You've Reached Sam (10)

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.