I have to get out of the car. Somehow I know I have to escape. I straighten up and unclick my seat belt. With the movement, my pain seems to ease. I climb out of the car and walk to the sidewalk—drawn forward. I look around the street, searching for an explanation even though I know there isn’t one. What’s happening to me?
My eyes sting with tears as fear begins to make me tremble. I stagger over to the bus stop and drop down on the bench. I put my elbows on my knees and put my head in my hands as my heart pounds. Just then, I feel someone sit down next to me.
A wind blows over me, and I turn sideways and see Miriam Kemper, clutching her purse in her lap. Her face is wrinkled with deep lines, her navy dress baggy on her thin frame. I’ve known Miriam most of my life—she was a volunteer at the library until her husband died six months ago. And then, just as she lifts her watery blue eyes, I’m struck with a vision.
No, not again. Before I can fight it, I’m submerged in Miriam’s life as if I’m there.
Miriam is lying in bed with her husband of forty years. It’s dark, the only light from the small TV on the dresser playing an infomercial. She hears the cough, the thickness—the choking. Samuel has been suffering from emphysema for close to a year, but now he’s bedridden and without a voice. Miriam’s taken on the role of nurse, and clicks the lamp on the side table before grabbing the inhaler.
In front of me now, Miriam closes her eyes, and tears spill onto her cheeks. She thinks back on that night, and I’m there with her.
Miriam turns to her husband, and his eyes lock on hers—pleading and desperate. His look begs her to let him go, to let him finally have peace.
“Don’t you leave me,” Miriam murmurs, her lips quivering with the start of a cry. Samuel, unable to talk, only reaches to take her hand—a hand that held his for forty years—his body shaking with the coughs he tries to hold in.
She has a choice then. Instead of putting the inhaler to his mouth, forcing medication into his lungs, Miriam Kemper curls up next to her husband and feels his arms around her one last time. She cries into the warmth of his nightshirt until his coughing finally subsides. Until all is quiet and his arm falls away.
“Oh, Miriam,” I whisper, feeling the guilt the way she does. The crushing sense of final loss, the shroud of doubt. But beyond that is a message, something I have to tell Miriam—even though it’s not really from me. “It’s what he wanted,” I say, trying to soothe her pain and alleviate her guilt. “He loved you very much.”
I move to put my hand on her shoulder, and she winces as if my touch hurts her.
“I’m all alone,” she weeps. “I can’t make it without my Samuel.”
“You will.” There’s so much energy racing through me, it’s making me dizzy. I want to pull away, but I can’t. Miriam has to listen. If she doesn’t, she’ll die. “Samuel would want you to move on,” I tell her. “To have a life. You have to love him enough to let him go now.”
She’s crying, but suddenly . . . I feel it. She’s listening, accepting what I’ve told her. Miriam knows she has to keep living her life, but her grief had overwhelmed her. This small respite has given her clarity.
Miriam sniffles hard, smoothing back her hair. I lower my arm, and the pain that had built up, the energy, dissolves. I expect Miriam to turn to me, ask what just happened. But before I try to explain, warmth and euphoria spread over me, making me sway on the bench. The hot, searing pain in the back of my neck has faded away. After a moment, I turn to Miriam again. She’s gathered herself, looking as if she’s ready to leave.
“I’m sorry,” I say, worried I’ve frightened her. Miriam casts a confused glance around the street and then seems just to notice me. “Oh, hi, honey,” she says, her voice still thick from crying. “Do you know what time it is?”
Is she not going to ask what’s going on? I’m freaking out, but Miriam doesn’t appear concerned. “Uh,” I fumble, taking a long moment to answer. “It’s about one thirty, I guess.”
Miriam smiles, and reaches to pat my arm. “Well, then I better get home. I think I’ll go see my son in Denver. Tell your mother and father I said hello.” She stands, pulling her purse strap over her shoulder. And then she leaves.
I stare after her, my heart racing. My fingers still tingling. This is the second time this has happened. First with Tanner, now with Miriam. Am I psychic? Am I crazy? Tears well up, and I’m scared. Am I scared enough to tell my parents? What if they don’t believe me? What if they think—
I get up from the bench and run for my car. I turn the ignition, wishing I had a phone. My parents are probably at the bakery with River. Ezra and Soleil are at his house. I don’t know where to go, so I drive back to my house. I’ll be alone, and I’m terrified to be alone.
But I’m not crazy.
The minute I get home, I turn on my laptop and begin researching. I type in every symptom, every sensation—but nothing fits exactly. Instead it seems like I could have a million different disorders, diseases. Rather than comfort me, the internet has made me more terrified. I click the laptop shut and start toward my room. My head is foggy, and I won’t let myself cry anymore.
I’m going to sleep this off. When I wake up, I’ll talk to my mom and dad. They’ll know what to do. But I can’t discuss it right now. My body is worn down, exhausted. I climb up on my bed and hug the pillow close to me. When I wake up, it’ll make sense. I know it’ll make sense.
I’m standing in front of the Costas Bakery, but I don’t go inside. I know the doors are locked, even though I can’t remember if I tried the handle. The weather is warm and breezy on my bare legs, and I look down, surprised to see myself wearing a plaid uniform skirt. I don’t own anything like this.
I notice then my reflection in the glass door. It takes me a minute to realize it’s me: the blond hair, the freckles. An entirely different face. I step toward the door, outstretch my hand until I touch the glass, surprised it’s cold despite the warm air. I trace her . . . my features. She’s so familiar, but her image fills me with despair. Loneliness. Behind my reflection I notice him, watching sadly as he waits.
“Harlin,” I call softly, my heart swelling at the sight of him. I love him. I feel it in my soul. I love Harlin more than anything in the world. But the reflection is beginning to fade, and I bang my hand on the glass, devastated at the thought of losing him again.