Driven by curiosity, John began searching through the boxes of books. The dust in the room made his eyes water and his nose itch, so he decided to move the boxes to the living room, where it was easier to breathe. There, he methodically laid out books and magazines on the coffee table and floor.
There were fantasy novels, science textbooks, nature magazines, but no illustrated edition of The Secret Garden. John wondered if Emily might still have it after all these years. On a whim, he checked the back of the yearbook and found a section where students had left their contact info.
Emily had scribbled her phone number with a note: “Call anytime, goofball.” John picked up his phone and dialed, not expecting the number to still work after 22 years. As expected, a recorded message said the number was no longer in service.
At that moment, the front door opened, and Nancy walked in with grocery bags. She froze, seeing the books and magazines scattered across the living room. “John, what’s all this?” Her voice was sharp with surprise and something deeper.
“Pain. I was just going through Mary’s things, like we planned,” John explained, standing. Nancy’s face tightened.
“We agreed to sort and pack her things, not spread them all over the house. I thought we were finally moving forward, not diving back into the past.” “I’m not diving, Nancy. I found her yearbook and was looking for something,” John said. “What could be so important?” Nancy set the bags on the kitchen counter, her movements stiff with anger. John showed her the yearbook, pointing to Mary’s note about the book.
“She mentioned a book she lent to Emily. I got curious if it was among her things.” Nancy sighed heavily.
“A book?” “John, it doesn’t matter anymore. Mary’s books are just collecting dust. There’s no need to bother Emily about it. She’s probably forgotten it by now. Do you know where Emily is now?” John asked, shifting the topic slightly. “Yeah, I see her around town sometimes. She lives in an apartment complex now,” Nancy replied, unpacking groceries. “I was thinking maybe I’d visit her,” John said cautiously. “Not just about the book, of course. We haven’t seen her in ages, and she was practically family back then.” Nancy paused and turned to face him. “John, I’m not ready for that today. I have nothing against Emily, but I’m not ready to see her. Last night, we agreed to pack up and let go of hope. Going to Emily’s today feels like the opposite of that.”
She gestured at the mess in the living room. “I’ll stay here and clean up. Get the stuff ready for the attic, like we planned. If you want to go, that’s your choice.” John nodded, understanding her reluctance. “It was just a spur-of-the-moment idea. I’ll go alone.” Nancy gave him directions to where Emily’s apartment complex usually was, but warned, “Don’t push her too hard, John. Mary’s disappearance must have hit her hard too. They were like sisters.” John gathered the yearbook, phone, wallet, and car keys. Heading to the door, he glanced back at Nancy, who was already neatly stacking Mary’s books back into boxes.
He felt a pang of guilt for leaving her with the cleanup, but something drew him to Emily, to answers for questions he hadn’t even fully formed. The door closed behind him, and he stepped into the foggy morning, clutching the yearbook tightly. John drove through the winding roads, following Nancy’s directions to the apartment complex where Emily Thompson now lived.
The drive took about 20 minutes, leading him from the town center to a modest neighborhood with several apartment buildings. He parked and scanned the area, trying to figure out where Emily’s unit might be. There were about a dozen buildings in various states of upkeep.
Some looked permanent, with small gardens. John approached a man washing his ground-floor apartment windows. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Emily Thompson. Do you know where her unit is?” The man pointed to a blue-and-white building at the far end of the lot. “Unit nine, you’ll find Emily there. Nice lady… kind-hearted.” John thanked him and headed to the building. It was modest but well-kept, with a small potted plant by the entrance.
He climbed to the second floor, found unit nine, took a deep breath, and knocked. A moment later, the door opened. A woman in her mid-forties stood before him.
Her blonde hair was now streaked with gray, and her face bore the faint lines of middle age. She looked at John with polite confusion, no sign of recognition. “Can I help you?” she asked.
John suddenly realized they wouldn’t recognize each other. The last time they’d met, Emily was a teenager, and he was 22 years younger. “Emily, it’s John Peterson, Mary’s father.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with a mix of emotions—recognition, sadness, warmth. “John! Oh my gosh, come in, please.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. John entered a compact but cozy space. The apartment was tidy, decorated with personal touches—photos, small plants, colorful cushions.
“Sit down. Want some coffee?” Emily gestured to a small dining area. Coffee would be great. “Thanks,” John said, settling onto a chair. As Emily prepared the coffee, John noticed her movements were deliberate, as if she was giving herself time to process this unexpected visit. “What brings you here after all these years?” she asked, setting a steaming mug in front of him and sitting across from him.
John pulled out the yearbook he’d brought. “I found this today while going through Mary’s room. Realized I’d never opened it before.” Emily’s eyes lingered on the book. “I remember this,” she said softly, reaching out to touch the cover. John opened to Mary’s profile and pointed to the note about returning the book.
“This caught my attention,” he said. “Did you ever return it?” Emily’s expression softened into a sad smile. “No, I didn’t. I was such a forgetful kid back then, and Mary knew it. She always teased me about it.” She stood and went to a storage bin under her bed.
After rummaging for a moment, she pulled out a worn copy of The Secret Garden, an illustrated classic edition. “I kept forgetting to give it back, and after she disappeared, I couldn’t part with it. It’s the last thing I have of her.”
Emily held the book gently, as if it were fragile. “You don’t mind if I keep it, do you? It’s meant a lot to me over the years.” John nodded, understanding completely. “Of course, you can keep it.” He took the book when Emily handed it to him and carefully opened it.
The pages were yellowed with age, but the illustrations remained vibrant. Flipping through, he stopped at a page used as a bookmark. It looked like a torn-out page from a teen fashion magazine.