You’ve Reached Sam: A Novel

MARCH 7 11:09 P.M. Don’t bother picking me up anymore. I can walk home.

I did walk home. All five miles from the bus station, dragging an overstuffed carry-on with a broken wheel in the middle of the night. Sam kept trying to reach me. Twelve unread messages, seven missed calls, and one voice mail. But I ignored them all and kept walking. Reading these back again, I wish I hadn’t been so angry at him. I wish I had picked up the phone. Maybe then everything would be different.

Morning light comes through the curtains as I lay curled in bed, listening to Sam’s voice mail again.

“Julie—you there?” Some laughter in the background, and crackling from the bonfire. “I’m so sorry! I completely spaced. But I’m leaving now! Okay? Just wait there! Should only take me an hour. I know, I feel terrible. Please don’t be mad. Call me back, okay?”

If only he’d listened to me and stayed with his friends. If only he didn’t forget about me in the first place. If only he just this once let me be upset instead of always trying to fix things, no one would be blaming me for what happened. I wouldn’t be blaming me.

I play the voice mail a few more times before I delete everything. Then I climb out of bed and start upending drawers, looking for anything that was Sam’s or reminds me of him. I find photos of us, birthday cards, movie ticket stubs, paper blossoms, stupid gifts like the stuffed lizard he won at the town fair last fall, as well as every mix CD he made me over the years (who even burns CDs anymore?), and cram them all into a box.

Every day these little reminders of him get harder to look at. They say moving on becomes easier with time, but I can barely hold a photo without my hands trembling. My thoughts go to him, they always do. I can’t keep you around, Sam. It makes me think you’re still here. That you’re coming back. That I might see you again.

Once I have everything collected, I take a long look at my room. I never realized how much of him I had lying around. It feels so empty now. Like there’s a void in the air. Like something’s missing. I take a few deep breaths before I grab the box and leave my room. It’s the first time this week I managed to get out of bed before noon. I only make two steps out the door before I realize I forgot something. I set the box down and turn back to get it. Inside my closet is Sam’s denim jacket. The one with the wool collar and embroidered patches (band logos and flags of places he’s traveled) along the sleeves that he ironed on himself. I’ve had it for so long, and wear it so often, I forgot it was his.

I pull the jacket from the hanger. The denim feels cold to the touch, almost damp. Like it’s still holding in rain from the last time I wore it out. Sam and I race down puddle-filled streets as bursts of lightning lit up the sky. It is pouring on our way home from the Screaming Trees concert. I pull the jacket over my head as Sam holds his signed guitar tight to his chest, desperate to keep it dry. We waited three hours outside for the band’s lead singer, Mark Lanegan, to come out and hail his taxi.

“I’m so glad we waited!” Sam shouts.

“But we’re soaked!”

“Don’t let a little rain ruin our night!”

“You call this a little?”

Out of everything I’m throwing out, this reminds me of him the most. He wore it every day. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it still smells like him. I never got the chance to give it back like I promised. I press the jacket against me. For a moment, I consider keeping it. I mean, why does everything have to go? I could shove it in the back of the closet, hide it beneath my coats or something. It seems like a waste to throw out a perfectly nice jacket, regardless of whom it once belonged to. But then I catch a glimpse in the mirror and come back to myself.

My hair unbrushed, skin more pale than usual, wearing yesterday’s shirt, cradling Sam’s jacket like it’s still a part of him. A chill of embarrassment goes through me, and I look away. Keeping it would be a mistake. Everything has to go, or else I’ll never be able to move on with my life. I shut the closet door and hurry back out before I change my mind.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I find my mother leaning over the sink, staring out of the window. It’s Sunday morning, so she’s working from home. The bottom step creaks under my foot.

“Julie—is that you?” my mother asks without turning around.

“Yeah, don’t worry.” I was hoping to sneak the box right by her. I’m not in the mood to have a talk about what’s inside. “What are you looking at?”

