by Aspen Audley

(image c/o brookingsdotedu)

I had feared it was lost forever. I spent three days looking for it, disassembling the master closet, groping my way through the poorly lit basement, brushing off cobwebs as I probed the attic’s far corners. Finally, searching under the bed, I discovered a big, plastic box with promise. Holding my breath, I removed the lid. One by one, I pulled out old newspaper clippings, kindergarten artwork, and a handful of unfinished stories. I tossed them all aside and kept searching. Then, at the bottom of the box: thick layers of shiny, bulbous bubble wrap, tensile against my fingers, cushioning an object so vibrantly orange that its color penetrated the plastic. 

I carefully removed the wrapping material and examined it. The M-C folder was pristine, without discoloration or bent edges or tears. The emblem was etched on the cover, an open triangle with sunburst stars at each point, colored with sparkly, gold marker. I leaned in and inhaled. The strawberry-scented oil we’d applied was still there, though faint. At the bottom of the cover were thick tufts of hair, held in place by yellowed tape—mine on the left, Megan’s on the right—the exact same shade of blond. The inside pockets bulged with photographs and postcards, and between the brackets were years’ worth of letters and our friendship oath. On the back cover, the cipher key to our secret code: a circle inside a square for A, a sideways smiley face for B, a top hat for C … Megan’s penmanship was impeccable. Ruler-straight lines, uniform spacing, upright characters.  

In an instant, I was back in fourth grade.

It was the first day. I was new to the school, knew no one, and hoped that, with this fresh start, I could shed my usual shy personality and make real friends. 

The girl on my right had hair as short as a boy’s. She was petite in stature, small-boned, with rosy cheeks, glossy lips, and heavily-lashed, ice blue eyes.

She noticed me looking at her. “Hey, are you new?”

We weren’t supposed to be talking, and I’d never broken a classroom rule, but I decided to answer her.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “I was new last year. Do you have Recess A or B?”

I told her I had A. 

“Me too,” she said. “My name’s Megan.” 

A bubble of happiness rose in my chest. “I’m Camila.”

She leaned forward as though she were going to say something else, but Mrs. Donavan interjected.

“Megan and Camila, no talking. That’s one mark for each of you. Remember: three marks, and you must stay inside at recess.” 

Her voice hurled out like a cannonball, and I slid down into my chair, trying to avoid my classmates’ stares. I gazed at the floor, letting my vision go blurry for a moment. When I refocused, I saw a tiny ant scampering about under my desk. It meandered in circles a few times then darted off into space, out of view. I grew jealous. Ants can run away whenever they want. Sure would be nice.

Megan tapped my arm. I sat up. Her face was transformed. Huge, crossed eyes. Protuberant fish lips. Sucked-in cheeks. Like nothing I’d ever seen before. It took everything I had not to erupt into giggles.

When it was time for recess, Megan speed-walked over to me, a determined look on her face and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. “Let’s go!” she said. She showed me the basketball court, the soccer field, the tetherball pole. We watched the little kids play hopscotch for a while, and she commented on how “very precious” they were. Then she led me to a shady spot under a tree, and we sat down. She opened her bag and pulled out a crochet hook, yarn, and the beginnings of what looked like an oversized scarf.

“My grandma taught me how to crochet. I’m not that good yet, but I’m trying to make a blanket for my doll.”

My breathing stopped. She said doll. Doll. And she said it so naturally, without hesitation. Dolls were my secret love. I was mom to eleven of them, ranging in age from infants to preschoolers, each with his or her own name, birthday, temperament, and wardrobe. No one I knew still played with dolls. Not even my little sister.

My fingers were tingling, my mind was racing, but I tried to appear calm. First, to be polite, I commented on how pretty the blanket was. She thanked me and beamed. 

“Does your doll have a name?” I asked.

“Jenny. My mom gave her to me for Christmas last year. I named her after my cousin’s wife, Jenny Fay. She’s totally beautiful, like a model. My Jenny’s not antique, but I think she’s rare. My mom says I need to take really good care of her because they don’t make them anymore.”

