Page 47 of Finding Yesterday

There’s no answer again, and now I’m a little worried. I call out, “Jack” again louder, and still no answer. The bathroom door is open with the lights out, so he’s not in there.

But then I hear him mumbling, so I go inside.

He’s lying on the bed, fully clothed, snoring lightly. His cell phone is still in his hands, like he just managed to disconnect before he fell asleep. He was so exhausted. Poor guy. His face twists into a scowl, and he starts mumbling unintelligibly again.

I’m not sure what to do, but I bring the bag of food to the coffee table before looking around for a blanket. After finding a throw on the couch, I grab it before gently placing it over him.

He kicks the blanket right off when he starts tossing and turning. I pick it up and set it on the couch. He’s clearly having some sort of nightmare. I stand there, still hesitant to wake him.

He says, “The door,” as he throws his hands in the air.

“Jack,” I say, touching his shoulder. “Jack.”

He continues batting his hands, screaming, “The door. I can’t get to the red door!”

With that, I give him a good shake and yell, “Jack, wake up!”

He gasps before opening his eyes. Then he pulls me into a tight hug, and I’m not sure he’s even awake yet. He’s hanging on for dear life. He burrows his face into my neck. “Claire.”

“It’s okay. I'm here.” I rub his back. “You’re having a nightmare.”

I sit, holding him for a moment, waiting for him to actually wake up. I continue rubbing his back, trying to get him to calm down.

A moment passes before he says, “Oh, wow, I’m so sorry.” He pulls away, swiping his hands over his eyes.

“Don’t be sorry.” I touch his shoulder. “You were saying something about a red door.”

He groans. “Yeah, that’s not surprising. It’s a recurring dream.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “It actually makes me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

His words make me want to hold him close again, but instead I ask, “You want to talk about it?” I wring my hands together. “You can try me on for size.” I grin, but he doesn’t smile back.

“It’s just a dream,” he says, but by the look on his face, I don’t believe him.

“It wasn’t just a dream, Jack. You were terrified.”

“You’re right.” He squeezes his eyes shut before walking over and sitting on the gray couch. After grabbing one of the orange and gray throw pillows on it, he blows out a long breath, staring at the wall. “I don’t know what it means. I wish I did.”

Taking a seat in the orange velour armchair across from him, I want more than anything to help. I don’t know anything about his life growing up in San Francisco—did something happen there? Or is this about the shed? The accident with my mother and his grandmother? He has a tattoo in memory of the event. But that day, Jack was with his pops. I’ve heard the story a million times—when the police went to Pops’s house to tell him what happened, Jack was outside on a tire swing.

I can’t help but think about the things Larry said to Jack. My mind spins, and I ask, “What happened that day you saw Daisy’s shed? You looked like you were going to be sick.”

Jack groans. “I wish I knew that too.” He stares into space, scratching his tattoo. “That’s why it’s tough for me to be in Blue Vine, Claire. Things from my past…I see them, and I just shut down. But I never remember why.” A hopeless look flashes across his face.

I move and take a seat on the couch beside Jack before touching his shoulder. “That sounds terrible. I’m sorry.” So, being in Blue Vine is traumatic for him. No wonder he hates it there. Nervously twiddling my fingers, I softly ask, “Why were you intrigued my mom cooked?”

He sits motionless, looking at the floor before he replies, “Maw told Pops she and Millie were working on something. Before the accident.” He scrapes a hand over his goatee. “I’d do anything to figure out what it was.”

My heart leaps. “Me too,” I say, breathless. “Pops doesn’t know what it was?”

“No. He said they wouldn’t say anything to him, that it was a surprise.”

“Maybe it was a recipe,” I mumble, my mind lost in thought.

“That’s what I wondered too.” He taps his fingers together as he stares at the floor. “Since your dad said Millie was a great cook.”

“Maybe they were looking for an ingredient that day. Truffles or something,” I offer, staring at the hexagonal-textured wallpaper in the room.

“I thought about that too but there aren’t any truffles in that area, or in the mine.” His face settles into exhausted resignment, which is worse than seeing him in pain. So much worse.

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