“It’s Dave again,” she whispers, peering through the blinds. “I’ve been watching him set up new security cameras outside his house.”

“Oh?”

“It’s exactly like I expected.”

Dave is our neighbor who moved in six months ago. For some reason, my mother thinks he was sent to watch us. She’s been paranoid ever since she received a letter from the government a few years back, the contents of which she refuses to share with me. “It’s better if you don’t know,” she said when I asked. I think it has something to do with a lecture she gave at her old job that incited protests. Her students went around campus smashing clocks on every wall. What were they protesting? The concept of time. To be fair on her part, she said her students “didn’t get it.” But the university decided her teaching style was too radical and let her go. She is convinced they reported her to the government. “The same thing happened to Hemingway,” she explained to me. “But no one listened to him. Fascinating story. You should google it.”

“I heard someone broke into his garage the other week,” I say to relax her. “That’s probably the reason for the cameras.”

“How convenient,” my mother says. “We’ve lived here for almost, what, three years now? No one has taken as much as a lawn gnome.”

I readjust the box that’s starting to feel heavy. “Mom—we’ve never owned a lawn gnome,” I say. Thankfully. “And we also don’t collect vintage sports cars.”

“Whose side are you on again?”

“Ours,” I assure her. “Just tell me our plan to take him out.”

My mother releases the blinds and sighs. “I get it … I’m being paranoid.” She takes a deep breath, releases it like her yoga instructor taught her, and looks at me. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re up,” she says. Her eyes flash to the clock above the fridge. “I was about to head out, but I can make you something if you’re hungry. Eggs?” She slides toward the stove.

The electric kettle begins to boil. A bag of coffee sits near the sink beside a teaspoon.

“No—I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” my mother insists, her hand hovering over the handle of a clean pan. “I can make you something else. Let me think…” She seems more rushed than usual. I glance down the counter and see a stack of ungraded papers. They recently finished midterms at the university in town where my mother works. She is an assistant professor in their philosophy department. It was one of the few places that interviewed her after the incident. Thankfully, one of her old colleagues is tenured there and put his name on the line. One mistake and they both could lose their jobs.

“Actually, I’m on my way out.” I keep glancing at the clock, trying to appear to be in a hurry. The longer I linger around, the more questions she can throw at me.

“Out of the house?” my mother asks. She shuts off the electric kettle and wipes her hands with a dish towel.

“Just for a walk.”

“Oh … Okay. I mean, that’s good.” For the past week my mother’s been bringing meals up to my room and checking in several times a day. So I’m not surprised to hear the note of concern in her voice.

“And I’m meeting a friend.”

“Fantastic.” My mother nods. “You could use the fresh air, get some decent coffee. And it’s good to see your friends. That reminds me, have you talked to Mr. Lee at the bookstore?”

“Not yet…” I haven’t really spoken to anyone.

“You should check in with him if you can. At least let him know you’re okay. He’s left a few messages.”

“I know—”

“Some of your teachers, too.”

I grab my bag from a hook on the wall. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

“You mean, you’re going back to school?”

“I have to,” I say. “If I miss another week they won’t let me graduate.” Not to mention I’m behind on all my schoolwork, which keeps piling up. I really need to focus again, and pull myself together, because what else am I supposed to do? The world keeps moving, no matter what happens to you.

“Julie, don’t you worry about any of that,” my mother says. “They’ll understand if you need more time. In fact”—she holds up a finger—“let me make a call.” She turns in a circle, looking around. “Where is that thing…”

Her phone is sitting on the kitchen table. As my mother walks over to grab it, I jump in her way.

“Mom, listen, I’m fine.”

“But Julie—”

“Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise I am, okay? You don’t have to call anyone.” I don’t want her to worry about me. I can deal with this on my own.

“Alright then,” my mother sighs. “If you say so.” She cups my face with her hands, running her thumbs along my cheeks, and tries to smile. The silver in her hair shines beautifully in the light. Sometimes I forget she was once blond. As we take each other in, my mother glances down. “So what’s in the box?”

