Comfort & Joy

Of course, I’ve believed lots of crazy things . . .

I walk over to my bathroom and hold my hand up to the mirror.

There it is: small and white against my palm, like the tip of a Christmas tree.

I need help. Closing my hand tightly around the arrowhead, I head out of my room. As I pass the bureau, I see the airline ticket and glance at my clock. The daily flight to Seattle leaves in just under three hours.

What if?

Once again those two small words infuse my world with hope and possibility. I can’t push them away, can’t stop the swell of longing this time.

Shoving the ticket in my purse, I leave the house that already feels as if it belongs to someone else and go to my garage, where I limp past the file cabinets of my dreams and get into my Volvo. Behind me, the door lifts open.

Before I start the car, I look down at the thing in my hand.

It’s still there.

Slowly, keeping my foot on the brake, I back out of my garage and down the driveway. All the way to my sister’s house, I clutch the arrowhead and pray it’s real.

I don’t think my fragile mind can handle another delusion.

Still praying, I park in Stacey’s driveway, grab my cane, and go to the front door, where I ring the bell repeatedly.

It isn’t until I hear footsteps that I remember who else lives here and think: This could be bad.

Thom answers.

I stare at him, this man who held my heart for so many years and slept beside me and sometimes remembered to kiss me good night. It is the first time in months I’ve been this close to him, and I feel . . .

Nostalgic and nothing more. Here is my past, my youth, staring down at me. He looks remarkably like he did on the night I met him, all those years ago. Back when we were kids.

“Hey, Thom,” I say, surprised at how easy it now is to say his name.

“Joy. ” His normally strong voice is a whisper. I can see him wondering what to say.

“It’s funny how things work out,” I say, giving him time to think.

“I’m sorry, Joy. ”

I’m surprised by how deeply his words affect me. I hadn’t known until just now that I needed to hear them. “Me, too. ”

After that, silence falls between us. Neither knows where our words should go. We stare at each other; he looks as sad as I feel. Finally, he says, “Is Stacey expecting you?”

“No. ”

He glances toward the stairs and yells, “Stace. Your sister’s here. ”

Stacey comes down the stairs, looking panicked. She looks worriedly at Thom, then turns to me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay, actually. ” I grab her sleeve and pull her into the hallway. I should wait for more privacy, maybe take her to a room, but I’m too nervous and excited to be sensible. “I found this in the pants I was wearing on the plane. ” I lift my hand and slowly unfurl my fingers.

Stacey stares down at my palm.

I can see it as plain as day—a small white arrowhead.

Please . . . I don’t even know how to finish my prayer. I just know that if my hand is empty, I’m lost. I’ll need—as they say—a long vacation in a rubber room. It takes every scrap of courage I possess to ask her: “Do you see it?”

“The rock?”