Chapter 30
The next morning, Ophelia wakes me by walking on me again—and of course bellowing a loud meow or two.
Not shy, this cat. It’s five minutes before my alarm, so I kind of feel like we’re in sync, she and I.
I also feel bad knowing I won’t be here tomorrow for her to walk on.
“I hope you don’t feel abandoned when I don’t come home tonight.
I promise I’ll be back.” When I reach out and pet her, she begins to purr.
When it comes to the cat, maybe Grace’s loss is actually my gain.
I put on my periwinkle dress, and before leaving, I make sure Ophelia has plenty of Meow Mix and water, along with fresh litter in her box, and I turn on a few lights.
I toss my overnight bag in the back seat, my fedora in the front.
That’s more from habit than really expecting to wear it, though.
I’ve gotten comfortable with my brown curls and even how much more prominent my features are with the short hair.
It’s just a new, revised version of myself.
As I go about the business of getting ready to revisit my real life, I feel something inside me begin to harden.
A necessary thing. It’s not a new feeling—in fact, it’s something old, familiar, almost comfortable.
Armor. The first time I ever felt it was after my mother died.
When I was, at the age of twenty, made an orphan.
I’d lost my parents too close together, too unexpectedly, too early in my life.
I had to toughen myself up—it was the only way to keep facing each day, keep moving forward.
It’s become a part of me, this toughness, which I’ve let go of so very much—and just as unexpectedly—since I came to Lost and Found.
But it’s wrapping around me again right now, creeping back inside, reminding me: Taking control of situations is how we protect ourselves in this world.
And though I had planned to leave quietly, without a peep, instead I follow the sudden compulsion to walk over to Matt’s house and knock on his front door. His truck is there, so I know he’s home.
He answers in a wrinkled tee and pajama pants, hair mussed, jaw stubbled—but he looks pleased to see me. “Mornin’. Come to say goodbye?”
He thinks the pulling back of last night has passed or I wouldn’t be here.
He’s misunderstanding entirely, and that makes me feel worse about what I’ve come to do.
But the part of me wearing the armor can’t care about anyone’s feelings; that’s how this works.
I don’t smile—there’s nothing to smile about here.
I get down to business. “Matt, I wanted to let you know that I’ll probably be leaving in a week or two, for good.
So I’ve been thinking ...” I don’t make eye contact. I can’t.
“Yeah?” He sounds wary, like a man who’s starting to catch on.
“When I come back, it probably makes sense that we ... not see each other anymore.”
He sways backward, like I’ve hit him and he’s trying to regain his balance. “Whoa.” He blows out a breath. “Didn’t see that comin’, Jessie.”
I want to ask him not to call me that right now, or anymore period, but I hold my tongue—it’s easier to just move forward and get this unpleasantness concluded.
“Well, we both knew all along that this was temporary ... and casual.” Of course it’s not casual and hasn’t been for a while now, but I have to tell the lie anyway.
I feel him looking at me, squinting slightly, trying to make sense of this, but I still don’t meet his gaze. “I guess,” he says, sounding unconvinced. “But damn, girl, could ya be a little colder about it? Or more ... abrupt?”
I didn’t think he’d call me on it. He’s perhaps the most easygoing person I’ve ever known, and I thought, even if he was wounded, that he’d just let it be, let me walk away like it was nothing.
So now I feel like a jerk, but so be it.
“Isn’t it always abrupt when people part ways?
I mean, I don’t know how else to do it than just . .. do it.”
He appears tense, jaw clenched tight. And my chest aches. I don’t like hurting him. But I don’t like me hurting, either. And I have to walk away before the leaving hurts even worse.
“Well, is there anything else?”
Ah. He’s dismissing me. Good. I guess.
I press my lips tight together, my heart pounding. This is harder than I expected. Harder than it’s ever been before. Because I love him. I forgot to factor that part in when I got the bright idea to march over here and break up. Finally, though, I just say, “No.”
But when he starts to close the door, I ask, “Will you still feed the cat?”
He rolls his eyes like it’s an idiotic question. “Of course. Have a good time goin’ back to your real life .”