I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. “It’s nothing. I was cleaning out my room.”

Without asking me, she lifts the jacket off like a lid and glances inside. It doesn’t take long for her to connect the pieces. “Oh, Julie—are you sure about this?”

“It’s really not a big deal…”

“You don’t have to get rid of everything,” she says, riffling through it. “I mean, you can always store some of it away if you want—”

“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t need any of it.”

My mother lets go of the jacket and steps back. “Alright. I won’t stop you on this.”

“I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

I leave the house through the garage door. Down by the curb, I drop the box of Sam’s things beside the mailbox and recycling bin. It hits the ground with a clatter like change and bones. The sleeve of his jacket hangs limply over the side of the box like the arm of a ghost. I straighten my shirt and begin my morning walk toward town, letting the sun warm me up for the first time in days.

Halfway down the block, a breeze rolls leaves across my path as I pause on the sidewalk, struck with a strange thought. If I were to turn around, would he be standing there holding his jacket, staring down at the rest of his things? I imagine the look on his face, and even wonder what he might say, as I cross the street and continue down the block without once looking back.

There is a slight chill as I make my way into town. Ellensburg lies east of the Cascades, so occasional gusts of mountain air blow right through us. It’s a small town made up of historic redbrick buildings and wide open space. It’s a town where nothing happens. My parents and I moved here from Seattle three years ago when my mother received a new job at Central Washington University, but only she and I stayed after she was offered a full-time position. Dad returned to his old job in Seattle and didn’t look back. I never blamed him for leaving this place. He didn’t belong here. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here, either. My mother describes Ellensburg as an old town that’s still figuring itself out in an age where everyone wants to be in the city. As much as I can’t wait to leave the place, I admit it has its charm.

I cross my arms as I enter downtown, noticing the changes brought by spring these last few weeks. Flower baskets bloom beneath streetlamps. A line of white canopies runs down the main block for the weekly farmers market. I cross the street to avoid the crowd, hoping not to run into anyone. Downtown Ellensburg is usually beautiful, especially during the warmer months. But walking these streets again, I am reminded of him. Sam waits for me to get off work and we grab falafels at the food stand. We watch a movie on “five-dollar Sundays” at the theater and then wander through town together. When I sense him standing around the corner, waiting for me, my heart races, and I think about turning back. But no one is there except a woman lost in her phone. I pass by without her even noticing.

My friend Mika Obayashi and I arranged to meet for coffee at the diner on the other side of town. There are plenty of coffee shops around, but I texted Mika last night saying I’m in no mood to run into anyone. She replied, Same. Inside the diner, I am seated at a booth by the window near an old couple sharing a menu. When the waitress comes, I order a cup of coffee, no cream, no sugar. Usually I add some milk, but I’m training myself to drink my coffee black. I read somewhere online that it is an acquired taste like wine.

I’ve only had a few sips when the bell jingles from the ceiling, and Mika comes through the door, looking for me. She’s wearing a black cardigan over a dark dress I’ve never seen her wear before. She looks better than I expected, given the circumstances. Maybe she just came from one of the services. My mom told me she spoke at the funeral. Mika is Sam’s cousin. That’s how she and I met. Sam introduced us when I first moved here.

Once Mika sees me, she comes over and slides into the red booth. I watch her set her phone down and throw her bag beneath the table. The same waitress reappears, sets down a cup, and pours a long stream of coffee.

“Extra sugar and milk would be great,” Mika requests. “Please.”

“Sure,” the waitress says.

Mika holds up her hand. “Actually, is there soy milk?”

“Soy? No.”

“Oh.” Mika frowns. “Just milk then.” As soon as the waitress turns, Mika looks at me. “You didn’t reply to my messages. I wasn’t sure if we were still meeting.”

“Sorry. I haven’t been the most responsive lately.” I don’t really have another excuse. I have a habit of leaving my phone on silent. But this week, I’ve been especially disconnected.

