Chapter 43

There are a lot of moments we imagine. We play them over and over in our minds, trying to orchestrate our movements and words to perfection. Or maybe it's just that I've lived inside of my head more than any other person in the history of the world. Maybe none of us can really predict how we will act at any given moment. Maybe we're all at the mercy of circumstance in spite of our well-laid plans.

But never could I have anticipated my response to seeing Jenna.

You won't find her at home. Sunday's market day. She has a stall down at the plaza.

It was mid-morning when I finally arrived in Oak Creek. More like twenty miles than fourteen, but at least the rain had stopped. I knew my ragged appearance wouldn't inspire confidence when I asked locals where she lived, so I went to a hole-in-the-wall market and told the clerk I'd heard that someone named Jenna Fox was hiring people to do work on her property and I was trying to find where that was. I had learned from my mom that people in small shops are eager to talk, and she was right.

Not likely she's doing any hiring today. She's not home.

I found out where the plaza was--only a quarter mile down the road, a five-minute walk at most. I wasn't in a hurry this time, and even though I walked slowly, my breaths came fast like I was running. My mind raced through the scenarios and every opening line I might say. Surprise. You rotten bitch. I love you, Jenna. I'm sorry. Kara and I need your help. Do you remember me? Why did you leave us? How did this happen?

It's a large farmers' market for such a small town. There are three long rows with about twelve stalls on each side. I walk down the first row, drawing looks as I scan faces, desperately searching for recognition. What if she has changed so much I can't even recognize her? I pass butter lettuce, strawberries, blood oranges, avocados, nuts, jars of preserves. A blur of eyes, smiles, and profiles. I shake my head at offers to sample the food. None of the faces are familiar. I turn the corner on the next row, feeling like the meager protein cake I ate hours ago is finding its way back up. I walk faster, quickly scanning, beginning to panic as I reach the end. What if I never find her? I turn and walk down the last row. I slow down, carefully searching each face sitting behind melons, woven baskets, jars of honey, and stacks of cheeses.

And then, a glimpse.

Bodies moving back and forth, blocking my view.

But a flash.

Blond hair.

I freeze, stopping between two stalls, tucking myself in, waiting.

Shoppers take their goods and leave.

Another quick glimpse.

Another tangle of shoppers.

And then at last, a clear view.

Jenna.

Jenna smiling.

Jenna seated behind a table.

Jenna talking with someone.

Jenna scooping something from a glass jar into a bag and sealing it. I watch her lips move. Thank you.

My mind is paralyzed. Every word and thought I had planned is jammed somewhere inside. All I can do is stare and wonder if this moment is really happening.

She looks exactly like the Jenna I remember, as though a single day hasn't passed. My fingers curl into my palms. My stomach pulls tight. Will she remember me?

I watch every movement. The tilt of her head. The way her fingers rest on the table. Her pauses and her nods. My throat tightens.

Another girl, about the same age as Jenna, enters the stall and sits down next to her. They chat for a minute and then Jenna gathers a canvas bag and stands. The girl says something, and Jenna tosses her head back and laughs. And then her head turns, just a few degrees. Something has caught her attention. Her smile fades, her head turns just another degree or two, and her eyes meet mine. She pauses, her stance awkward, like she has been thrown off balance, and her eyes focus on me.

This is it.

I can't say anything or move. I just stare back, all my words, pleas, and plans gone.

And then, just like that, she looks away, as if her eyes had merely ruffled over a busy marketplace and my face was just another of many in the crowd.

She forgot me? She forgot me.

She begins to walk away, down the middle of the row toward other stalls. All of my uncertainty explodes into something burning in my chest, and I take off, weaving through the crowd after her. At the end of the row, I spot her a short distance ahead, walking toward a truck parked beneath a tree. I stop when I am just a few yards behind her. She senses my presence and turns. I see the recognition in her eyes again. She twists one hand in the other, just the way she used to, but she looks directly at me.

"I apologize for staring back there," she says. "It was rude. I know. I didn't mean to. It's just that--" She looks down. I watch her swallow and then she looks at me again and smiles. Her voice is soft. "It's just that you look like someone I once knew." She clears her throat and adds, "A very long time ago."

Like someone? I haven't changed that much. I take a step closer, unable to speak, breathless, like she punched 260 years' worth of air out of me.

Jenna.

I don't know if it's the exchange of a glance or decades of need compressing into a single unspoken word, but I watch as realization crawls over her shoulders, her lips, and finally, her eyes. She shakes her head and whispers, "No," and then turns and runs.

I watch her, confused for a few seconds, and then chase after her, pinning her against her truck just before she opens the door. Her back is to me, and she is shaking her head over and over. "No! It's not possible! No!"

I hold her tight so she can't thrash, my mouth near her ear, and I whisper, "It's me, Jenna. It's really me."

Her hair is wet with tears, and I realize the tears aren't hers. I close my eyes, holding her, feeling her body tremble against mine. She's so small, smaller than I remember. Jenna.

"Please ... believe me."

Her head stops shaking, and her muscles go slack. I let go and she turns to look at me. She scans my face, and I see the disbelief in hers. "It's almost Locke, but your eyes..." She reaches out to touch my hair and then pulls back, her eyes still searching for an unruly cowlick that is no longer there. "And you're taller, and--"

"Bigger," I finish for her. "I didn't have a father who lovingly re-created every inch of me, like you did. I had a madman."

She pales and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply like she is going to be sick, and then finally she opens them again but doesn't look directly at me. "Get in," she says. "We need to talk, but not here."