“Is she the kind of doll you just look at? Or do you …” I didn’t have the courage to finish the sentence.

Her eyes twinkled. “No way! I play with her every day. Today I’m going to start teaching her how to read.”

Already, I loved her.

I figured it might hurt her feelings to tell her how many dolls I had, so I mentioned just one. “My grandmother gave me a Cabbage Patch Kid. Her name’s Callie.”

“Lucky! What does she look like? What’s her personality?”

For the rest of recess, we talked dolls. I learned that Jenny had a passion for unicorns and ballet, and always said her prayers before bed. I described Callie’s last birthday party, the new outfit I got her, how she wanted to be a nurse when she grew up. All the while, Megan crocheted. Her hand moved the needle slowly, weaving the yarn in and out in a steady rhythm. Occasionally, she would stop, lift the blanket shoulder height, and wait, an expectant look on her face, until I praised her work. Before it was time to go back in, she asked if I’d come over sometime. I agreed, pinching myself to be sure it was really happening. 

“Be sure to bring Callie,” she said.

“Okay. Don’t tell anyone, though. About Callie.” I looked her straight in the eyes.

“Sure.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

I was buoyant, spirit soaring through the sky, my whole body humming. 

“Camila.” Megan’s face was grim as she dragged me from the front porch to the living room. “I have some horrible news. Let’s go sit down.”

She sat stone-still, head bent, hands folded in her lap. I could hear the clock above the mantle ticking, and with each tick, the tension in my body increased. Finally, she raised her head, let out a sigh, and spoke. 

“Jenny couldn’t get out of bed yesterday. She told me she can’t feel her legs anymore. They’re completely numb.”

“Oh my gosh, Megan! What did you do?”

 “I rushed her to the doctor’s immediately. He thought at first it might be a virus and get better, but it’s not. She’s going to be paralyzed for the rest of her life. She’s going to be in a wheelchair, forever.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Megan, I’m so sorry!” I was still for a moment, not certain what to do. Then, with a surge of compassion, I rushed over and wrapped my arms around her. I was awkward, unsure how close to stand, how tightly to hold her, what to do with my head. But she drew me in, and everything settled into perfect position. I felt her warm breath on my neck, her feathery hair on my cheek, the transfer of love from one body to the next.

She spoke first. “You know, you’re really a good friend, Camila.”

“You are, too, Megan.”

The next day, I gave Callie cystic fibrosis.

When Megan came over to our house, I would hide all my dolls but Callie. I still hadn’t told her about the rest of my “children.” I’d arrange Callie and my games, puzzles, and arts and crafts supplies in a big circle in the middle of my room with the hope that they’d keep Megan from exploring the house like she always said she wanted to do. So far, my plan had worked.

One day, while braiding friendship bracelets, she spotted my journal on the nightstand. 

“Is that your diary?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ve had one since kindergarten.” 

“That’s so cool,” she said. “I have one, too.”

We agreed that the next time we got together, we would hold a writing session.

The following weekend, we met at her grandparents’ house. As I stood at the door, I heard her bounding toward the entryway, her voice rhapsodic: “Coming, coming, coming!”     

She welcomed me in, then asked, “Did you bring it?”

I showed her my diary.

“Awesome!”

We went back to the guest bedroom, where we always played. Megan picked up a bandana from the dresser.

“What’s that?” I asked.

A mischievous look came over her face. “I’m taking you on an adventure!”

I laughed. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see … Come here. Hold onto your diary.” I followed her instructions. “This is a test of your faith,” she said. “You have to trust me completely. One hundred percent. Do you?”

I tried to suppress any hesitation in my voice. “Yes. I do.”

She tied the bandana over my eyes and spun me around and around until I was dizzy.

She grabbed my hand and led me through the house with zigzags, sharp turns, and spins. She had me take five steps forward, turn to the left, turn to the right, take nine steps back. Once, she told me I needed to take a big step over an obstacle on the floor. Several times, she shouted, “Watch out!” and told me to duck.

Finally, we stopped. I heard a door open with a quiet shudder.

“One more step,” she said. Her voice sounded echoey. “Guess. Where do you think we are?”

