Chapter 15 - The Bus Door Opened Again
By October, Mason was back in classes.
Not student activities.
Not transport events.
The university had placed him on disciplinary probation and removed him from his student leadership role after the assault.
He appealed part of it.
I didn't follow.
His consequences were not my hobby.
Nora took a job with a private transit contractor across town.
She did not ask Halston to restore her old position.
She said she wasn't sure she wanted it.
My mother started therapy.
She told me that on her own.
I did not congratulate her like it was a completed repair.
She stopped maintaining the missing-person pages.
She also stopped asking me after every Emma call:
Did she mention me?
Mostly.
Emma called about once a week.
Sometimes twice.
Sometimes not for ten days.
The first time she went quiet for nine days, I nearly called Nora.
I didn't.
Emma called on day ten.
“Were you freaking out?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do anything?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
“Shut up.”
Progress is humiliating.
The October visit moved from maybe to probably.
Then back to maybe.
Her work schedule changed.
Then she got sick.
Then she said she was nervous.
That one I understood.
On a gray Friday afternoon, I stood at the same campus transport lane where Mason had punched me.
A yellow bus pulled in.
Same model.
Maybe even the same bus.
Students gathered near the curb.
The rear emergency door opened.
My body tightened automatically.
A maintenance worker stepped out.
Normal.
He shut it.
I almost laughed.
My phone buzzed.
Emma.
I opened the message.
I’m in town.
My heart stopped.
Then:
Not on campus.
I stared.
Another:
I can leave without seeing you. I mean that.
I typed:
Where?
Stopped.
Deleted it.
Typed:
Do you want to see me?
Three dots.
Gone.
Back.
Then:
I don’t know.
I smiled despite myself.
Of course.
I sat on the low concrete barrier beside the transport lane.
Students walked around me.
One girl argued with her father about carrying a suitcase.
A boy dropped his orientation folder.
Nothing mysterious.
My phone buzzed again.
Emma:
Do you?
I stared at the question.
There were twenty months of possible answers.
Yes, immediately.
Yes, and tell me everything.
Yes, and come home.
Yes, and let me make this worth what I went through.
I typed:
Yes. If you want to.
Sent.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
A bus pulled away.
Another arrived.
At minute twelve:
Coffee. One hour.
I laughed out loud.
Then:
No Mom.
I replied:
I know.
A location arrived.
Public café downtown.
Twenty minutes away.
I stood.
My hands were shaking.
Then another message came before I moved.
Rachel.
I stared at my sister’s name on the screen.
The next line appeared:
Don’t ask me yet if I’m coming back for good.
I looked toward the open bus doors.
Two years ago, I would have answered before finishing the sentence.
I would've promised.
Negotiated.
Begged.
Anything to prevent another departure.
Instead I typed:
Okay.
Then stopped.
It felt too easy.
So I added:
I’ll probably want to ask anyway.
Emma replied almost immediately:
I know.
Then:
That’s why I’m telling you before coffee.
I smiled.
No miracle.
No reunion montage.
No guarantee she would stay past one hour.
I started toward the parking lot.
Halfway there, my mother called.
I watched the phone ring.
Diane.
Emma was twenty minutes away.
My mother did not know.
For one second the old family machinery offered itself perfectly.
Tell Mom.
Prevent hurt.
Control the reaction.
Make everybody arrive at the same table.
I let the call go to voicemail.
Not because Diane did not matter.
Because Emma had asked me for one hour.
My phone buzzed again.
Emma:
Still coming?
I answered:
Yes.
Then put the phone away.
May you like
Behind me, the yellow bus doors folded closed.
This time I did not turn around.
