Page 132 of Intermission

“The Dutchman’s pocket.”

I inhale a sharp hope through the thick, storm-chased August air. I thought of our secret mailbox on the drive down from Michigan, but once I arrived, other memories crowded in. “I never came back here after Noah left. What if...?”

I stand in indecision until a series of horizontal spider veins cross the sky, accompanied by near-immediate crackles of sound, sparking my feet into motion.

It’s been two years. I push the flowers this way and that.

“Where is it? Whereisit?”

Hot, angry tears form and spill. I rip at the flowers now, desperate to unveil the little cave.

A stubborn handful of sagging white blooms gives way, revealing our secret mailbox, but I lose my balance and land, quite hard, on my derriere.

“Stupid flowers! Stupid Dutchman’s pocket! Stupid—!” I gasp, running out of wrath.

Bigger drops of rain fall now, spaced apart. Each hits the dry creek bed like a slap.

The sky lights and booms. Janey whines, her tail between her legs.

“I know, Janey. We need to get going. But if I don’t look, I’ll wonder forever. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

I brush off my backside, glad I stowed my phone in my bag. It’s the one monthly bill my parents still pay for me, and I’m not due for an upgrade if it gets crushed by my bum in a fit of temper.

In my anger and grief, I’ve made a mess of these tenacious little wildflowers, and I feel guilty for the destruction. Carefully, I push the remaining flowers aside and shine the light into the wide crevice.

A spider’s web sparkles in the corner of the opening, and its oversized occupant scuttles out and up the rock. I squeak back a scream and grimace, but the jar is still there, safe within the Dutchman’s pocket.Our secret mailbox.

I grasp the jar and pull it free from the miniature cave. It’s filthy, to be sure. But I have to know. Did he leave me a parting gift?

This jar has seen so many little things, proofs that Noah went out of his way to let me know I was on his mind and in his heart. Notes, funny doodles, song lyrics, a tin of cinnamon-flavored candies...

I have to smile, even though it hurts. Two years of muddy rainsplatter have rendered the outside of the jar nearly opaque. I tilt it. A tinyclink...

“There’s something in there!”

I try to turn the lid, but it won’t budge. I wrap the hem of my t-shirt around it for a better hold, bend at the waist, and groan with the effort until every nerve in my neck is about to pinch. It won’t give.

I switch hands and twist hard. Nothing. And it’s getting slippery now, with the rain.

A loud boom shakes the ground. Janey’s bark ends on a whine.

Enough.

I shove the jar in my backpack. Flashlight in hand, I lift my face to the sky. “God, I know better than to go under a tree in a lightning storm, but I don’t have much choice. If you could just hold off any direct hits until we get to the car, I’d appreciate it.”

Janey stays close at my heels as we trudge back up the creek’s path. The rain is falling harder now, faster. Wind drives the big drops, stinging the earth and my face on their descent. The flashlight’s glare illumines the rain almost as much as the path. By the time we reach the spot where we entered the creek bed, hours ago, the rocky clay of the bank has taken on a sheen.

“It’s going to be slippery, Janey.” My voice is drowned out by a rumble. “C’mon, girl.”

Passing the flashlight into my left hand, I grab onto a low-hanging branch for leverage, but just as I place my left foot higher on the bank, the slick surface of my old sneakers gives way. My bodythunks against the bank, and I slide, stomach-to-the-wall, back to my starting position.

I angle the flashlight over my shirt front.

Ruined.

I reach for the branch again, but my wet hands slip down its length, stripping off several leaves.

“Arrgh!” I growl. “I can’t even get a grip on the stupid thing.”