bellies and paraded out of the fitting room, giving him the shock of his life.
“Your stomach!” he exclaimed. “It looks…”
“Huge?” I grinned, lifting up the edge of the sweatshirt to reveal the padding underneath. “Did I fool you?”
“You did,” he said, a bit relieved. “For a second there, I thought we might be having twins.”
That day, I bought the sweatshirt in three colors, several pairs of pants, all with thick, stretchy elastic waistbands, and a black wraparound dress that Fit Pregnancy magazine had claimed to be the most flattering look for moms-to-be. I winced at the memory, setting the sweatshirt aside before pulling out a pair of black leggings with a jagged hole in the knee. Underneath were my underwear and sports bra, neatly folded into a bundle. Why did they even bother returning this stuff? Why couldn’t they just…burn it? At the bottom of the box lay my running shoes. I had others in my closet, but these had been my favorite pair. Mud-stained, perfectly broken in, they’d traveled with me down miles of rainy Seattle streets, across the finish line of several grueling races, but I couldn’t look at them then. They’d betrayed me.
I tossed the shoes and ragged clothing back into the box, and looked up at Abby. “Is there a Dumpster outside somewhere?”
Abby knelt down next to me. “Claire,” she whispered, “maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw all of this away.”
My eyes burned, and I quickly wiped a stray tear from my cheek, annoyed by its presence.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “Come here.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned against her, breathing in her lavender perfume. “You used to love to run,” she continued. “Why don’t you try again?”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t.”
She reached into the box and pulled out my old running shoes. “Just the same,” she said, “let’s keep these. Toss the clothes if you like, but these shoes need to stay.” She tucked them under my desk. “When you’re ready, put them on.”
“I’ll never be ready,” I said.
“You will,” Abby countered. “After my dad died, Mom kept all his clothes in the closet, exactly as he’d left them. They gathered dust for three years before she found the strength to face them again. I was only thirteen, but I remember the day she opened up that old closet and pulled one of the shirts from the hanger. She set it on the bed and lay next to it for a long time, crying, remembering. It took a lot of strength to do that. Strength and time. My point is that Mom needed that closure, and if she’d had someone box up his clothes the week after he died like Aunt Pam suggested, she’d never have had the opportunity to face her sadness, to find her own closure. Everyone grieves and heals at her own pace, honey. Give yourself time.”
I stared at the shoes under my desk, wishing, as I had every day since the accident, that I’d stayed home instead of going on that damn jog. “I don’t know, Abby,” I said, looking away from the shoes.
“Trust me,” she replied, closing the flaps of the box and setting it outside. “So, did you find the kid?”
“No. Frank took me off the story.” I pointed to the file of information for the ad copy I had been assigned. “I’m now writing the special advertising section for next week.”
Abby frowned. “No, he didn’t.” She knew as well as I that getting an ad copy assignment was the equivalent of being grounded.
“Yes, he did.”
“Maybe I can talk to him,” she offered.
“I wouldn’t bother,” I said. “He had the look.”
Abby folded her arms. “Well, I think you should continue your research anyway. Surprise him with a draft. I don’t think you should quit this story, Claire.”
“But Frank doesn’t want it,” I said, shrugging. “Even if I did turn something in, it would be too late. The snow’s melted. Everyone’s moved on. I think I lost this one.”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t lose it. You’ve only scratched the surface.” Her eyes narrowed. “Listen, honey, I’ve seen you work on hundreds of stories, and never has one gotten under your skin like this little boy’s. Write it. Even if it’s only for you. Besides, I want to know what happened.”
“I do too,” I said, before pulling my notebook from my bag and setting it on top of the green folder. “Yes,” I said, with more assurance in my voice. “I’ll