth through several neighborhoods before returning downtown.

“We had to change the course in Streeterville because of emergency construction, so in this area, we’ll divert the runners through the Northwalton University campus,” she adds.

I nod, but I’m zoning out, barely deciphering her words. I’ve been avoiding the campus since I moved here for a reason. I’m not ready to return to the scene of the crime.

“Just follow the other runners,” she says, “and you’ll be fine, sweetie.” The volunteer must have read the paralyzing look on my face.

In a daze, I move away, allowing the next person in line to step forward. I find an open spot to stand, but the crowd around me is blurring and tilting in front of my eyes. I don’t have to do this. In fact, I can leave right now and run my own marathon on any course I choose. Nothing’s stopping me.

Decided, I move in the direction of home, but Aggie emerges from the crowd, waving enthusiastically. My step falters. I’m trapped. I forgot she was coming to cheer me on.

As she nears, I take in her outfit, a Team Cait, Princess of Darkness T-shirt she apparently handmade. The letters are silver glitter on black. Red puffy paint drips from the bottom letters like blood. Despite my gloom, her endless loyalty makes the corners of my mouth curl up. She’s a good friend. No, she’s the best.

At her side, she tugs a man with dark blond hair and chunky black glasses. He’s dressed in a matching black shirt, jeans, and a black cape. I presume this is the infamous unicorn-owning Paul.

“I like your shirts,” I say when they near.

“Vand vthis fis va fest vart. Vhow fher, Vaul,” Aggie hisses and spits with plastic vampire teeth filling her mouth. My Vampire is a little rusty, but I think she said, “But this is the best part. Show her, Paul.”

Paul smiles brightly, wearing his own vampire teeth, and spins so he’s facing away. He spreads his arms wide, opening his cape. It flows like raven wings in the breeze. On the back in silver sparkles, it says, I dare you to run with the Princess of Darkness.