She felt a pang of sorrow. She had consumed more of the journal than remained unexplored.
Each night, she had read a generous portion, careful not to plow too quickly forward, savoring every page…while preserving enough to occupy subsequent nights.
She dreaded the day that her relationship with this voice would come to an end.
After the unexpected interruption from her co-worker Peg in the Book Shelf parking lot, Ellen had limited herself to only reading the journal at home.
Each night, after dinner, she lit a scented candle. She poured herself a glass of red wine. She curled on the couch with an old blanket knitted by her grandmother.
And she entered the innermost thoughts and passions of this intense and mysterious young man.
She joined him on a long journey through his brutal childhood, and while it awoke her own traumatic experiences, some unrecalled for many years, the sensations felt more comforting than painful. She found solace in their crossed paths, an escape route from the isolation of her own back history. She marveled over this stranger’s ability to describe her emotions in his words.
She wished she could write about her own psychological wounds in such a revelatory manner, picking the perfect descriptions and analogies, letting the feelings flow, equal parts anger, eloquence and therapy. It was the release she needed. She had tried yoga, jogging, swimming, pottery, night classes and, yes, even heaps of caffeine, to feel better. Everything except facing her demons head on.
Reading this young man’s private journal, she realized she had never felt so close to anyone before. Not Jeremy, and certainly not her family. She had never entered someone’s inner world like this. Long after she put the notebook down, his brooding voice remained inside her. Sometimes his phrases stayed with her into the following day, rolling through her thoughts at the bookstore.
In the entries she read tonight, the author spoke about a troubled brother for the first time. His name was Darren, and he was younger. The passages displayed heartfelt sympathy—and concern—for a sibling who had endured much of the same pain during his upbringing, yet suffered far worse in the present day.
While the trauma of my youth has left me in a state of unrest and melancholy that troubles me into adulthood, I am able to find some solace in the fact that I have remained socially functional and outwardly decent, having escaped the depths of madness that still plague my brother Darren, wrote the author.
Last night, I awoke to thundering fists against my front door that could only belong to my panic-prone sibling. I could tell from the intensity of the blows that Darren had erupted into his highest levels of paranoia, fighting off the stranglehold of his demons with unfocused rage. I sat him in my kitchen and tried to contain and calm him, grateful that he had come to me and not gotten himself in trouble, a constant fear of mine when he sheds all rational behavior.
My brother has endured these fits for years, but rarely do they achieve a scale like this, where I worry about his safety.
He has abandoned his doctors and medication. I have become his only treatment. Fortunately he listens to me and understands…for now. We have a unique bond.
By early the next morning, he rediscovered his true self, and was ashamed by his loss of control. When he left my apartment, I felt confident that Darren was no longer a risk to himself or anyone else. What I could not know was the timing of his next fit or “seizure,” as he calls them.
I have seen years pass between episodes, but I have also seen a gap of only a few days.
I understand his struggles in ways no one else can. As long as he knows to find me, I will be his stronger half. I am confident that Darren will not succumb to the darkness.
My brother is the only person I am truly close to. Perhaps one day I will find a female companion, someone to love with all my strength and heart. But I fear that my battle scars and heavy moods will be too much of a burden for even the most patient and tolerant young woman. I dare not undertake a search for this individual because I dread adding further disappointment to my life.
If she is out there, how will I know?
Now it was nearly midnight.
Ellen placed the journal in the top drawer of her computer desk. She was too worked up to sleep, so she decided to take a bath. She filled the tub, adding a dose of bubbles, unwrapping a new, sweet-smelling soap. She lit a scented candle on the sink counter and turned out the lights. She stepped naked from the chilled air into the steaming water’s grip, sinking slowly, rolling to her back, bringing her head to a rest against a plastic pillow.
The candlelight flickered, dancing with its partner in the mirror.
Ellen closed her eyes.
She imagined what the writer must look like. She started with the eyes. Deep blue. Sensitive. Medium-length hair, dirty blond, untamed, wavy. A sleek and honed physique, broad shoulders, graceful hands. Thin lips.
She crafted his image, brought him into her bed and pulled him into her fantasies. Their passions were an equal match. He unwound her hair, let it flow, and stroked it with long fingers. Sturdy and caring, he embraced her into safety.
“I need you,” he said…
Chapter Eight
When the alarm sounded, Ellen stopped it with a slap of resentment, having been yanked from one of her better dreams. Typically her dreams were grounded in insecurity or apprehension, amplifying moods she couldn’t shake during the day. But this latest dream—
She sat up and had to laugh. It was a romance.
Ellen didn’t ordinarily fantasize about men with such graphic intensity, awake or asleep. But this journal, through its vivid writing and brooding emotions, had manifested itself into a living, breathing human being. This being had stepped into her subconscious world, impossibly handsome and passionate. He had held her and kissed her lips, causing her to grow warm and prickly under the sheets. Sitting up in bed, she could smell the scent of her sweat and feel the beating of her heart.
