He grins. “Thanks.” He holds it to his chest, like it’s important, and it gives me the courage to go on.
This next part is scary—it makes my heart pound and my mouth run dry. I don’t know that this is right, but I feel like I have to say it. “I wanted to tell you something.”
His brows raise and I feel his fingers, so solid and warm entwined with my own.
“After Lisa died I had this dream,” my hands shake and I know he feels it, because he holds me tighter and rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. “Actually, I had the same dream for thirty days in a row.”
He studies me, like he’s going to save me—only he already has.
“I had the same dream until I came here.”
He studies me, believing me—to my elation—and asks, “What was the dream?”
I roll my shoulders and pull one hand from his to run it over my hair and wipe away the sweat beads that have formed on my head. I bite my inner cheek, praying. “I dreamt,” I say, “that I was in a library—at least I thought it was a library. And there was an earthquake,” again my assumptions. “I was looking at this statue of a woman and her children.”
Finn pulls his hands away from mine and runs them through his hair, making the sandy wave stick up on end. “The Reading Mother?”
I nod and swallow and pray.
“For real?” He shakes his head, and I’m not sure if he believes me or not.
“Cytha knew all about it—a month before it ever happened.” I swallow. “There’s more.”
He breathes out a not so humorous laugh. “More?”
“I dreamt about these walls that stood on their own, making a circle.”
“The Pavilion. Esther, is this a joke?”
“No. I hadn’t heard about it, like I said, I dreamt about it, but I didn’t think it was real.” I slide my hand back to him and breathe out when he takes it. “I know it’s strange. And I don’t understand any of it, but I needed to tell you.”
His eyes are round and questioning. Though he doesn’t say a word, I know he’s asking why.
“Because I’ve had another dream.” I take my fingers from his and hold up the paper I printed, but I don’t give it to him. “His name was Anthony,” I say, and the breath that leaves my throat is shaky. “He was twenty years old and he liked to waterski, to fish and to camp. He was going to school to be a civil engineer. He did humanitarian work with his parents, Joyce and Gerald.” My heart flutters with each and every word. And I pray I’m doing the right thing—that this will help him. “He’d recently bought a motorcycle and was in a terrible accident a couple of months ago.”
Finn’s eyes are severe as they watch me. His lips press in a closed flat line and he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even seem to breathe.
“He was your donor.”
He deflates with the words and tears fill his eyes. “My donor?” A drop falls from his eye and skitters down his cheek. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” I am sure. Between my dream and internet stalking the poor Bernard’s—I know. I have no doubt who they are and what their son has given.
He takes the paper from my hands and reads over the obituary, more tears streaming down his cheeks. I can’t help but cry with him.
“I know where they live. When you’re ready we can deliver your letter.”
This surprises him too. He rubs away the tears on his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. “You know where they live?”
“Idaho Falls.” I press my lips together, hesitant. “The dream told me.”
“Idaho. Anthony,” he shudders a sigh with the man’s name. Without realizing it, he clutches his T-shirt at his sternum, right where the billowed scar starts. “Am I crazy, Esther?” He stares at me.
“I have prophetic dreams and you think you’re crazy?”
He laughs, but it sounds more like a cry. “Crazy to feel so much grief? I’m alive, after all. I should just be grateful.”
“You aren’t crazy.” I take his hand, unclenching his fingers from his shirt, and hold them to my heart. “You’re kind and you’re compassionate.”
He quirks one brow, but it’s more sorrowful than humorous. “Compassionate? Because I feel like I’m crazy.”
“Believe me, I understand that feeling. But you aren’t.” I wish Summer’s wisdom would seep into my brain. She always knows what to say. “And when you’re ready, I’ll go with you. We’ll deliver your letter together.”
Finn is ready three weeks later.
He’s read Johnathon Livingston Seagull six times—he probably has sections of it memorized. His letter, written weeks ago, is in an envelope marked Anthony’s family. It sticks out from the middle of the book’s pages.
I pull into the Woodhill’s playground parking lot, switch off the car, and peer at Finn. The playground is empty and the air outside is frigid.
“Thanks for parking over here. I don’t know why—I just don’t want to be right out front of the house. I know it’s cold out and—”
“It’s fine.” I knew where we’d park. I’d planned to park here whether he said something or not. “It’ll be good to walk.”
“Yeah.” His brows furrow and his exhaling breath shudders. “Maybe I should have mailed it.”
“You didn’t want to mail it.”
He nods, his neck lobbing with his swallow.
“I’ll be with you,” I say so much more confidently than I feel. I hope this is right—for the Bernard’s, for Finn, even for me.
We step from the car and the cold air hits me in a gust, just like my dream told me it would—I’ll never get used to it. I push away my anxiety and focus on what’s important—Finn and his letter. We came here to do this. Finn’s hand slips into mine; it’s the only warm thing out in this blustery weather. I peer at the street sign, knowing what it will say, and start down the row of houses that all look the same. It’s been so long since I was here with Cytha—if there were any differences at all, I’d know the Bernard’s house in an instance. But I watch the numbers and tug on Finn’s hand when I see the silver 824.
“This is it.”
Finn looks down at the book in his right hand.
“Do you want me to wait here or come up with you?”
“I think I need to do this alone.” He loosens his grip on my hand and I instantly feel so much colder. His wide eyes are frightened. “I don’t know how to say sorry or even thank you for something like this.”
“You said it in the letter. Just give it to her.”
He nods and moves his feet, though grudgingly toward the front door. I watch him just like I watched Cytha weeks ago. He reaches for the doorbell, and, with one glance back at me, he hits the button.
Joyce answers, looking as confused as she did all those weeks ago. Finn holds the book in both his hands, but between his low volume and the wind, I can’t hear what he says. Joyce’s hands go to her mouth, and I involuntarily follow her actions, tears brimming in my eyes. Finn holds out the book, the letter between its pages. With shaky hands, Joyce takes it, my Jonathon Livingston Seagull.