Wes was on his third trip up the ladder, facing a now-empty section of the bookshelf. I wondered what he was staring at, but I also wanted to see what was in the box, so I quickly pulled it close and opened it. Inside was a beautiful antique pen. It was brass with carvings painted green and gold, which wowed me, but what intrigued me the most was the tip.
It wasn’t a standard ballpoint tip, but a sharp pointed nib. My eyes traveled back to the box, now understanding the purpose of the little jar resting in it. Like a moth to a flame, my hand took it out and before I could stop myself, I grabbed a notepad and began writing.
At first, I started with my name, and couldn’t believe how easy it was. And not only easy—my penmanship was actually neater. It was clearly my handwriting, but there was something about the way I had to angle the pen and write each letter with care that made the words look more elegant.
After the initial feeling of admiration, my breath caught as I realized I had no prior experience using a quill and real ink, but it seemed easy. Looking for someone to help me understand, my gaze traveled up to Wes, who was standing at the top of the ladder, watching me.
“I’m impressed,” he said.
I looked back down at the page, “Yeah, me too.”
He smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d had practice doing that in another lifetime.”
“Ha ha,” I joked, but underneath the sarcasm was a strange sense of solemnity. It was as if I no longer felt like myself. I mean, who was “myself” anyway?
For the first time, I actually felt afraid to admit to exactly what my newfound skill signified. Circulating within my soul was Amelia. The weight of her existence suddenly felt heavy.
I think before that moment I’d never
truly
believed it. I considered Lenny and Amelia to be parts of me, like a bloodline carried on. But now it was more than that.
“You can make it,” she urged, “You’ll be all right.” She was very much trying to be heard, and I tried to listen.
I dropped the pen and rubbed my eyes, unsure if it was a memory of her saying that to Wes, or if she was actually encouraging me. Whatever it was, I couldn’t crumble now. I directed my attention back to Wes and our current task.
Prior to coming into the study, Wes had told me he had more pictures and items from the past that might help my mother to accept the impossible. So now I watched as he jimmied lose the wall behind the empty section of the bookshelf.
“Can you take this?” he asked.
I walked over and he handed me a piece of darkly stained wood that was about three by two feet wide. It had been made to appear like the back of every other shelf.
Behind it lay hidden a fireproof safe from which Wes pulled a box.
“Gee, what’s in there? Photos of the Grassy Knoll?”
“That’s a good one, but no,” he said climbing down. “I wouldn’t be hiding
those
if I had them,” he winked.
Over on the couch, Wes prepared me for the shock of seeing myself in past lives. The first picture he took out was of Amelia in her uniform. She was amazingly intriguing. The photo looked like a nursing school photograph taken from the waist up. Her hair was parted on the same side as mine, but it was pulled neatly back without bangs hiding part of her face.
It was obvious that she was sitting with perfect posture and she wasn’t smiling, but something in the soft lines of her mouth told me that she was happy. And although the picture was black and white, the pale coloring of her eyes was still striking.
I sat speechless, still disbelieving what I already knew. How awkward is that? Looking back at me was another version of myself that seemed so similar, but so different at the same time. I felt her emotions as if they were my own, but I also felt her still warning me as if she were someone completely different. She seemed to say, “Don’t ever hold back.”
I shuddered and Wes pulled something else from the box. “This was the last letter she wrote to me.” He held it up preserved in a plastic sleeve.
Dear Weston,
Watching Dr. Thomas save you has been the most rewarding moment in my life. The thought of bringing this sickness to you breaks my heart more than staying away, so I am sorry to say that I will not be visiting you anymore. Your life means too much to me.
Please know that I am not afraid. I will die knowing that a gift has been given to the world and I trust that you’ll be vigilant in finding its meaning. You were not made what you are for nothing. Please find your purpose and know that I will carry my memories of you wherever my soul takes me.
With love forever,
Amelia
April 15, 1918
I looked at him, replaying Amelia’s words. His eyes were fixed on me with curiosity.