The dream imagery began to dissolve, but she kept the fantasy alive, reminding herself that the journal and its voice were still very real.
She wanted to read another passage right then. Just a couple of paragraphs—maybe one page max. But she knew that once she got started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. There was something better about saving the journal for that evening, a reward waiting at the end of the day, something to get her through the monotony of work. At night, under the cover of darkness, without distractions or obligations, she could re-enter the pages and lose herself in them, like a little girl exploring a forbidden forest.
Until then, she left the journal in the drawer of her computer desk, out of sight but a constant presence.
Ellen climbed off the bed. She disrobed and felt the fading tingles on her skin. She glanced at the clock on her way to the shower.
If she moved quickly, she would have at least one hour to spend in the coffeehouse, continuing her search for the journal’s author.
Ellen returned to her post, a small table near the booth where she had discovered the notebook. She held a large latte and took measured sips. It was her second of two cups, intended to last thirty minutes each. She kept a newspaper spread out in front of her—a prop, because she wasn’t reading.
She settled into her new routine. She watched the clientele as it turned over in small, continual waves. She recognized familiar faces and several individuals she had already ruled out. Many of the others could be considered candidates. She had a good handle on age and gender, but little else.
Glancing around the room, Ellen couldn’t find anyone using a pen. Two men pecked at laptops, including a young, bald African-American in a business suit.
She wondered how long she would continue this activity—searching out the journal’s author. Weeks? Months?
Perhaps it would be better if she never found him and let her fantasies take over completely. Reality could be a crushing disappointment. It usually was.
At quarter to nine, Ellen needed to head to work. She allowed herself th
ree more minutes just in case, and didn’t gain anything from it. She picked up her purse and decided to take a quick bathroom break before starting her shift at the Book Shelf.
In the bathroom mirror, Ellen gave herself a long look, something she rarely did.
She studied herself as if stealing a glance at someone else—just another patron in the coffeehouse—another face to review.
In that moment, detached, absent of all self-consciousness and brain baggage, she thought, Hey, I’m kind of cute.
She brushed her hair, straightened herself up, and even smiled.
The smile really looked like someone else.
She told herself, Let’s get through another day at work, watch the hours fly by, and then tonight, a little wine, pillows on the sofa and a deep dive back into the journal.
She left the bathroom and began moving through the coffeehouse. She wasn’t even looking at customers anymore. But then someone caught her eye. She noticed a hunched figure seated by the wall, occasionally blocked from view by moving patrons. This person was new: a young man wearing a black sweater, facing away from everybody, with long, dark locks of hair rolling down the back of his neck.
Did I not notice him before? Did he just arrive?
Ellen continued at her pace, but curved her path to get a closer look at the young man in the black sweater.
She needed a quick excuse for her detour and found it: the community bulletin board, covered with notices of local events, charity drives, and citizens offering specialized services like dog-walking and tarot card readings.
She faced the bulletin board with her head cocked, as if engaged. Local Magician Available for Kids’ Birthday Parties! Ellen’s gaze moved off the bulletin board. She looked to the far right to catch a glimpse…
The young man’s head hung low. His arms rested on the table, circling an open notebook. Gripping a black pen, his hand moved across a page, making quick, decisive strokes.
Ellen had to turn her head to get a better look.
She needed to see the handwriting.
It remained out of view.
I need to get closer to him.
The young man’s arms, his slumped frame, the position of the table—all of it kept his writing hidden.
Ellen felt a sudden urge to leave the coffeehouse. Anxiety buzzed in her chest and arms. She realized how awkward she must have appeared at that moment, frozen at the bulletin board, but not really looking at it.
Do something or leave! screamed an inner voice.
Ellen approached the young man. Heart pounding, she stood over him.
He looked up.
His face was solemn, eyes dark, ringed with fatigue, but soulful. He was handsome.
“Hi—” said Ellen. “Can I—borrow your pen?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but she continued: “I just need to write down a phone number…from the bulletin board…guitar lessons.” She smiled, even forcing a little laugh.
“Okay,” he said in a quiet voice. He rested his gaze on her, straightening his posture. He held out the pen to her.
She moved closer to accept it.
Her eyes shot downward. The notebook. The handwriting.
It’s him. The handwriting was identical to that in the journal she had in her possession.
“Th-thanks,” she said, stuttering on the one word. She took the pen from him, absorbing every detail of the moment, seeing a firm, masculine hand, dark hair swirling on the back of his wrist.
“No problem,” he said.
When she remained frozen for an extra moment, he asked, “Do you need a piece of paper?”
She nodded. Of course she did. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”
He reached down to the notebook and flipped ahead to a blank page. He took hold of a sheet and tore it free from the spiral binding.