“I get it,” she says, frowning a little. “For a second, I thought you might have canceled without telling me. You know I don’t like being stood up.”

“Which is why I came early.”

We both smile. I have a sip of coffee.

Mika touches my hand. “I missed you,” she whispers, giving me a squeeze.

“I missed you, too.” As much as I tell myself I like being alone, I feel a rush of relief to see a familiar face. To see Mika again.

The waitress arrives, sets down a small pitcher of milk, tosses some sugar packets from her apron, and disappears again. Mika rips open three sugars and pours them into her cup. She picks up the pitcher and holds it out. “Milk?” she offers.

I shake my head.

“Because it isn’t soy?”

“No … I’m trying to drink my coffee black.”

“Hmm. Impressive,” she says, nodding. “Very Seattle of you.”

At the word Seattle, Mika’s phone lights up as notifications pop up on her screen. The phone vibrates on the table. Mika glances at her screen, then back at me. “Let me put this away.” She hides the phone in her bag, and picks up a menu. “Did you want to order something?”

“I’m actually not hungry.”

“Oh, alright.”

Mika sets down the menu. She laces her fingers together on the table as I have another sip of coffee. The jukebox blinks orange and blue from across the room but no music plays. An air of silence nearly settles between us until Mika finally asks the question.

“So, did you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Are you sure? I thought that’s why you wanted to meet.”

“I wanted to get out of the house.”

She nods. “That’s good. But how are you handling all of this?”

“Fine, I guess.”

Mika says nothing. She looks at me, as if expecting more.

“Well, what about you,” I ask her instead. “How have you been?”

Mika’s gaze falls onto the table as she thinks about this. “I don’t know. The services have been hard. There isn’t really a temple around here, so we’re doing what we can. There’s a lot of traditions and customs I didn’t even know about, you know?”

“I can’t imagine…” I say. Mika and Sam have always been connected to their culture in a way that I haven’t. My parents are both from somewhere in northern Europe, but it’s not something I really think about.

Things quiet again. Mika stirs her coffee for a long time without saying anything. Then she goes still, as if remembering something. “We held a vigil for him,” she says without looking at me. “The day after. I stayed the night with him. I got to see him again…”

My stomach clenches at the thought of this. At seeing Sam one more time after he … I stop myself from imagining it. I have another sip of coffee, and try to blink the image away, but it doesn’t fade. I wish she wouldn’t tell me about this.

“I know. Not a lot of people wanted to see him like that,” Mika says, still not looking at me. “I almost couldn’t do it, either. But I knew it was the last time I would get the chance. So I went.”

I don’t say anything. I drink my coffee.

“There were a lot of people at the funeral, though,” she continues. “We didn’t have enough seats. There were people from school I didn’t even recognize. There were so many flowers.”

“That’s really nice.”

“Some people asked where you were,” Mika says. “I told them you weren’t feeling well. That you prefer visiting him on your own.”

“You didn’t have to explain anything,” I say.

“I know. But some of them kept asking.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter who,” Mika says, brushing it off.

I have the last sip of my coffee, which by now has lost all of its warmth, intensifying the bitterness.

Mika looks at me. “So have you visited him?”

I take my time to respond. “No … not yet.”

“Do you want to?” she asks, taking my hand again. “We can go now. Together.”

I pull my hand back. “I—I can’t right now…”

“Why not?”

“I have things to do,” I say vaguely.

“Like what?”

I don’t know what to say. Why do I need to explain myself?

Mika leans into the table, her voice low. “Julie, I know this whole thing’s been terrible for you. It’s been terrible for me, too. But you can’t avoid this forever. You should come, pay your respects. Especially now.” Then, in almost a whisper, says, “Please, it’s Sam—”

Her voice cracks at his name. I can hear a cry rising up her throat as she manages to hold it down. Seeing her this way sends an ache of pain to my chest, making it impossible to speak. I can’t believe she would use this against me. I can’t think straight. I have to hold myself together.

I clench my empty cup. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about this,” I say again.