How was I supposed to respond to this?
Reading just one letter, it was so obvious that she cared for him immensely. Even as she lay dying from the flu, she only wanted what was best for him. She believed he was special and had a purpose. That’s all that mattered to her. She wasn’t writing a drawn out letter about how she would miss him
so
much, wallowing in their possible separation. No, this was a selfless letter that made me feel ashamed.
What Dr. Thomas accomplished in saving Wes was nothing short of a miracle. It was the beginning of who knows how many medical breakthroughs, and Amelia never lost sight of that. As hard as it seemed to focus on that now, I wouldn’t lose sight of it, either. No matter what my own fears might be.
“Thank you,” I said.
He blinked for what seemed like the first time since I’d started the letter. “For what?” he whispered.
“For reminding me about what’s important.”
My shoulders fell softly and even though the corner of my mouth turned up into a soft smile, a look of panic touched his eyes.
“No . . . “ He shook his head, took the letter, and set it aside. “No,
you
are important.”
“No,
you
are important,” I repeated.
“Stop it. Right now,” he replied, grabbing hold of my face with his cool hands.
“Wes, please listen—”
“No,” he nearly growled, giving me a shake.
“It’s not in the cards for me. It never has been.”
Frustrated, he let go of me and stood pacing. With his palms pressed over his ears, he started repeating, “I’m not listening to this.”
I jumped up, cutting short one of his determined strides.
“Please, Wes. I’m barely holding it together. I just don’t want to hope for the wrong thing.”
“Shut up, Sophie!”
My whole body flinched at the sharpness of his tone. That was the first time he’d ever spoken to me that way, and it completely shocked me.
“Wes.”
“No, you listen to me,” he said with his finger in my face, “I am not going to give up on you.”
I instinctively took a step backwards, hoping the distance would clear my head for a response.
“But why does that make you angry?” I asked.
Sighing heavily, “Because, after everything we’ve been through, you’ve only made me fall for you more than I can practically stand, and now you want to give up on
me
.”
What?
“No, that’s not what I mean. I just don’t want to lose sight of the bigger picture. It’s not about me.”
“It’s
all
about you,” he countered. “Don’t you understand? I’ve done everything I can to carry on Dr. Thomas and Amelia’s wishes. But what about
me
? My whole life has been so lonely.
So
lonely. So if you care about me at all, you’ll stop talking about
my
purpose, and let me help you.”
A tear was about to fall from his right eye, but before I could respond, he stepped around me, leaving me alone in the study.
For several moments, my legs were too weak to move. I felt alone and clueless. This was madness. I was only eighteen. All of the pressure was catching up to me. We were just kids. The past didn’t justify me having to jump on a fast track to maturity.
I almost wished I could rewind time. Go back to that day in September when all I had to worry about was listening to my Zune and turning in my assignments on time. How stress-free my life was! But now? Meeting Wes, finding out about his secret, finding out about my past, surviving a kidnapping, making it through Wes’ own fiasco, and now, fighting the tick-tocking sounds of my life.
Not to mention the pressure of Wes and his purpose and trying to find out where “we” fit into it, or if there should even be a “we.”
Frustrated, I plopped back down onto the couch and closed my eyes.
So
much pressure in such a short time. So much. I wanted to cry. Why couldn’t things be normal?
Still, I couldn’t ignore the other new feeling I’d been experiencing. Love. Not just I-want-to-write-his-name-on-my-notebook love. Well, I’d probably do that, too, but bigger love. An I’d-give-up-everything-just-to-feel-it-for-one-more-minute love. A healthy love. Healthy because as much as I was willing to give up for him, I knew he’d give it all back and more.
I opened my eyes and exhaled a long breath. The box was still sitting on the couch, calling to me. The next picture I took out was of Amelia and Wes. It took my breath away. She was in her nursing uniform, leaning over the bed where Wes lay covered up to his chest in blankets.
