Page 92 of Panty Dropper

I sniffed, doing my best to hold back the emotions clogging my throat. “Are there more in there?”

“Yeah, there are a ton. And some papers, too.” She began to lift more contents from the box but I knew I wasn’t ready to go down memory lane.

“I’ll look at them later.” I tucked the two photos I had in my pocket, not wanting to let go of them just yet.

“Oh…” She nodded, her eyes brimming with understanding. “Okay.”

A heaviness settled over me as I returned to my spot, but I did my best to ignore it. Thankfully, I’d had years of practice not feeling things, so I easily slipped back into the rhythm of distraction.

After we’d gone through about ten thousand boxes apiece (just a rough estimation), I came across a small cardboard box labeled: Personal. My heart rate sped as I used my box cutter to slice through the tape. When I pulled back the first flap I saw a small leatherbound book sitting on top of a pile of other books. “I think I found something.”

I heard Reagan’s footsteps as she rushed across to me. “Is that it? Is that your mother’s journal?” she asked hopefully, looking over my shoulder.

“I think so.” When I lifted it out, and held it in my hands I felt a deep hollowness and vulnerability. I hadn’t thought this would be a big deal. But apparently, I’d underestimated what emotions all these memories would unearth.

My fingers felt thick and awkward as I slid the elastic band off and opened the cover. On the title page the name “Sabrina Ariel Comfort” was written in cursive. Underneath that was a date roughly eight months before her death, followed by a dash to indicate “through”…but there was no ending date on the paper.

I hurriedly flipped to the last entry. When I saw the date at the top of the page, my skin tingled and my stomach did a flip.

It was the date of the accident. The date that Mama had died. The realization washed over me like ice water. The words I was looking at right then—she had penned them on the morning of her death, not knowing that mere hours later she would be plunging over a guardrail, her car tumbling down hundreds of feet, and leaving us all behind.

“Are you okay?” I felt Reagan’s hand on my shoulder.

I closed the journal, not ready to face what was inside of there. I needed to do that on my own time, alone.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Later. Finding them was enough for today. Reading them will be for another day.” I stood and grabbed the box.

I needed to get out of here.

“Why don’t you grab that box you had? With the pictures and papers.” My voice sounded thin and raw with emotion. “We can take it with us.”

The next thing I knew, Reagan’s arms were around my waist and I felt her chest and cheek pressing against my back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

In that moment, I could feel her support, her empathy, her love.

Or maybe I was just projecting what I wanted to feel. I didn’t have a chance to find out because before I could respond I heard a voice.

“Billy, get the fuck out of my attic.”

I felt Reagan’s entire body freeze.

I just smiled, relieved for the interruption from the soap opera level of emotions this excursion had put me through. “Looks like Hank came home early.”

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