“I have no idea. Maybe … the patio?”

She removed the blindfold.

“The shower!”

She started to giggle. “I know. I thought this could be our secret diary-writing spot.”

“The shower?”

Her diary was already there, standing upright in a deeply recessed shelf. “Come on. We can fit if we curl up.”

We sat down, our bodies squeezed up against each other. Balancing our diaries on our knees, we wrote in silence until Megan gasped.

“Oh my gosh. Did I tell you what I did the other day? At Henry’s?”

“No. What happened?”

“Well, my mom wanted me to try on some pants. She picked out a bunch, then went to look around some more. I guess I started daydreaming, I don’t know, but believe it or not, I started taking my clothes off right there in front of everyone!”

“What? You mean you weren’t in the dressing room?”

“Right. I didn’t even realize it until one whole pant leg was off. This man rushed over to me and said, ‘Miss, you’re undressing in public!’ I kid you not, I was so embarrassed I was sweating like crazy. I ran to the dressing room as fast as I could, which was really hard, half-dressed like that. What was I thinking?”

We were both hysterical, roaring with laughter, bodies shaking, tears streaming down our cheeks. Megan’s face was flushed and exhilarated. My abdominal muscles ached. 

Then, caught up in the building euphoria, inspired by Megan’s playfulness, I did something unexplainable.

I opened my mouth wide and, using the full power of my voice, yelled out, “EYEBALL!”

Megan looked at me in shock. 

“Eyeball? You said eyeball, Camila! What in the world?”

Her laughter triggered mine, and, just like that, we were at it again.

The fun continued until her grandfather discovered us. He gave Megan a stern lecture on how to be a good hostess and banished us from the bathroom.

Fifth, sixth, and seventh grades were bliss. But three weeks into eighth grade, everything changed.

Megan came to me at lunch, her face somber and pale. Choking on her words, she told me that her mom had been offered a job she could not refuse, much higher paid than the one she had now, and it meant that they would have a better life. “But it’s bad news for us, Camila. The job is all the way in Louisiana, so we’re moving. Soon. In one week.”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. Then, I remembered. This was Megan.

“Stop joking around.”

“Camila, I’m serious. I’m moving.” 

“You’re making this up.”

“I’m not. My mom already picked out a house and everything.”

She threw her arms around me. I vaguely heard her say that we would write, that she would come to town regularly to visit her grandparents. But all I could really focus on was a phrase swirling in my head: My dear Megan, she was ripped from my life, leaving a wound that never healed. 

Later that day, I wrote Megan a letter. It was the longest one I’d ever written. Before I could change my mind, I signed and sealed it. 

I gave her the letter a week before she left. I’d wanted her to read it alone, but she insisted on opening it then and there. She plopped down onto my bed and pulled a pillow into her lap. 

She read for what seemed like a millennium. Her eyes moved slowly across the page. She often paused to blink repetitively or adjust her back. Twice she glanced up at me, and I thought she might say something, but she just softened her eyes and resumed reading. She sighed once, and I tried to check her expression, but I couldn’t see her face well enough. 

I yanked my dangle ring off, shoved it back over the knuckle, kneaded the fleshy spot between the thumb and the fingers, scraped under the nails. I began questioning the words of my letter, rearranging them, deleting them, adding new ones, wishing I could do it all over again, make it perfect this time.

When Megan laid the letter down gently in her lap, she was silent for a few moments. Then, in a quiet voice, she said, “Camila, I love you, too. We will always be best friends, no matter what.”

That was when our M-C folders were born. Megan came up with the idea. She said she wanted to “preserve” my letter, “make it a testament to true friendship”—“for our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren, our great-great-grandchildren, and all future generations of best friends.” We found a couple of cardboard folders, mine bright orange, hers royal blue, and spent the afternoon decorating them. Megan invented a secret code, and in lieu of a blood oath, we cut sections of each other’s hair and taped them to the cover. I suggested we put our commitment to each other in writing. We got two sheets of notebook paper and, on each one, wrote the following:

This is to proclaim that forever and ever, Megan and Camila, also known as M-C, will be best friends and love each with all our hearts.

