Page 66 of All The Ways to Miss You

I place the cell on the table. My head falls to the side. I haven’t touched my water.

Evan returns and places a few pairs of yoga pants, undies, bras, and my favorite shirt in front of me, along with a grocery bag filled with toiletries. I sift through the clothing he must have gathered from my clean laundry basket, noting there’s a lot here.

“How long am I staying?”

“Drink your water,” he demands and sits down with his own glass.

I take several gulps. Our silence settles and grows before fading into a buzz from the refrigerator. Evan hasn’t asked a single question about what happened, for which I’m thankful. Though I don’t want to, I’m focused on what I saw.

A chill runs through my body. I shiver and close my eyes. Seconds later, a blanket falls over my shoulders, and Evan’s strong hands rub my upper arms.

“My cape.” I touch my neck. The space where it was tied is empty.

“We took it off when you passed out. Do you want me to run back for it?”

I shake my head. More guilt, but Aggie will understand.

“Why don’t you clean up? A shower will make you feel better. I’ll get us some lunch. It’ll be good for you to load up on carbs.”

“Good idea.” My voice is monotone.

In a fog, I rise from the table and the blanket slips away. My mind tumbles and lands on that nudging sensation. It’s back. My memories dance along the edge of my mind, taunting me. Torturing me. If I could reach out and tug them in my direction, they would unravel. I’d be able to unfold them and read them like a book. If I was alone, maybe I could concentrate and retrieve more.

When I’m aware again, I’ve already showered. I’m wearing fresh clothes and sitting on Evan’s bed. I don’t even understand how I got here, and my entire body feels numb. I’m holding a towel to my hair, patting it dry. Everything moves in slow motion.

The door eases open. Evan leans inside. “You okay?”

When I glance over, a worry crease forms between his brows.

“Just need some time.” Even my words are too slow. Too deep.

He wouldn’t understand, but when he closes the door, I focus on the blank wall before me. Images cross my mind in a daydream-like state. They’re a small collection, some I’ve had before now, but this is different. These images twirl, settling into the form of small stories that actually make sense.

I lie back on the bed and tug a pillow to my chest. In the pictures behind my eyes, I see a young me at a birthday party with Barbie dolls. Everything is pink, my favorite color at the time. I throw a tantrum when the party ends. I throw a doll across the room, for which I’m punished.

I open a window of the car speeding down a hilly country road. The sweet scent of grapes wafts inside. I know we’re nearing my grandfather’s farm in Virginia. When we arrive, I run through the vineyards, chasing the blackbirds. Hand in hand, my grandmother and I explore the woods. I find a small turtle in their yard. I take it home and make it my pet. His name is Buster or Bubble, something that begins with a B. I don’t know if these things happened in one day, but I know they happened. It’s as though they’re in a folder labeled Grandparents.

The memories are small, but they’re something. More than I’ve ever had. I’m seeing them from the outside rather than living within them, like earlier today. Maybe by returning to the campus, it released something within me.

For now, I don’t want to remember the campus. I’ve seen enough in my dreams previously to understand that what made sense was real. By my count, I’ve dreamed of that park dozens of times. I hoped I was becoming indifferent to the images, but how can I when something so horrible happened?

I roll to the side and tug my legs near my chest, focusing on the positive. More images from my early years flash. My parents are the same, controlling with an insatiable need for me to succeed. This is why I am the way I am, strict with rules and unwilling to lose.

I watch and learn, and when it’s too much to take, I close my eyes and sleep, finding them in my dreams as well.

I awake feeling more peaceful than I have in years. It’ll take some time to understand the new memories. But seeing them means something. I’m someone. I have a past. I’m not made of a few years that formed after. For the first time, I’m anchored to something real.

Evan must have covered me while I slept. I push away the blanket and rise. When I enter the living area, he’s shirtless and lying on the floor doing sit-ups. I stop, mesmerized by watching his washboard abs curl and uncurl. A bead of sweat slips from one compact etched groove to the next.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, rising into a crunch.

“Strange,” I admit.

“So, normal?”

When I make a sassy face, his eyes gleam.

“There’s some deep dish in the oven. Help yourself.”