Page 50 of All The Ways to Miss You

I have to finish my thesis this week, but I’m having a hard time focusing. I lie on the blanket and roll on my back, staring at the sky. Inside, I’m bubbling with happiness, but I can’t grasp the exact reason. But it’s there, a tangible thing growing inside me. The buildings of Northwalton University frame the blue sky. Gentle white clouds plume and roll. This day is perfect, but not because of the weather. It’s something to do with my happiness.

My cell chirps with a message.

I reach for it but can’t find it. It chirps several times as I dig in my backpack and under my books. Where is it? Where is it?

My need to find it grows desperate. The sound is driving me mad. With every option searched, I stand and rip away the blanket, but all I find is a large rectangular hole. It’s the same size as my blanket but looks more like a grave.

At the sight of it, my cell’s forgotten. The day turns cloudy, and the people around me fade away. My gut tumbles. I should step away, but I’m drawn closer to the hole. I peek in. It’s so dark, I can’t see the bottom.

Someone pushes me, a forceful shove on my shoulder blade. I hurl forward, plunging into the darkness. I scream. The piercing sound drags on as I plummet.

Panicked, I reach for the walls crumbling with dirt, but I’m unable to grasp them. My legs kick frantically. My T-shirt lifts, exposing my chest, and my hair whips around my face. Looking below, I find light at the end of the tunnel beyond my feet.

The light swallows me whole. I squint, unable to see. Am I still falling? I have no sense of speed. Blaring light becomes hard angles. Large shards of glass twist and spin around me. Mirrors reflected on mirrors reveal images that make no sense. They bend my reality in a confusing kaleidoscope of emotions that have colors.

A mirror halts before me. I see myself and stare. Blood covers my abdomen. I reach down to touch it. My hand rises, dripping and stained red. Confused and losing consciousness, I stumble back and smash into a wall.

Frightened and my heart pounding, I turn to a new mirror. I place my palms on the glass, leaving two bloody handprints. In the reflection, an inky crimson spot plumes like watercolor across the front of my white shirt. Then new spots form. My leg. My arm. Blood continues to seep, converting my clothes into a gruesome tie-dye.

It’s everywhere, and I can’t stop it. My heart launches into my throat, throbbing in a painful ache that’s splitting me from the inside out. A rumble wells from deep inside me, and I release another scream.

Screaming, I wake from the nightmare. The shrieks transform to heaving, and my stomach lurches.

I leap from bed and sprint to the bathroom. Clenching the chilled seat, I vomit into the commode, disgorging the contents of my stomach until nothing but an achy hollowness remains. When the muscle spasms subside, I slide to the floor exhausted with my back against the tub. The tile cools my damp skin, and I breathe heavily.

Still panicked from the nightmare, I peer from my bathroom and out the door to my bedroom. I reassure myself it was only a dream, and I’m safe. But my sense of safety is fleeting.

When I replay the vivid dream, I’m sure of one thing. The parts that made sense were true.

After all these years, a few memories of that awful day have returned.

twenty-two

Curled on my bed crying, I remind myself this is what I wanted. This is part of the reason I returned to Chicago. To see if any part of my past might find me, sparking my memories to life, especially of that day. I believed knowing and understanding might allow me to move forward and heal.

But how can I heal with only bits of my previous life trickling in? Will I be ninety and still suffering from the same nightmares?

My phone buzzes, rattling on my nightstand. Needing an escape, I reach for it. I swipe through and find a missed text.

Evan

Can we meet up? Need to talk.

Why is he pushing this? I blow out a breath and set my phone aside before turning my back on it. My hands are tucked under my head, resting on the pillow. I bite the dry skin on my lip, peeling a dead piece away with my teeth.

Nightmares haunt me every night for days. Though there’s nothing too telling or detailed, they’re a confusing mix of before and after images.

Young and old, elementary school and high school, a first job and summers spent building sand castles at the ocean, family trips to the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, holidays with family and barbecues with friends.

Some faces I recognize from the after, and some I can’t put a name to. It’s both frustrating and hopeful. I start a journal to catalog each memory and try to make sense of the puzzle.

As the week progresses, Evan’s messages pile up. I can’t understand his sudden urgent need to talk. Yes, I’ll talk to him, but not right now. I need to center myself, get my bearings. I have too much on my plate and refuse to face him before I’m ready. We’ve already done things on his terms . . . now it’s my turn.

At work on Friday, as I step out of my office on my way to meet Linden, Evan strolls into the lobby. When I spot him, I turn and scurry into the copy room for cover.

“What’s wrong with you?” Aggie asks from her nearby desk.

“Evan’s here,” I mouth and point down the hall.