Hear From You by Kim Morton

I decided it was worth it – you were worth it – when I moved the last hundred dollars from my savings to my chequing and bought the Schofield TF3 EVP Recorder. I’d skimped earlier and bought Wirecutter’s budget pick for $49.95, but it didn’t work. Just like the séance hadn’t worked, and those precious hours wasted with the phone psychic, and the Ouija board I pulled from the trunk in the attic. The board was a stretch. I knew that. But the psychic confirmed that you had a message for me, just like I thought. And you came into the room for a moment during the séance, but it was another twenty bucks to hear what you had to say, and you know I never carry cash. Well, with the Schofield, I can hear from you directly. It will translate your vibrations into audible speech, and I’ll get that last message.

At first, I thought you might be missing. I put up posters in the park where we first met. You, taking a break from your run to stretch, and me, out for a walk with Larry, who by the way misses you too. I put one up at the coffee shop we walked to, and guess what? The barista remembered us. How we stayed for hours and talked until closing, and how cute we looked together with Larry. She promised to spread the word.

Later, I went to the precinct to check on the missing persons report I filed, but the police told me they had closed it. That they knew where you were, and they were sorry to have to tell me this, but I wouldn’t be seeing you again. I cried so hard I could barely get the words out to ask if they had found your phone. They couldn’t tell me anything because I wasn’t related. I asked for your family’s information. I told them they’d want to hear from me because I was probably the last person you’d been in touch with before you died. I showed them the last message you sent. The one about fate. And they covered their mouths and told me they were sorry, but they had to get back to work.

Amazon recommended I pair the EVP with a pair of thermal imaging goggles. That way I can not only hear you but see you, or at least the outline of you, when I find you. If I wanted to see you, though, I would just go to your IG where you live on like a… forgive me, like a ghost. Some kind heart has continued to post in your absence, and it is my greatest fear that they will stop. Chance the Rapper lyrics under pictures of Chicago. You had been meaning to visit home. You would be there right now.

I drove to your house again, Schofield in hand, and walked around back to your bedroom window. I knew it was yours because it had an album player and a vinyl of that Muddy Waters song we both loved. You’d never met someone who loved him as much as you. I opened the window and climbed in quickly, so I didn’t accidentally let you out before we talked. The Schofield hadn’t picked you up yet, but I knew you would be here. Trapped with your records and books and rumpled bed because we had unfinished business.

So here I am to end what we started. I’ve been here for three days, waiting for the Schofield to warm up. Dots appear and disappear. The guide said it might take some time. It’s gotten a bit dark, but I only need to see the screen. I’m so hungry and thirsty. But I don’t want to start over, and besides, I spent my last hundred. At least this way, no matter what, you’ll know for sure that I would give anything to hear from you.