With his attention on the notebook, she seized the extra seconds to study him all over, and he was beautiful. He had broad shoulders, light facial stubble, and an earthy—not slick—presence about him. The image matched her imagination. She dipped back into her prickly, floating dream state. The entire moment felt surreal.
“There you go,” he said, handing her the piece of paper.
She accepted it, sputtering one more word of thanks. She quickly moved to the bulletin board.
She wondered if his eyes remained on her.
She studied the bulletin board, feeling as if the attention of the world were on her, dizzy from a strange blend of panic and exhilaration.
Where are those guitar lessons?
She found the notice and wrote the phone number down in careful, slow penmanship, like a child. She needed every extra moment to catch her breath and regroup.
I know the author of the notebook. Now what? What’s the next step?
She decided there was no next step. This was all she needed for now. Meeting him was overwhelming enough. Her game plan was to return the pen, say thank you one more time and get out of the coffeehouse before she babbled something stupid or made him suspicious.
She stuffed the phone number into her purse. She returned to him, arm extended with the pen for a quick handoff, afraid to linger.
He let the pen dangle in the air for a moment before reaching for it. His eyes stayed on her.
She didn’t know whether to look away or return the look.
He was staring.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I know you.”
She said, “I don’t think…”
But he continued, “You have something that belongs to me.”
She just about shattered to pieces right then and there.
He knows I have the notebook.
She opened her mouth to begin the confession, but he spoke first.
“You work at the Book Shelf,” he said. “You’re holding a book for me there.”
“I am?”
“Yes, I ordered it a couple of weeks ago. You took the order. The store just called to tell me that it came in.”
She didn’t remember him. But that was hardly unusual—hundreds of visitors came into the store every day. Most of the time, they blurred together into an anonymous blob, unless a complaint or extended encounter distinguished them. Her shyness usually resulted in minimal conversation and eye contact. Peg, her co-worker, was much better at chatting up customers and building relationships.
“Yes, I work there,” she said. “I’m sorry I don’t remember…”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I’m sure you see a lot of customers. So tell me, do you like working there?”
Oh my God, he’s starting a conversation. She repositioned her feet, which had been pointed toward the door, so she could better face him. “Yeah,” she said. She realized it was a bland answer, so she quickly followed with, “I’ve always loved books. I just like to be around books.”
“I do too,” he said. “I’ve been a big reader ever since I was a kid. When I was growing up, my closet was filled with books because I couldn’t fit them all in my room.”
She said, “I have a giant bookcase in my apartment. It takes up the entire wall.” She pointed to his notebook, which remained open on the table. “Do you like to write?”
“It’s compulsive,” he responded. “I can’t help it.”
“Are you published?”
“No,” he said. “This is just for me. I don’t share what I write.”
Not intentionally, she thought to herself.
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you like to write?”
“Oh, I can’t,” she responded. “I don’t have the gift. Either you have it or you don’t. I just read. But I do envy writers. I think it must be such a great feeling to express yourself in words, on paper, exactly like you want.”
“It never comes out exactly like you want,” he said. “But when it’s close, it’s very gratifying.” Then he added, “Maybe you’ll find a way to express yourself through the guitar.”
“Guitar?” She didn’t follow.
“The gu
itar lessons.”
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, internally kicking herself a good one. “I’m going to give it a shot anyway.”
“It’s good to try new things.”
Their conversation fell into a natural flow. Ellen found him easy to talk with, already familiar with the rhythms of his voice.
His name was Charles Balun. He told her he worked as a senior systems manager at Technor. She recognized the name of his employer, one of Chicago’s most prestigious new companies, located just a few blocks from the coffeehouse.
Before their conversation ended, he reached down and tore another blank page out of the notebook. Then he ripped the sheet neatly in half. He asked if they could exchange phone numbers. “I’d like to ask you out to dinner.”
“Sure,” she said in a tone ridiculously casual, given the multiple strokes and heart attacks she was experiencing.
She wrote down her phone number, watching the pen create the numbers as if by somebody else’s hand. She gave the paper to him. “I’ll be in tonight, if you want to give me a call.”
“I will do,” he said.
Ellen reported to work half an hour late.
Terri Smith, her boss, a patient woman with limits, reprimanded Ellen and called her behavior irresponsible.
Ordinarily, such a barbed statement would sting and hang heavy on Ellen’s slender frame, but today she could feel no pain.
She couldn’t even feel the floor beneath her feet.
Chapter Nine
Ellen moved through the bookstore with a new energy, chatting with customers with a bright smile on her face, abandoning her usual routine of hanging back in the rear aisles of low-traffic categories like reference. Her co-worker Peg took notice and asked, “So what’s got you so hyper?”
Picturing Charles, Ellen blushed, as if Peg could view her thoughts. “I don’t know. Just woke up on the right side of the bed, I guess.”
“Whose bed?”
“Come on…”
“Nobody looks this happy unless they got laid or won the lottery. Or else you’re quitting?”
Killer's Diary Page 5