We signed the papers, placed them in the folders, and pressed the brackets down, locking them in place.

Every Tuesday, I received a pink envelope with flowers in the corners, addressed to me in Megan’s flawless handwriting. She wrote about her new room, her crocheting, her classes, boys. Just above her signature, she would write, You’re the best friend ever! I love you so much!

Soon, she began to mention someone new. At first, it was a comment about Julie smiling at her in Geometry. But, as time went on, I read about passing notes in class, sharing each other’s school lunches, exploring the creek behind Megan’s house. I pictured Julie in my head: luxurious, long, wavy brown hair, large, emerald eyes, hourglass figure. Nothing like me.

I continued to write weekly. Megan’s letters became irregular. I read through each carefully, seeking an explanation, but found none.

When I came home from school at the start of Thanksgiving Break, one of Megan’s envelopes was waiting for me on my bed. It had been a month since I’d last heard from her, the longest we’d gone without contact. 

Dear Camila,

Hi! How are ya? Sorry I haven’t written. I’ve had a lot going on.

You asked about my mom. She’s dating a nice man she met at church named Frank. He has two children, but they’re older and don’t live with him. I like him and hope they get married someday.

I hope you’re doing well. How are things going with Kevin? What happened at the dance?

I plan to visit my grandparents at Christmas again this year, so let’s get together!

Best friends forever! I love you!

Love,

Megan 

P.S. By the way, you don’t have to write me every week! That’s a lot of work. Don’t feel like you have to do that. 

It wasn’t unusual for Megan’s letters to be shorter than mine, but this was unprecedented—the page was half blank. Her words about my weekly letters made me cringe. How could she think that writing her was anything but pure joy? But then I remembered her tender, guileless expression when she told me that she loved me, too. She’d said that we’d be best friends no matter what. Those were her exact words. I knew it was true. She was just busy.

When we got together at Christmas, things were exactly the way they’d always been. She hugged me tight and was funny and laughing, she made my hair up in elegant movie-star styles, we examined my yearbooks, poring over every picture of my latest crush. She confided in me that she was scared her grandfather could die soon because she’d overheard him mentioning his prostate, just like her uncle had before he’d died. Leaning in, her voice hushed, she said, “I’ve seen death, Camila, and it isn’t pretty. Not pretty indeed.” We stayed up late into the night talking about our memories, writing in our diaries, sharing secrets. 

But after she went back, her letters became even more infrequent.

She invited me to spend a couple of weeks that summer at her home in New Orleans. Waiting was agonizing. To pass the time, I leafed through my M-C folder, rereading Megan’s letters, carefully pulling out each photograph. For fun, I wrote out a short note to her using our old code. I imagined being in her presence, hugging her, hearing her infectious laugh, and a dazzling array of fireworks, rainbows, and butterflies was suddenly before me, everything glowing and glittering, my body pure light.

On the day of my trip, I woke up two hours before my alarm was supposed to go off. I had planned out my outfit three weeks in advance: a striped pink, green, and yellow men’s Polo blouse, a beige camisole, light wash denim jeans, a leather braided belt, white ankle socks, and brown Cole Haan loafers. I curled and sprayed my hair, applied lip gloss, and spritzed on my brand-new Eternity perfume. I had so much energy that I had to do jumping jacks to calm down.

It was my first time flying alone. I was nervous I’d make a mistake, but I found my seat and managed to successfully stuff my bag into an almost-full overhead compartment. I surprised myself by jabbering at the burly, long-haired man next to me. “I’m about to see my best friend! We haven’t been able to get together for months and months. We live really far apart. But she invited me to her house for two whole weeks, and my parents agreed. It’s even my first time flying by myself. Isn’t that great?” He smiled a sheepish smile then looked out the window.

It took forever to exit the plane. It was a full flight, and I was in the back. The passengers plodded along like sloths, stopping here and there to check that they didn’t leave anything behind, pausing to thank the flight crew, even tying their shoelaces. By the time I got to the jet bridge, it took all my self-control not to push everyone aside and sprint ahead.

