She

She’s gone.

And I only have one chance to find her again.

She’s been gone since the day we parted from our 7^th grade summer camp. An era before we had cell phone numbers to exchange. As a couple of thirteen-year-olds, we weren't smart enough to nail down each other’s contact information. Did I get her address? No. Stupid, stupid. We were living in the present moment during a sticky summer week of playing and giggling with abandon.

She’s not from my town. I have never been able to find her on social media. She’s not even Google-able. Did she change her name?

It’s been 12 years.

You would think I would have forgotten about her by now. But I thought about her every day for a year until I arrived at the same camp, that time for 8^th grade nonsense, where she didn’t show up, and therefore, neither did my joy. I must have gone through the motions of that week but remember none of it. I went home, defeated, and then I thought about her every day after that.

Until today. The eve of her 25^th birthday. The eve of the day we promised to reunite.

It was the fifth and final night of 7^th grade camp. Emotions were high, hormones higher. Everyone was gathered in the big gym, sweating, running around like maniacs, handing out hugs like the apocalypse was imminent because the last call to head to our cabins for the night was actually imminent. In my mind’s eye, the other campers are a blur of movement, intermingling, throwing balls, locking arms. In my mind’s ear I hear muffled squeals, cackles and some crying, most of which was for show. It all felt very dramatic, making these fast friends and having to leave them so suddenly.

But when I pan the proverbial camera over to a corner of the gym, I see us. She and I were staying to ourselves, soaking up the last few moments together, watching the wildness unfold around us but mostly holding each other’s gaze. I wish that were enough, the clear, crisp memory I have of that moment. If only that were enough to get me back to her, to help me remember something important that would put me in my car and drive me straight to where she is all these years later. Maybe a certain smell would knock the nostalgia right into me, like a ghost flying into my nostrils, and remind me of some very important piece of information that she left me with. Alas, that has not happened, and here I am, following up on the only lead I’ve had all along.

I suppose it wasn't sensational enough to exchange crucial information for how to stay in touch, so instead, in the corner of that sweet, smelly gym, she and I abandoned the present for the distant future, only for a moment, and made one big, big plan. To meet at the Navy Pier Ferris wheel in Chicago on her 25^th birthday. Which is tomorrow. Finally.

Was either of us from Chicago? No. Had either of us been to Chicago? No. But our thirteen-year-old minds had imagined a future scene in a big city that would only be perfect if a quasi-rollercoaster were involved and cotton candy were nearby. Every time I have been remotely close to a Ferris wheel these past 12 years I have indiscreetly peered into the carts as they have glided by on their slow rotation up and down again until my eyes have accounted for every person in each cart. Just in case. I have never actually been on a Ferris wheel. There has been no need. I only want to be propelled into the sky with her.

I wonder what I have looked like to other people, standing by myself, or sometimes with friends that I’m ignoring, watching the carts like a hawk. The riders must have thought, “There’s that person again, watching us go ‘round and ‘round. What a stalker.”

I suppose if you’re focused on the most important thing in the world to you, what other people think does not matter. 

I am sitting in my hotel room overlooking the Magnificent Mile (I splurged on this very important trip to Chicago). My mind is a pinball machine. Am I crazy? Maybe. Will she remember this interaction from a dozen years ago? Doubtful. If she remembers by some miracle, will she act on it? Probably not; why would she have any reason to think I would be here? Has she ever looked for me?

I am peering longingly at the streets below while the doubts dance in my head. I’m holding my breath for a flicker of hope, a whip of hair across a familiar shoulder, a smile that I would recognize even from five floors up.

No one.

These people are not her.

I can’t keep sitting here. It’s getting late, but there is no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

I grab my coat, head out of my room down the hallway and press the elevator button. I take my feverishly full mind into the silent, empty box and try to think about where I should go, but nothing comes to me. It might make sense to go to the Navy Pier, but it’s a day early, and I don’t want to jinx it.

I’ll just walk until my feet can’t take it anymore. I hope the sights and sounds of the city will distract me for a few hours. That’s what I need right now and what I’ve used for years to cope with losing someone or feeling like I’d lost someone, anyway. Shimmering lights and busy noise. And sometimes the innocent hobby of watching Ferris wheels.

My stomach stays on the fifth floor as the elevator and the rest of me descend. Am I shaking? I’m not even out in the cold yet, so adrenaline must have the better of me.

The ping of first-floor arrival sounds. This is my chance to distance myself one last night from the busy thoughts that have clouded my mind for 12 years. The doors open. I look straight ahead.

And I stop breathing.