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The woman visits me again. When I first had the dream in August, her face was blank, her hair long and brown, motioning me toward something.
This time, she has a face.
It’s Amy Finch.
She’s wearing a light pink dress, silky and dipping low in the front. We’re walking inside the brewery, the mirror ball spinning, casting fragments of light on the hardwood floor. Her fingertips trace the bar top as she walks to the hall. My heart pumps as she glides in front of me. She steps in front of Jackson’s office, pointing to a figure hunched over a computer.
Amy takes my hand. I expect coldness, but it’s warm, like a spring sun on a cloudless day.
“He’s working on it,” she says, and with that, I’m ripped from sleep, sitting up. It’s twelve-thirty, and my sister squirms in the spot next to me. My mom is not here; she must’ve taken the couch.
“What’s wrong, Shi?” Summer mumbles, turning from her fetal position on the side.
“Nothing,” I say, scooching down, pulling the covers back over my shoulder. I expect to stay awake for the rest of the night, but my heart rate slows, and I drift off again, waking up to the golden sunrise peeking through the windows.
When I go into work, I make a beeline to my locker, opening the door.
A scrap of paper floats out.
After pushing my purse in, I lower to the ground and pick it up.
It’s a Post-it note, the adhesive barely sticky.
When I turn it over, my heart leaps to my throat.
In horrible handwriting, it says:Don’t give up hope on me. I’m working on it. Jackson.
My head snaps forward as a tear falls. My gaze scans the breakroom as I check for witnesses.
I read it again. And again.
“Are you okay?” Ramon asks as I walk out front.
“I’m okay, how are you?”
“Great.” Ramon takes the only customer in line. I look around the brewery and in the far corner, I see Jackson, standing. He’s wearing the Woody Finch polo, with a white long-sleeve underneath, his eyes locked on me. We stare at each other for a long time as another tear slips from my eye.
I hold up my hand, and he raises his.
This isn’t over yet.
I just need to take care of myself for a while, while he takes care of himself. I’ll cling to the one thing I have.
Hope.
34
Jackson
Three Months Later
“What did you do from our list this week?”
I shift in my seat. I’ve been seeing Dr. Vernon for three months, and I haven’t known a minute of peace since. If I was going to pay for therapy, I was going to work at it. However, every bit is uncomfortable, like wearing too-small shoes. I’m facing things I’ve been avoiding for ten years. She tells me it won’t work overnight, but we keep chipping at it, piece by piece.
She gives me homework every week, and this week’s was to go through Amy’s boxes and separate what I want to keep and what I want to return to her parents for them to sift through. Ever since that first day I found her journals, I haven’t touched that pile of boxes, much to my mother’s chagrin.
This week, though, I spent hours up there. I would get derailed by a movie ticket or a note we passed in class. I only cried when I knew I was alone in the house.
