Beside the planner sat her favorite blue ink pen
Beside the planner sat her favorite blue ink pen, the one with the silver clip she always used for exams. I picked it up and held it, the plastic still carrying the tiny scratches from her fingernails.
I sat in her vinyl desk chair and opened the cover, the plastic pages sticking together slightly in June’s heavy humidity.
The calendar was filled with the ordinary details of a senior year that had been cut short. There were calculus assignments, reminders to return library books, and dental appointments marked with small red checkmarks.
On the page for the third Monday in April, there was a circle drawn in bright green ink. Inside the circle, Olivia had written “project joy” in her neat, rounded cursive.
Below those words, she had drawn a tiny sketch of a balloon, but the string of the balloon was left hanging, unfinished.
On the Tuesday she bought the ribbon, her planner had a single word written under the homework section: Kayla’s.
Author
Andrew Collins
I remembered that afternoon now
I remembered that afternoon now. Olivia had come home late, her cheeks slightly flushed, saying she had been studying at the library.
She had carried a large paper shopping bag up to her bedroom, but when I asked her what was inside, she said it was only some old posters for the school hallway.
I had believed her, you see. I had no reason to think a simple paper bag held anything more than cardboard and tape.
The desk drawers were neatly organized, containing her rubber bands, three rolls of scotch tape, and a small wooden ruler with her initials carved into the back. I opened the bottom drawer and found a stack of college brochures, their covers bright with pictures of brick buildings and smiling students.
She had looked at them so often, yet she never filled out a single application. I had assumed she was too tired, too overwhelmed by the diagnosis to think about a future she might not see.
Author
Andrew Collins
Now, looking at the planner and the receipts,
But now, looking at the planner and the receipts, I wondered if she had been busy with something else entirely.
I turned the page to see if there was another note, but the remaining weeks of May were completely blank, the white paper clean and untouched.
A small slip of blue paper fell from between the pages and landed on my lap.
It was a handwritten receipt for three dollars from the school office, signed by the secretary.
I picked it up, my thumb brushing the blue ink.
The front door clicked open down the hall, and the sound of Brian’s work boots on the linoleum broke the quiet of the house.
At seven in the evening, we sat in the living room while the sun began to slip behind the oak trees outside. Brian was flipping through a hardware catalog, his eyes scanning the pages but his hands remaining perfectly still.
“Did Olivia ever talk to you about Kayla toward the end?” I asked, holding the black planner against my chest. “About anything they were working on together?”
Author
Andrew Collins
Brian did not look up from the catalog
Brian did not look up from the catalog. “They talked about normal things, I suppose. Prom dresses. College dorms.”
“But she didn’t go to prom, Brian. She was in bed by then.”
He turned a page, the paper rustling loud in the still room. “They still talked about it. It made her feel like she was part of things.”
“Brian, you’re not going to the graduation tomorrow, are you?” I asked.
He stared at his catalog, his eyes staying on a picture of a brass drill bit. “We already talked about this.”
“But she was your daughter too, Brian. Even if she was my girl first.”
“I have a lot of orders to finish in the shop,” he said, his hand moving to his silver wristwatch again. “I can’t just walk away from the workbench.”
“It’s only two hours,” I said.
“Two hours is enough to ruin a joint-cut if you’re not paying attention,” he said.
Continue Reading →
Author
Andrew Collins
See more on the next page