by Nora Price
Eat pancakes with loved ones to celebrate friendships—bittersweet when they end, and hopeful when they are only just beginning.
I turned and walked back inside, wondering when my mother was scheduled to pick me up.
And then there was one.
[Day Thirty-Six]
My suitcases were packed; I had nothing left to do. I walked downstairs. I had one more question to ask Alexandra.
I found her in her office, working over some notes. “I have something to ask you,” I said from the doorway.
“Come in,” she said. “What about?”
I sat down on the sofa, unsure of how to phrase my query, and doubtful, besides, about whether Alexandra would even know the answer.
“The photos on Caroline’s dresser,” I said. “The ones that she arranged in a row—”
Alexandra nodded, signifying that she knew what I was talking about.
“I’ve been wondering the whole time who that was.”
Alexandra put down her pen. “You didn’t ask Caroline?”
“She wouldn’t tell me,” I said. “Was it her brother? Her nephew?”
“Neither,” Alexandra said.
“Then—?”
“The pictures were of Caroline.”
The next question was obvious, so I asked it. “Why?”
“Caroline would be able to tell you better herself,” Alexandra said, slowing to plot her words carefully. “My sense is that the photographs reminded her of a time when her life was uncomplicated. When she was small and happy, with nothing to weigh her down.”
I nodded.
“Why do you ask?” Alexandra asked.
“Just curious.”
That was all I wanted, so I said goodbye to Alexandra and went to bring my suitcase down from the bedroom. A car churned gravel in the distance, drawing closer to the building. My mother. I thought about Caroline’s photos as I dragged my things down the hallway. In the end, what she’d wanted was to bring her old self back to life. I understood.
Travel does funny things with time. It starts as soon as you step on the plane or in the car, and it doesn’t stop there. When you’re away from home, time stretches and bunches like taffy: A week can feel as long as a month or as short as a day. You never know. You can’t predict it. That’s why I keep a journal when I travel—not so that I can preserve my memories for the future, but so that I can stay oriented in the present. Otherwise, forget it. I’m lost on arrival.
I consider coming to Twin Birch a kind of travel. It’s not a remote destination by geographic standards, and I didn’t have to get on a plane to come here. But in other ways, it’s a faraway land. The currency is different and the accommodations foreign. Neither of those things matter much, though, when you dig down to the core of it. No. The beautiful thing about travel is that it promises change. Real change. You can go on vacation and come back a new person. Maybe you change; maybe you just look at things a different way.
In a way, that’s what happened at Twin Birch. I am not the same Zoe that I was six weeks ago.
By the time my mother came to pick me up, my bedroom was empty. Clothes were folded and packed away. While she took care of arrangements with Angela downstairs, I lifted one of the sole remaining personal objects from beneath the bed and held it in my hands. In the lilac evening light, it shone an unearthly shade of white. My name was printed on the front of the manila envelope in big block letters. ZOE.
I reopened it, running a finger beneath my name. Then I pulled out the stack of smaller envelopes contained within. The handwriting was recognizable but askew—like a photograph that somebody had Photoshopped just slightly. The envelopes were neither stamped nor postmarked. None had been read.
My suitcase was downstairs, zipped, and waiting by the door. Soon enough I’d hear the familiar sound of car wheels churning over gravel—although this time, I’d hear it from the passenger’s perspective.
I reached beneath the bed and pulled out the box, removing its lid to survey the supplies within. Unsurprisingly, they were diminished from their original abundance. The container had initially been heavy with paper goods: practically a portable stationery store. Now, there were only a few envelopes, a sheaf of note cards, two stray pens. How many words had I put down? I wondered. Add it all up and you’d have a record of our friendship. Elise and me.
A story about two girls.
She would never disappear, I realized. And neither would I.