A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

recollection I’d been hoping for.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You don’t say either way.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
You don’t tell me.
“Just can’t sleep?”
You don’t say.
I think it would be hard trying to sleep in a place that’s brand-new,
surrounded by people you don’t know. You were asleep in the
basement, until Dad went and put an end to that.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I go to my room. Kicked to the back corner of the closet floor is my
old security blanket. It’s blue. The silk edge is torn. Why I still have
this stupid thing is beyond me. I used to go everywhere with it. I’d cry
without it. According to Dad, Mom used to have to dupe me to get it
out of my hands long enough to wash it. Once, it got left in the
grocery store shopping cart and my world almost came to an end.
I’m thinking maybe you need my blanket more than I do.
I half expect your bedroom door to be shut and locked when I
come back. It’s not. I thrust the blanket at you. “Take it,” I say.
“What is it?” you ask, feeling the texture of it, the weight. The
thing’s been washed so many times it’s anything but soft. It’s thin. It
isn’t the kind of thing that would keep anybody warm. It doesn’t look
like much.
“My old blankie. My blanket. Some kids have them. Maybe you
did, too. I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep without that thing as a kid.”
You don’t say anything. You just hold my blanket in your hands,
staring blankly at it, then me, then it, ’cause you can’t hold
someone’s stare more than a second at best. “I thought maybe it
would help you, you know, sleep. It used to be the only thing that
made me feel better when I was sick or sad.” I turn my back to you
and start walking away.
Three steps later, you say, “Don’t you need it?” Then you tack on,
“Leo.” The way you say it is unsure, like you’re not a hundred
percent sure you should say it. It gets a smile out of me, though you
don’t see. I keep walking.
“I think you need it more than me.”