He wasn’t smiling, but had a look of contentment that said, “I was having a good time with her until you interrupted. But okay, take your picture.” Amelia, on the other hand, was beaming.
I turned it over and saw the date: Feb. 1917. Wow. This was right about the time Wes had said he was adjusting to his transfusion. Hot and cold flashes, time lapses. All of it foreign to him, and Amelia had been there, helping him through it, reading poetry and conversing. And oh, it was so clear that she adored him. I wondered if he ever knew how much.
I was sure he spent the next forty years second-guessing her feelings for him and wondering if he’d shown her enough appreciation for what she did for him. The wonder turned into a search for the next batch of photos.
I had yet to see any pictures of Lenny, but I knew without a doubt they would be in the box.
I sifted through a few envelopes that looked like letters from his mother and a few more pictures of him with his father when he was younger. Toward the bottom, I found the pictures I was looking for. Tucked the furthest away, suggesting that they were the most difficult for him to see, were those of him and Lenny.
In the first picture, she was eating an ice-cream cone at what looked like a carnival. Her smile matched Amelia’s. Clearly, she was beyond happy. The next picture was of her and Wes, and it was obvious from the angle of her arm that she had taken it herself. Surely forcing him to join her in a picture. This time Wes was smiling, but in a laughing sort of way, and her smile was as thrilled as it had been in the first picture.
I pondered the photos of Amelia and Lenny. I knew Amelia loved Wes, that was obvious, but her excitement seemed to stem from his well-being. She was so happy he was alive.
Lenny’s smile was the same, but according to Wes, she didn’t know about his secret or his past. That only meant that her joy was strictly from being with him. No matter what her father forbade, she loved him completely.
I wondered what my pictures would look like. In the one I gave him for Christmas, taken of us at the bookstore by Dawn, I remembered being happy. But I don’t think I was as free-spirited as any of the young women staring back at me.
In my picture, I had been worried that he’d pick up on the purpose of the picture (one of his Christmas presents). Not to mention that it was early in our relationship. I was happy, but held so many reservations. I knew things Lenny didn’t, I told myself. That was why she looked so carefree.
It wasn’t because I loved him less. It was because I was too busy worrying over everything. Just like now. I wanted more than anything to relieve my burdens and be happy, without fear. I wanted it so much, and knew we couldn’t get it without help.
I walked through the house searching for Wes. He wasn’t upstairs, in the main area, or the kitchen. The next natural place to look would be in the basement, possibly swimming, but a gut feeling told me I’d find him in the dining room.
Sitting exactly where I thought, he was staring up at the abstract painting. I sat on his lap gently and kissed his cheek.
“I never could tell if this was a happy picture or not,” he whispered.
I sighed, not even needing to look at it, because I remembered it well. “Yesterday, it would have been sad. Today,” I turned his face toward me, “it’s happy.”
His eyebrows rose in response and his gaze searched mine. “Remember the old Sophie who told you that we can’t live in fear?”
He nodded, the bridge of his nose leaning into my neck. “Well, she’s back,” I said flatly.
He pulled back, looking at me. “And she’s not quitting.”
Before he could respond, I kissed him, pressing myself closer to his chest, so he’d know I wasn’t expecting a reply.
T
wo weeks after the girl attacked me, I tested negative again. It was a good sign, everyone said. To me, it didn’t matter. I was pretty much one hundred percent sure it would eventually come back positive, so I didn’t let myself get too relaxed. Instead, I focused on making sure I lived every day the way I wanted.
The following Friday night, Wes came over to explain our pasts to my mom and Tom, and I was a nervous wreck.
I’d dressed up like we were headed out for a first date and needed my mom’s approval. It was ridiculous, but how else do you mentally prepare yourself for something so huge?
The doorbell rang at 4:30, which was way early. I knew he was anxious, but not anxious enough to arrive an hour early. My mom and Tom were already downstairs completely unaware of the bomb we were about to drop, but I figured they could answer the door until my sweaty palms calmed down enough. In less than a minute, I heard my name.