There were dense clusters of people huddled around the arrival gate. Lots of spirited greetings. Lots of hugs. But no Megan. I maneuvered in and out of the travelers and their loved ones, my head swiveling. Eventually, after walking through the gate area, I spotted her blond hair, now lighter than before, so gleaming and butter blond that she shone like a lighthouse. She had it pulled back with dozens of mini claw clips, the kind featured in all the latest magazines. She was wearing makeup, enough to notice but not overdone. Her clothes were casual, a bright yellow t-shirt, khaki shorts, and low-heeled slide sandals. 

When she saw me, she rose to her toes and waved her hand in a big sweeping motion. Instead of approaching me, though, she turned to an attractive guy next to her and said something I couldn’t hear. Who was this? Her mom’s boyfriend? Unlikely—this guy was too young.

We hugged, and though nice, it paled in comparison to our others. I felt on display as this stranger was watching the whole time. And Megan pulled away earlier than usual, so early that I wondered if this was just her standard obligatory airport greeting.

“Camila, this is my boyfriend, Brian.”

In that instant, my hope for one-on-one time with her evaporated.

Still, I was polite. Brian hoisted my bag up onto his shoulder and led the way. The airport was big and crowded and bright. At first, we tried walking side-by-side, but the oncoming traffic made it impossible; I had to walk behind them. Occasionally, someone would move between them and me, and I’d have to summon all my energy to dash forward, make a sharp swerve, and reclaim my spot.

At last, the crowd cleared. Megan and Brian dropped back next to me.

“So what grade will you be in next year?” he asked.

“Ninth, like Megan.”

“That’s cool. You’ll like high school. Any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes, I have a younger sister. She’s going into sixth grade.”

He puffed out his cheeks and let out his breath. “Aw, man. Middle school can be rough.”

After a pause, I asked, “So … how did you and Megan meet?”

He smiled. “Tennis lessons. Coach asked me to help her.”

“I didn’t know you were taking tennis lessons, Megan.”

She said, “Yeah. Guess I forgot to tell you.”

“She’s doing awesome. Practicing a lot. Her forehand’s gotten smokin’ good.”

As he spoke, he rubbed her upper back. Something about that made my toes curl.

Other than Driver’s Ed, I’d never been driven by a teenager. As I got into the car, I started imagining myself in a horrific car accident. While glaring at the back of Brian’s head, I prayed silently. 

They were talking softly; I could barely make out their words. Brian mentioned an upcoming calculus test, and I heard him say “super stressed,” “lot of studying to do,” and “may have to bail.” Maybe he wouldn’t be hanging around all the time after all.

We made it home safely. Brian dropped us off in front of Megan’s house. I told him thank you and, for some inexplicable reason that I immediately regretted, “Don’t study too hard.” He and Megan had a prolonged goodbye, he gave me a two-finger salute, and finally, he drove away. 

As I unpacked, she talked about Brian a bit, but then the conversation shifted to us. What would I like to do? she asked. She said I was the “guest of honor,” and she wanted me to pick. She suggested swimming, the amusement park, miniature golf, the 3D dinosaur movie at the science museum. I loved the idea of a 3D movie, so we planned it for the next day. Her mom served us a delicious late lunch of homemade chicken salad sandwiches, crisp dill pickles, and creamy ambrosia—the best meal I could remember, other than the holidays. Afterwards, we played with the family pets and watched MTV. 

For a while, we just sang to the music, but when The Black Crowes’ “Hard to Handle” came on, Megan grabbed my arm and said, “Let’s dance!” I felt self-conscious at first, but watching her wild gyrations and listening to the impassioned melody inspired me. Soon, like her, I was whipping my head around, twisting, twirling, tumbling to the floor. In that moment, I knew that this was something I’d never forget: crazy, carefree, ecstatic dancing with my beloved best friend. 

Late that night, we were on our bellies in her room, our heads resting in our hands, lightweight sleeping bags and foam cushion pads beneath us. The overhead lights were off, but a pink, crystal lamp on her nightstand cast a rosy glow around her bed, just enough light to see each other. We were so close that I could smell her fresh, fruity shampoo. 

