Jessa Garcia's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Jessa stands in the kitchen doorway at two in the morning, car keys still in her hand. Her mother sits at the table in her bathrobe, waiting. The question comes quiet but direct: where does Jessa go every night? Jessa could say the library, could say she drives to clear her head, could offer any answer that sounds like grief or stress or normal worry about a sick parent. But the truth sits behind her teeth like a stone. She goes to places where the walls feel thin between worlds. She goes to read aloud in empty parking lots and closed bookstores and anywhere the air might shift the way it did when she was nine. Her mother's bedroom door stands open behind her. The French doors frame the floral bedspread, the vintage lamp, the dresser with its bottles of medicine lined up like soldiers. Her mother sleeps there most days now, too tired to move much beyond those four walls. Jessa looks at the doorway and thinks about thresholds. About Lucy stepping through the wardrobe. About how a door is just wood until it isn't. She opens her mouth to lie, but what comes out is worse than the truth. She says she's looking for a way to fix things. Her mother's face changes. She thinks Jessa means a cure, a doctor, some real solution. She reaches across the table and squeezes Jessa's hand. Jessa doesn't correct her. The lie becomes a space between them that neither can cross. Later, in the storage room behind the garage, Jessa opens the old wardrobe they've kept since she was small. Inside, she's built shelves that stretch back farther than they should. Books line every surface, packed so tight the wardrobe seems deeper than possible. She runs her fingers along the spines in the dark. This is where she comes before the night drives, reading until her voice breaks. Tonight she pulls out The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and opens to the first crossing. She reads Lucy's steps into the snow. She reads them again. The air stays still. Her mother thinks Jessa is searching for hope. But Jessa is searching for an exit. And now she knows that if she finds it, the same lie that brought comfort tonight will be the thing that destroys her mother. The wardrobe door swings shut with a soft click, and Jessa realizes she can't have both—a mother who believes she's trying to stay, and a door that lets her leave forever. She pulls a small book from her jacket pocket. The cover catches the dim light, crystals set into the binding glowing faint blue. She found it at an estate sale three weeks ago and hasn't shown anyone. Inside, she's written every theory, every failed attempt, every location where she thought the crossing might work. The last page holds a single line she wrote the night her mother got sick: If I find a door, I'm not coming back. She opens to a blank page now and writes today's date. Under it, she adds: Mom asked where I go. I lied. She believes I'm trying to save her. She closes the book and holds it against her chest. Tomorrow she'll try again. She'll read the words and wait for the air to change. But tonight, for the first time, she understands what crossing over would actually cost. Not just her mother's confusion or worry, but her mother's last bit of hope that Jessa is still fighting to stay in this world with her. The book grows warm in her hands, or maybe that's just her own heat. Either way, nothing changes. The door stays closed.