When You Reach Me

Things That Blow Away

The next morning, I wake up early, cut myself a big piece of Richard’s birthday cake for breakfast, and start writing the letter. I’m writing it in the journal with the clouds on the cover that Mom gave me for Christmas. I’m at the top of the second page when it dawns on me that this letter I’m writing is kind of a horrible burden. And I start feeling really sorry for Marcus.

It’s not a letter that most people would want to get. I know it will be a big relief to know that he didn’t accidentally cause the laughing man’s death—your death—after all. That’s a good thing. But at the same time, he’ll understand that he saw his own death, which I have to think is a very hard thing. And he’ll also realize that he’s going to discover the secret of traveling through time, which is a thing so incredible that most people would consider it a miracle. Of course, he’s the total hero of the story. But there isn’t a happy ending for him.

I start at the very beginning, when you first showed up in the fall, and I’m thinking about everything you did—the spot on the corner where you stood, your kicking practice, the way you muttered to yourself. “Book, bag, pocket, shoe.” There was a reason for all of it.

Except for one thing. I don’t understand why you used to lie on the ground with your head under the mailbox. Why? It must have been annoying the way kids were always banging on it.

I raise my head slowly from the journal. Then I get dressed in a hurry, pulling a sweater on over my pajama top. I leave a note on the kitchen table, grab my keys, and slip out of the apartment before Mom and Richard wake up.

It’s an almost-warm morning. No one is on the corner, which is good, because I probably look pretty strange lying faceup on the sidewalk and inching myself under the mailbox. It isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

The underside of a mailbox is really ugly—a bunch of paint-splattered metal joints and bolts. I see the square of paper right away. It’s small, about the same size as the notes you left me, and it’s wedged under a metal seam so that it stays flat against the bottom of the box. I realize that it’s held there with a key—our old key, the one we hid in the fire hose. I adjust my head so that I’m looking straight up at the paper, the way you must have.

A woman’s face stares down at me, drawn in pencil. She’s old, like you were. Her white hair is pulled back behind her head, her dark eyes are looking to the side a little, and she has this playful smile. It’s really kind of a beautiful drawing.

People can get old all different ways, I guess. Some people change a lot, like you. I could have stared at your face for a week and I never would have guessed that you were Marcus. You were so much thinner than he is, and the bones above your eyes stuck out. Maybe that was because of what you put yourself through—all the diamond-jumping. But the old woman’s face in the drawing still holds some youth. It’s the dark eyes, maybe, or the smile. It’s hard to say exactly how we recognize other people. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that this woman is Julia.

Marcus and Julia. I think about how she whipped her diamond ring off and used it to explain the way she sees time, and the way Marcus stared at her afterward. Maybe he was thinking that he wasn’t alone in the world after all. I get this rush of happiness, this flood of relief. Marcus won’t be alone. He’ll have a partner. He’ll have Julia.

I’m wiggling out from under the mailbox—some guy with a big black dog is looking at me funny—and I suddenly remember what you said to me, practically on this exact spot, the afternoon I gave you my soggy cheese sandwich: I’m an old man, and she’s gone now. So don’t worry, okay?

I believe that you were ready. But I still think it’s sad.

I leave the drawing there, wedged underneath the mailbox with our key. It doesn’t seem right to take it. I figure it will be there for a long time, and then, someday, it’ll just blow away.