Suddenly, Megan sighed and turned to me with a solemn expression. “Camila, I have to tell you something. But you have to promise not to say anything to anyone. Not even your parents. Promise?”

I told my mom everything, so this would be difficult. But she was my best friend. I promised.

“Camila, I’ve been really bad. Since I started dating Brian, I’ve been invited to all of the senior parties. Mom doesn’t want me to go, so I’ve been sneaking out. I’ve gotten drunk several times. And high. Brian stays clean when he’s driving me, so don’t worry. He just wants me to have a good time and look after me.”

She rolled onto her side and leaned on her elbow. “Plus … Brian and I had sex … One time. At his older brother’s apartment.”

I didn’t know what to say. At first, I couldn’t even move. My eyes locked onto a horizontal seam at the top of the sleeping bag while I tried to think of what was right to do, what I was capable of doing. In the end, I placed my hand around her upper arm and squeezed. She laid her fingertips on my wrist. 

Despite the activities Megan had lined up, the rest of my visit was overshadowed by her confessions. Throughout the dinosaur movie, our trip to the neighborhood pool, even our visit to the amusement park, images of the things she told me about would flash in my head, leaving me with a tumbling stomach and whole-body shivers. I wondered how I would ever be able to reconcile my memories of the old Megan with this new knowledge. We were now different, divided, living in incongruous planes of existence. Did she even think about the same things I did anymore? How did she see me now? Was I immature and unsophisticated to her?

Still, I loved her the same. The day before I went home, I planned out something to say to her to reassure both of us. I practiced it in the shower before bed: Megan, you are my best friend. Nothing you told me changes how I feel. You know I love you. Do you feel the same?

But she was fast asleep.

I promised myself I’d find a way to talk to her in the morning before we left the house. But we woke up late, and I was too busy packing to break away for a private conversation. It’s got to happen at the airport, I thought.

 Breakfast was an idyllic painted canvas, with all of us seated at an antique wooden kitchen table, velvet light streaming in through ornate French windows, the rich aroma of doughy cinnamon rolls wafting through the air.

I was drinking the last of my orange juice when the doorbell rang. 

“It’s about time,” Megan said. She jumped up and ran out of the room. When she returned, Brian was with her. 

He was the last person I wanted to see.

“Hey Camila. How are you?” he said.

“Fine.”

“Good to hear. You ready? We better get going.”

When we got to the boarding area, I checked my watch. Nine twenty-seven. There was still time. I had twenty-three minutes to act. 

 “Megan, will you help me with my hair in the bathroom? You’re good at fixing it, better than me. It’s a mess. I’ve got all my hair stuff in my bag.”

She laughed. “You worry too much! Your hair looks fine. Besides … ” She glanced at Brian. “We’ve got a tennis lesson at ten.”

She gave me a hug, saying something I couldn’t process. I knew I should hug her back, but all I could manage were loose arms at her waist. Brian said goodbye. And then, holding hands, they walked away.

For the next few years, Megan’s letters dwindled to almost nothing. I began calling her regularly to stay in touch. I heard about boyfriends that came and went, her decision to enroll at the University of Alabama, her new roommate. On days that I missed her especially, I’d get out my M-C folder, crawl into bed, and reminisce. 

“Camila, I’m pregnant.”

It was midway through our sophomore year of college. She told me she and her boyfriend were in love. They were getting married in weeks. She said he was a good man, with a good family, and already had a job lined up with his father. They’d decided she’d drop out of school and be a stay-at-home mom. She was eager to become the perfect housewife. She wanted a large family—three girls, two boys, an overflowing table at the holidays.

I thought about how she used to want to be a lawyer. She wanted to travel the world. I thought about the time she told Jenny, “Once you’re a mom, you need to devote 110 percent to that child. Nothing is more important. Not parents. Not friends. Not work. Nothing.”

“That’s wonderful news, Megan. Send me a picture of the baby when you can.”  