“For god’s sake, Julie,” Mika scolds me. “Sam would have wanted you to come. You haven’t been there for him this entire week. You weren’t even there when they had him buried.”

“I know, and I’m sure everyone has a lot to say about that, too,” I say back.

“Who cares what everyone else says,” Mika cries, her body half rising from the seat. “It only matters what Sam would say.”

“Sam is dead.”

This quiets the both of us.

Mika stares at me for a long time. Her eyes search mine for signs of guilt or regret, as if she’s waiting for me to somehow amend my words, but all I have to say is, “He’s dead, Mika, and me visiting him isn’t going to change anything.”

We hold our gaze for what seems like a long time before Mika looks away. From her silence, I know she is both stunned and disappointed. It is at this moment I realize the tables around us have hushed as well. Our waitress passes by without a word.

After a moment, once the tune of the diner resumes, I gather my words.

“This isn’t my fault, you know? I told him not to come but he wouldn’t listen to me. I told him to stay there. So everyone needs to stop expecting some apology from me, and blaming me for any of—”

“I’m not trying to blame you for this,” Mika says.

“I know you aren’t. But everyone else probably does.”

“No. Not everyone thinks that, Julie. And I’m sorry, but this isn’t about you—it’s about Sam. It’s about missing his funeral. It’s about how the one person who was closest to him, who knew him best, wasn’t even there to speak about him. Sam deserved more, and you know it. That’s what everyone expected. But you weren’t there, through any of it.”

“You’re right. Maybe I do know him better,” I say. “And maybe I think he doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. The ceremonies, the vigil, the people from school—please. Sam doesn’t care about any of them. He would have hated all of this. He’s probably glad I didn’t show up!”

“I know you don’t believe that,” Mika says.

“Don’t tell me what I believe,” I say. That came out sharper than I wanted it to. I almost take it back, but I don’t.

Luckily, our waitress reappears to take our order before this goes further. Mika looks at me, at the waitress, then back at me.

“Actually, I should go,” she says abruptly, and gathers up her things. Our waitress steps aside as Mika rises from the booth. She lays some money on the table, and turns to leave. “I almost forgot,” she says. “I picked up your assignments from school the other day. Wasn’t sure when you’d be back.” She unzips her bag. “Yearbooks also came. Ours were the last to get picked up, so I got yours, too. Here—” She drops everything on the table.

“Oh—thanks.”

“I’ll see you later.”

I don’t say good-bye. I just watch Mika disappear through the entrance door, ringing the bell behind her, leaving me alone again. The waitress offers to refill my coffee, but I shake my head. I suddenly can’t stand to be in here anymore, inside this noisy, cramped, syrup-stained diner that’s making me anxious. I need to get out of this place.

There goes my afternoon. I don’t know what else to do but wander outside again. I try not to think about Mika and what I should have said differently, because it’s too late. I walk through town, letting the caffeine kick in. At least the morning chill is gone. Shop windows glisten in the afternoon sun. I pass by without going inside. There’s the antique store. Sam and I used to go in and furnish our imaginary apartment together. I pause at the window. Through the dusty glass are long shelves crowded with paintings and figurines, floors swathed with Persian rugs and old furniture, among other things. Then despite myself, another memory comes …

Sam hands me a gift. “I bought you something.”

“For what?”

“Your graduation present.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“Julie, just open it!”

I tear off the wrapping. Inside is a silver bookend in the shape of a single wing, outstretched.

“Shouldn’t this be a set?” I ask. “Where’s the other piece? It’s missing.”

“I could only afford one at the time,” Sam explains. “But I just got paid. We can go back for it now.”

When we return to the antique store, the other half was already sold.

“Who on earth buys half a bookend?” Sam asks the woman behind the register.

I turn to him. “You.”

It became an inside joke for us. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I threw it out in the box with the rest of his things.