Then he does shut the door, almost slamming it, leaving me breathless and feeling a little ill.
Like I’ve done something stupid, made a mistake.
But then I take a deep breath, blow it back out, get hold of myself.
This is for the best. A long, drawn-out parting with him stretching over the next couple of weeks would ultimately be torture; it would slowly rip my heart out.
Apparently, I’ve decided that ripping it out really quickly is easier.
I guess there’s no easy way to walk away from someone you’re in love with. So I’ve done the best I can here. Now the Band-Aid has been yanked off, it’s done, and we can both start dealing with it.
I happen to be fortunate enough to have a whole lot of distractions lying dead ahead. Maybe that’s why I did it now . Going back to the city today is the beginning of really going back. I can’t let myself feel stuck in two places, caught in between. It’s time to move on.
And as I walk back across the yard and get in my car, I feel ... stronger, tougher, more like Jessica Fox, WRTB 11.
The drive feels strange, almost like crossing into another dimension.
Particularly as I encounter traffic on the expressway, something I’ve almost forgotten exists.
The closer to the city I get, the heavier it becomes, and my reflexes aren’t as quick as they used to be when I have to keep accelerating and then putting back on the brakes.
Were there always this many people trying to get places?
I’m sure there were, but they all seem to be in such a hurry.
Matt stays on my mind the whole time. I miss him already. But it’s okay and that’ll pass. As I get farther and farther away, it’s easier for everything about Lost and Found, Matt included, to start feeling a little like ... a dream. A very nice one at times, but a dream.
As I go past the exit that leads to my house and cross the Brent Spence Bridge into Cincinnati, the city feels a bit like an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.
But as I traverse Fort Washington Way, a short, hectic corridor that cuts through the heart of downtown near the riverfront, it feels .
.. awkward, like meetings with old friends sometimes do.
Like maybe we don’t connect as much as we used to.
The buildings that rise into the sky suddenly feel too tall, the crisscrossing lanes and ramps too complicated. I’ve clearly been away too long.
As my car glides into the Lytle Tunnel, I’m unexpectedly relieved to get away from the busyness of downtown, and Lost and Found feels a world away.
I never expected to experience such mixed emotions, about leaving there, coming here, any of it.
Part of it is Matt; part of it is everything .
I guess, despite myself, I’ve just come to appreciate a slower pace, a simpler life.
But as I told Matt a few hours ago, I knew all along that my life in Lost and Found was temporary, and wasn’t the idea to get away from it all and relax? Doesn’t this just mean I actually accomplished that? Any weirdness I’m feeling right now is simply a matter of getting back in the groove.
When I envision that—me back in the anchor chair, back in the habits of dinner out with friends, the theater scene at the Aronoff, drinks with Sydney in Over-the-Rhine, and even playing euchre with Kevin, Patrick, and Nana—it all feels more normal and less awkward.
I’ll feel better about leaving Lost and Found for good once I really have my life back.
That’ll make it easier to ... stop caring so deeply about people I don’t have much in common with, places I have no link to, and lost items that have nothing to do with me.
I reach the medical center with time to spare, and I enjoy the luxury of texting Sydney to let her know I’ve arrived safely. See? It’s nice to be back! It’s nice to text a friend on the fly!
When I walk into my surgeon’s office and say hello to the receptionist, Debbie, she remarks, “Look at you! You look wonderful, and your hair is super cute.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, truly valuing the compliment.
Even before she winks and adds, “And just so you know, I don’t say that to everybody. The short look really suits you!”
Of course I can’t help but think of Matt, who has assured me of that for months now.
The visit goes well and as expected: Dr. Ramsey thinks my post-surgery breast looks great. He asks about discomfort and I tell him I only have a little nerve pain under my arm, where the lymph nodes were removed, which he says is normal and I already knew. He concludes, “You’ve healed very nicely.”
After he walks out, I pull back the exam gown and look down at my breast, at the scar and dimpling that have bothered me since the surgery.
But bothered me much less thanks to Matt acting like there’s nothing unusual about my breast at all.
I can’t stop a rush of gratitude for the way that unanticipated connection restored my feminine confidence when I didn’t expect to see it again for a very long time.