Her grandparents passed away around that time, so her visits came to an end. She had two girls and two boys, a big family just like she wanted. Meanwhile, I finished my medical degree, got married, and had a child of my own. I tried to keep in touch, but she was too busy to write, too busy to talk on the phone. Our communication consisted of annual Christmas cards, mine in letter format, hers a family photo with a brief note. I saved every card, framing the most recent one and placing it where I could always see it on my desk. The rest I tucked into the front pocket of my M-C folder.

I remember the last one she sent. It arrived unusually late, about a week after Christmas. The picture was taken in a studio, with a professionally rendered, hazy background and soft, warm light. She and her family were snuggled together on a large sofa, everyone smiling. I turned the card over to read her note. It was blank.

Again, I framed it and put it on my desk. Every time I looked at it, I thought about Megan’s effervescence, her silliness, her friendliness. I wanted to talk to her, tell her urgently that she was still my best friend. I had her number. It would have been easy for me to call or text. But then I’d remember the blank Christmas card, and I’d stop myself.

The following Christmas, when she didn’t send a card, I looked through my M-C folder one last time and packaged it away in a safe place. I thought it would help to put her photo out of view, so I found a spot for it at the back of my bookcase and replaced it with an old, crinkled picture of my childhood dog. But eventually, I missed seeing Megan and her family every day. I returned her picture to my desk.   

I was driving to work one day, listening to the radio and recalling the X-rays I’d seen over the past week. There was the comminuted, angulated, displaced humerus fracture, the subtle case of sickle cell disease I’d caught by noticing the “H-shaped” lumbar vertebrae, and the questionable lung nodules for which I’d recommended a chest CT. I was making a mental note to check the results of that CT when the music on the radio interrupted my thoughts. Feverish, heavy, stomping beat. Rich, bluesy electric guitar. Commanding vocal. It was the Black Crowes’ “Hard to Handle.” I hadn’t heard it since Megan’s and my dance session. I knew I had to talk to her as soon as possible. The thought burned in the back of my mind as I reviewed the day’s studies.

I went on a frantic search through the house. Even my husband helped me, pushing furniture aside, pulling down boxes too high for me to reach, massaging my neck when it cramped.  

After I found it, I set it on my bed where it would get the best light and took photos of it from every angle. I scrolled through all of them until I found the one I liked best. I got out a piece of paper and drafted a message. I edited it several times, deliberating on word choice, punctuation, and emojis.

Hi Megan! How are you? (Smiley face). Look what I found! Do you still have yours? I can’t wait to go through this. I miss you terribly and wish we could get together. 

I typed it into my phone, attached the picture of the M-C folder, and with a rush of adrenaline, hit send.

I kept my phone close by the rest of the day, waiting for a response. It was silent for hours. Near bedtime, a text came through. I quickly opened it, but it was just my sister. I told myself to be patient, that she was a busy mom, that she must write when she saw the picture.

Yet there was nothing. For two days. Three. Five. And then it was a full week.

It was summer, bright, blazing sun, crystalline blue skies, vibrant red zinnias, flocked white pear trees, lush magnolias. But my days were interminable, lifeless, leaden rain, muted birdsong, barbed grass.

It was a week and three days into my misery. I was at work, adding the finishing touches to a chest X-ray report. A melodic phone chime, a flash of the screen, a swift inhale upon reading the name. Megan Brooks. I was tempted to open it then and there, but it had been a busy day, and we were behind. Besides, it was something I wanted to savor. At home. In silk pajamas. After dinner and a shower, I made myself a cup of hot peppermint tea. Settled into our reclining chair and pulled up the footrest. Switched on the lamp. Unrolled my favorite fleece blanket and tucked it around me.

Hi Camila. What a surprise to hear from you. I hope you’re doing okay. We’re fine. I actually don’t remember the M-C folder. Sorry. Thanks for reaching out. Take care.

My head fell back against the chair. My arms went limp. My phone tumbled to the floor. I felt myself shrivel, cave in, curdle. My inner candle went dark.

. . .

Aspen Audley is a writer and physician who lives in San Antonio, Texas. Her work has appeared in New Pop Lit and SPANK the CARP. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, tai chi, and watching Project Runway.