This town is full of memories of us. There’s the record store where I’d always find him when I got off work. The red door is propped open with a chair. A few people are looking through the aisles of old records. Someone is changing the strings of an electric guitar. But no Sam sitting on the counter by the speaker, adjusting the music. He didn’t even work here. He just knew everyone. I hurry off before someone sees me and tries to start a conversation I don’t feel like having.

I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be in Ellensburg. I’m tired of reliving these memories in my head. Graduation isn’t far away, I remind myself. Only a couple more months, and I’ll be out of here. I don’t know where exactly I’m heading yet, but it doesn’t matter as long as I never have to come back to this place.

I don’t remember how I ended up at the lake. It’s nowhere near town. In fact, there are no trails leading up to it, and no signs pointing toward it, meaning you have to go and find it yourself. From the long list of places I planned on avoiding today, this was the last spot I expected to end up.

A few leaves fall from a tree as I throw my things on the bench and sit, facing the lake. Sam and I used to meet here in the warmer months. It was our little escape from the world. Our secret getaway when we couldn’t afford to leave town. Sometimes, I would sit with a notebook, trying to write something, while Sam was out swimming. If I close my eyes, I can hear him paddling in the water, see the blades of his glinting shoulders cut across the lake. But then I open them and see the glassy, flat surface of the water, and find myself alone again.

Stop thinking about Sam. Think about something else.

Writing often helps me keep my mind off things. I brought a notebook with me. But how do you write when it’s hard to focus? Maybe if I sit here long enough, something will come to me. I touch my pen to a blank page and wait for the words to pour out. We don’t have spaces for creative writing at school, so I try to do it on my own time. You never get the chance to write what you want in class anyway. I understand you have to know the rules before you break them, but writing should bring you joy, right? I think teachers forget that. Sometimes, I forget that. I hope college will be a different experience.

I should be hearing back from colleges soon. Reed College is my top choice. It’s where my mother went. You would think that might help me in this situation. “I don’t have the greatest reputation there, so I wouldn’t mention me,” my mother warned. “When you’re old enough, I’ll tell you the story. Other than that, Portland is a wonderful city. You’ll love it there.” It doesn’t hurt that it’s only four hours away, so we won’t be too far from each other. I went through their course catalog the other day, and it’s full of creative writing classes, all taught by established writers from all over the world. I think I can be myself there, find out what I’m good at. Maybe I’ll end up writing a book for my creative thesis. But I’m thinking ahead of myself. I found out they need a writing sample from me. So even if I do get accepted to Reed, I might not make it into the program. I have some pieces of writing I could look through, but I’m worried none of them are good enough. I should work on something new. A strong sample that will impress them. But this last week has made it so hard to be creative. I can’t get Sam out of my head, no matter how hard I try. He won’t be there when I open my acceptance letter. He’ll never know if I get in.

An hour passes and the page remains blank. Maybe I should try reading instead, at least for inspiration. The yearbook sits beside me. I tried to leave it at the diner earlier, but the waitress followed me out and nearly threw it at my head. The cover is a tacky gray-and-blue design. I skim through some pages. Club and sport photos take up a good portion, but I skip through them entirely. Next are senior favorites, class clown and best friends, that I didn’t care to see who won. There were several people from our class who went around campaigning. A little embarrassing, if you ask me. The next section is senior portraits, but I don’t feel like looking through them. I skim all the way to the end until there’s nothing left but blank white pages for people to write in. And then I realize someone did, there on the second-to-last page. I guess Mika must have found time to sign it before she gave it to me. But then I look closer at the handwriting and notice it isn’t hers. No, it’s someone else’s. It takes me a second to recognize it. But that can’t be right.

Sam. It’s his handwriting, I know it. But how did he get ahold of this? When was he able to write to me? I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it. I shouldn’t read this, at least not right now when I’m trying so hard to forget. But I can’t help myself, my hands start to shake.

His voice fills my head.

Hey.

Just to make sure I beat everyone to it, I wanted to write in this first. I hope that’s some more proof of how much I’m in love with you. I still can’t believe it. How did three years go by so fast? It feels like yesterday I was sitting on the bus behind you trying to build the courage to say something. It’s crazy to think there was a time before we knew each other. A time before “Sam and Julie.” Or “Julie and Sam”? I’ll let you decide that one.

