Lost Journals

The classroom was cold. The calculus class was quiet.

Suddenly, my chest tightened like I was locked in one of my grandpa’s crushing bear hugs. Yet, this embrace was not warm. I could barely breathe. I stood to go to the nurse’s office.

“Excuse me, is Patricia Bowman in your classroom?” a mechanical voice asked over the intercom.

Mr. McCoy glanced at me and answered, “Yes.”

“Please send her to the office.”

I continued out of the classroom and headed for the main office. I stopped in the restroom to catch my breath but the pressure on my chest was unrelenting. I rummaged deep into my knapsack for my inhaler without avail. I splashed my face with cold water and proceeded to a soda machine knowing caffeine opens the lungs.

When I got to the office window I waited behind a crying freshman trying to talk her way out of detention. She finally left, face buried in her hands.

“I think you have a message for me,” I said.

“Here you go.” Marilyn smiled as she handed me a folded slip of pink paper.

I turned toward the senior hallway and read the paper. Printed on the while-you-were-out slip was: “October 17, 1995. 10:54 am. Sean died this morning. Loretta Bowman.”