Amy was the only underprivileged girl in my class. She never had any food, and everyone made fun of her clothes. I was her lone buddy and brought her extra food.
She disappeared later. It was twelve years later. I had just had surgery and was in a freezing bed at the hospital with an IV in my arm.
I couldn’t see anything till the nurse came in. Her hair was tied back tightly into a bun, and her name tag hung loosely from her scrubs. I knew she looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen her before.
Then she smiled at me and said, “You will be okay, I promise.” You helped me once, and I’ve never forgotten. I was frozen. “Amy?” I said, “I’m not sure if I believe it.”
For a moment, her eyes sparkled, and then she nodded.
“Yeah. It’s me. There was no air left in my chest.
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so she pulled up a chair and sat next to me like we were kids again. She smiled slightly and continued, “You probably thought I was gone.” “I did, in a way.” We moved in the night. We didn’t have time to say goodbye because my mom got a job offer in another state.
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “I waited. For weeks, I kept inquiring about you.
She smiled again, but this time it was a little softer. “I know. The teacher gave me your letters.
I read them all. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Amy, the teenager who wore shoes that were too big and never brought lunch, was now a nurse.
She was calm, confident, and nice. “How did you get here?” I asked. “Long story,” she remarked.
“But I think it all started with a cheese sandwich.”
And just like that, we were in fifth grade again. Amy didn’t have much. Her backpack had holes in it, the sleeves of her jacket were too short, and I observed her pick up a crushed granola bar from the floor once.
I couldn’t take it. One day, I made an extra sandwich and gave it to her. At first, she wasn’t sure, but I told her I wasn’t hungry, which was a lie.
The next day, I packed additional things. My mom never asked questions, and Amy always said “thank you” quietly. Kids would make fun of her and call her names.
But I stayed with her. Some people even got mad at me for it, but I didn’t care. She was quiet, but when she talked, she was hilarious, knowledgeable, and imaginative.
She loved to sketch, and one time she drew a picture of us on the swings with just a pencil. For years, I kept that drawing in my notebook. Then, on a Monday morning, she left.
Just like that. There were no answers at her desk. The teacher finally answered, “She moved,” but wouldn’t say anything else.
I composed letters and sent them to the office. Weeks later, I got a package with all of my letters plus a message in Amy’s handwriting that said,
“Thank you for being there for me when no one else was.”
That’s all there was. Up until now.
Amy remarked, “I wanted to come back.” “I attempted to find you on the internet. I looked up your name from time to time, but I couldn’t remember your last name until lately. “Me too.” “I also looked for you,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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