I know you can’t wait to leave this place, but I’m gonna miss it. I get it, though. Your ideas were always too big for a small town, and everyone here knows it. But I’m happy your path somehow made you stop in Ellensburg along the way. So you and I could meet each other. Maybe it was supposed to happen, you know? I feel like my life didn’t start until I met you, Julie. You’re the best thing to happen to this small town. To me. I realize it doesn’t matter where we’re going next, as long as we’re together.

I’ll be honest. I used to be scared of leaving home. Now I can’t wait to move on and make new memories with you. Just don’t forget the ones we made here. Especially when you make it big. And whatever happens, promise you won’t forget me, okay?

Anyway, I love you, Julie, and always will.

Yours forever,

Sam

Forever …

I shut the yearbook and stare out at the water as this sinks in.

A family of ducks has appeared on the other side of the lake. I watch them make tiny rings in the water, and listen to a breeze stir leaves from the branches behind me, as the full weight of Sam’s words echoes through me.

It’s been one week since Sam died. And in my attempt to move on, I’ve been trying to erase him from my life like a terrible memory. After everything we’ve been through together. I threw out all of his things. I skipped his funeral. And I never even said good-bye. In his death, Sam asked for only one thing, and that was for us to remember each other. Yet here I am trying so hard to forget.

A shiver goes through me as the first clouds begin to appear. The chill from this morning returns as I sit unmoving on the bench, watching long shadows appear on the surface of the lake, as this sudden feeling of guilt sinks into my bones. I don’t even know how much time has passed since I sat down. But the next thing I know, I’m on my feet again, dashing back toward town.

The farmers market is packing up as I cut through it—it’s a flash of falling produce, toppling bread loaves, and turning heads. I don’t care who I bump into as I make my way down the neighborhood streets toward home. By the angle of the sun and the still traffic, it must be late afternoon. The garbage truck that makes its rounds probably came by hours ago. But schedules often change, and things run late, and somewhere by the curb the box of Sam’s things might still be there.

As soon as I turn the corner and my house is in view, I look for the curb and realize it’s gone. Everything. All of Sam’s things. I nearly stumble as this heavy, sinking feeling falls over me, like water filling my chest, and I forget how to breathe.

I run inside the house and check the kitchen. The counters are empty. I search the living room in the chance that my mother had saved me from making a horrible decision, and brought some of Sam’s things back inside. But nothing’s here.

I pull out my phone. My mother’s at her office, but still manages to answer on the fourth ring.

“Mom—where are you?”

“Why? Julie, is something wrong?”

I realize how out of breath I sound. But I can’t seem to collect myself.

“The box of Sam’s things from this morning. The one I left outside. Did you bring it back in?”

“Julie, what are you talking about? Of course I didn’t.”

“So you don’t know where it is?” I ask desperately.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” she says. “Are you alright? Why do you sound like that?”

“I’m fine. It’s just I … I have to go—”

I hang up the phone before she can say anything else. My stomach sinks. It’s too late. Everything I had left of Sam is gone.

I suddenly remember how I skipped every service and ceremony that was held in his memory—memories I abandoned. I didn’t even bother to visit his grave. I can’t seem to stand still. I keep pacing back and forth through the empty house as these sudden emotions, the ones I’ve been holding back, cycle through me like ice water in my veins, making my hands shake. Mika was right. What would Sam think of me if he knew how I treated him?

As I replay the last few days in my mind, I begin to understand something I didn’t before. All my pent-up anger was nothing more than a wall to hide my guilt.

It wasn’t Sam who left me that night. It was me who abandoned him. The second I realize this, I’m back outside and running.

