You've Reached Sam (47)

Behind the counter, there’s a pin board where Tristan and I leave notes for each other, laying out which tasks have been taken care of, along with what needs to be done next. Sometimes, we leave personal messages. I find a blue note card pinned over the checklist.

Hope you’re feeling better.

Left your ticket in the first drawer.

—Tristan



I check the drawer. Inside a gold envelope, I find my ticket to the film festival next month. I almost forgot about this. Tristan has been working on this documentary for months. It’s his second time submitting something to the festival, so it’s wonderful to see things finally come together. A part of me is a little envious of him. He’s not even a senior yet but his creative work is being recognized. Meanwhile I haven’t even started my writing sample yet. I try not to think of things this way, and compare myself to others, but sometimes it’s hard not to.

I find a pen and write a message back to him.

Thanks again for filling in.

And can’t wait to see your film!

—Julie



It’s starting to rain outside, so there are fewer customers than usual. At least our online store seems to be doing better. Tristan gave me a list of book titles to find and package. Mr. Lee will pick them up on Monday and ship them off to new homes. I finish my tasks early, and even find time to sweep the store. Once the place is empty, I grab my journal and sit at my spot by the window. The sound of rain always puts me in a mood to write. Something about it that drowns out the rest of the world, clearing my mind. I think back to the lunch table yesterday, when Yuki asked me what I was writing about. I told her I was writing about Sam. But I’m not sure what it is I want to say yet. What do I want to tell the world about him? I imagine what some people might expect from me. Write about his death. About what happened. About what it meant to lose him. But that’s not something I want to focus on. Because I don’t want to remember Sam as a tragedy. I don’t want that to be his story. When people think about Sam, I want them to think of his best moments. I want them to remember him as a musician, staying up late on a school night, writing music on his guitar. I want them to know him as an older brother, building giant forts in his room. And I want them to remember us, and the last three years we spent together. How me met, our first kiss, all the reasons I fell in love with him. I want them to fall in love with Sam, too. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Write down the memories of him. Memories of us. Tell our story. Once I decide this, moments from over the years flash across my mind. I spend the next hour jotting down the ones that mean the most to me. I keep writing until I completely lose track of time.

The wind chime jingles above the door, making me look up. I shut my journal as someone comes into the store.

“Yuki! What are you doing here?”

Yuki holds a lilac umbrella, folded down. Her hair is tied back with a blue ribbon. She looks around the store. “I remembered you were working today. I hope it’s okay I stopped by.”

“Of course. Let me take your umbrella—” I grab it from her and set it against the wall. “I’m so glad you’re here. It was starting to get lonely.”

Yuki smiles. “Then I’m glad I came.” There’s something in her other hand. A small plastic pouch dangles at her side, carrying a whiff of something savory.

“What do you have there?” I ask.

Yuki looks down at the bag, a little surprised. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says through a smile. “I brought us lunch.”

We finish our pickled cucumber and pork sandwiches by the window. I make hot water in the back room, and bring Yuki some tea. It’s still drizzling out, so she stays at the store with me to wait out the rain. A bus passes by the window. On the other side of the street, kids in raincoats are racing down the sidewalk, puddles splashing under their boots. I stare at my reflection in the window for a long time, until Yuki’s voice wakes me from my thoughts.

“Is something on your mind? You seem distracted.”

“I’m a bit tired, that’s all,” I say. “Haven’t been able to sleep much.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My dreams have been keeping me up lately.”

“May I ask what they’re about?”

I look at her. “Sam.”

Yuki nods knowingly. “I see. They must be bad dreams then, if they’re keeping you awake.”

“It’s the same dream,” I say. “Over and over again. I mean, they’re slightly different, but they always start in the same place.”

“And where is that?”

“At the bus station. The night Sam died.”

“And do they end the same?” she asks.

I look down at my hands. “I haven’t gotten there yet…”

Yuki takes this in. “I see.”

“I know,” I say. I lean my head against the window glass. “I just wish I knew what they meant…”

Yuki stares into her tea in thought. “You know … when my grandma passed away a few years ago, I had dreams about her, too. And they were all a bit similar,” she says. “In one of them, I dropped her favorite teapot and tried to put the pieces back together before she came in. In another one, I remember hiding my test scores from her. But she always found out. I remember the look on her face and how sad I kept making her. I didn’t want to go back to sleep. I didn’t want to upset her all over again…”