An overcast sky has appeared while I was inside, painting shadows over the neighborhood as I cross the streets. Ellensburg is not the smallest town in central Washington. But there’s one main road that runs through the whole town, and if you follow it straight through, you’ve seen everything. A few blocks before you reach the university, there’s an unmarked trail that cuts straight across the entire north side. I follow the trail toward the hill as more clouds roll in, and I feel the first sprinkling of rain.

It’s about an hour’s walk to memorial hill from the neighborhoods, but the trail cuts the time by nearly a third. And because I haven’t stopped running since I left the house, I reach it in no time.

It’s drizzling out, but the rain has resolved into mist. I can hardly see in front of me. My clothes are half soaked from the run, but it’s not enough to bother me as I stride toward the memorial park’s entrance.

Sam is buried somewhere up there. I have to see him at least once, pay my respects, and tell him I’m sorry for not coming sooner and what a terrible person I’ve been. I have to let Sam know that I haven’t forgotten him.

An image plays in my head like a film reel. I see him sitting on top of his headstone, in his denim jacket, waiting for me for the past week. A dozen conversations play through my mind as I think of what to say to him, how to explain why I’ve kept away for so long. But two feet before I reach the main gate, I stop short.

The lamppost hanging above the gate creaks, unlit in the rain.

What am I doing here? The hill is more than four hundred acres of folded land. I look up and see a thousand grave markers lined up for miles. I don’t know how long it would take to find him or where to begin. My feet stay frozen on the wet concrete. I can’t go in there. I can’t make myself do this. Sam isn’t here. There’s nothing to see but a newly laid plot where he’s supposed to be. But I don’t want that to be the last image I have of him. I don’t want this memory. I don’t want to think of him having to spend the rest of eternity buried somewhere up on that hill.

I take a few steps away from the gate, wondering why I came here. This was a terrible mistake. Sam isn’t there. I don’t want him to be.

Before I even realize it, I’ve turned away from the gate and nearly slip as I break into another run.

The evening mist has turned into a shower as the brick walls that run along the cemetery fade behind me. I don’t even know where I’m going this time. I want to get as far away as I possibly can. The sky is pouring as I enter the woods. I keep on running until the view of houses and roads is long gone.

Rainfall has softened the ground and filled it with puddles. As I’m running, I start imagining myself emerging into an alternate world where everything’s still okay, and wishing I could leap through time so I can go back and change everything. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to will time and space and undo the fabric that is twisting and pulling me apart.

Suddenly my foot catches on something and I slam to the ground. My body stings in a million places before it goes numb, and I feel nothing at all. I try to get up but I can’t seem to move a muscle. So, I don’t bother. I just stay there on the floor of stones and leaves as the sky continues to pour.

I miss Sam. I miss the sound of his voice. I miss knowing he would always answer me if I called. I don’t even know where I am or who I can talk to. This isn’t one of my finest moments. And tomorrow, I will regret ever letting it get to this point. But right now, I’m so desperate and alone, I pull out my phone and turn it on. The light blinds me for a few seconds. I forgot I deleted everything this morning—all of my photos, messages, and applications, so nothing’s there. I go through my contact list, trying to think of someone else to call, but there aren’t many options. When I notice Sam’s name isn’t even there, I remember I deleted it, too. I’m not sure if I even remember the number anymore. I don’t even know what I’m doing when I dial it anyway, hoping to hear him again through his voice mail one more time. Maybe I can leave him a message, let him know I’m sorry.

The ringing startles me. It’s a strange sound to hear in the emptiness of the woods. I shut my eyes and shiver from the cold. The phone rings for a long time, slowly drowning out my thoughts, and I feel as though it will go on and on forever, until suddenly the ringing stops.

Someone picks up the phone.

There is a long silence before a voice comes through the line.

“Julie…”

Raindrops patter against my ear. I become aware of the sound of my own heart beating against the earth. I turn my face up slightly toward the sky and keep listening.

“… Are you there?”

That voice. Faint and raspy like the murmur of the ocean in a seashell. I know it. I’ve listened to it a thousand times before to where it’s become as familiar as my own. That voice. But it couldn’t be.

Sam …