“I’m not quitting. I like it here. I mean, I like the books.”
“I’m right there with you,” said Peg. “The books, not the customers.” At the end of each shift, Peg would share her Rude Customer of the Day candidates, enacting the encounters with perfect mimicry.
As if on cue, an enormous woman in a puffy winter coat approached them, out of breath. “Excuse me, do one of you actually work here? I’ve just circled this entire store and I don’t plan on doing it again. I can’t find the diet books.”
Ellen surprised Peg—and herself—by offering to help first. “Sure. Let me help you, ma’am. Follow me.”
“You better share some of those lottery earnings,” Peg called after her. “Remember your friends!”
After work, Ellen bought Mexican takeout and drove home, groaning at every small delay, including traffic lights that had the audacity to turn red. She didn’t want to miss the call.
She felt like she was at least ten years younger. She tried to rationalize this rare buzz of excitement under her skin. “Am I this desperate for a date?” she asked aloud.
No, she answered herself. She had been asked out before. This one was just different. This young man reached deeper. He had stirred her up inside and won her over without even knowing of her existence. She had bonded with a stranger.
It was the red notebook.
Ellen surprised herself by hitting the horn to jolt the car in front of her into movement when it lingered at a green light for several seconds.
For the remaining blocks, she rehearsed a warm and carefree tone for the phone conversation. She knew she could sound tight and nervous. Her voice often wavered with uncertainty, fading up and down as if someone was playing with the volume.
“Hello, Charles,” she said, realizing it was the first time she had spoken his name out loud. She repeated it several times to hear how it sounded on her lips. “Charles. Charles. Hi, Charlie!” She giggled to herself and found street parking not too far from her building. A good omen.
In her apartment, she ate at the kitchen counter, limiting herself to small bites. She didn’t want to get caught with a mouth stuffed with food when the call came.
When the phone didn’t ring during dinner, she quickly checked it for a dial tone—still working—and then tried to avoid a wave of pessimism. Maybe he’s not going to call. Maybe he had second thoughts. She had his number, but the notion of phoning him for a date would require extra helpings of courage.
If only he wasn’t so handsome… I’d take somebody half that good-looking just to get closer to the writer of that notebook.
The notebook remained in its drawer. She didn’t want to take it out and start reading. She couldn’t return to his voice and then get interrupted by a call from the real him. That was too much.
At eight fifteen p.m., she asked herself, How late is too late for a call? Maybe he’ll call tomorrow. Then I have to go through all of this anxiety for another twenty-four hours, except with the creeping feeling that maybe the call will never come.
“Confidence,” she said out loud, forceful, to push away all the other thoughts. “Confidence, Ellen…”
Not that she was looking at the clock or anything, but the phone rang at precisely eight twenty-two p.m.
She stared at the phone, letting him wait for a moment, before interrupting the third ring.
“Hello?” she said, feeling out of breath, as if she had dashed across the room rather than been standing directly over the phone. Nerves?
“Hello—is this—Ellen?”
“Yes, it is.” It was him.
“Ellen, this is Charles. We met this morning at Pacific Coast Coffee…”
As if she had forgotten? She almost laughed. “Yes, of course. Hi, Charles.”
“I hope I’m not, um, calling too late.”
“No. Not at all. I’m up. I stay up late.”
“Me too. I’m kind of a night owl. Um, anyway…”
There was a moment of silence, and it dawned on her that he sounded just as nervous as she felt.
“Would you…still like to…go out sometime?” His question probed cautiously.
“Sure,” she said. In her mind, she added, I’d love to, but censored the words from reaching the phone for fear of sounding desperate. As long as he sounded nervous, she could play it cool.
They discussed several dinner possibilities, circling the globe of offerings on Chicago’s North Side until landing on a Portuguese restaurant that neither had been to. “It’ll be new for both of us,” said Charles. “So if one of us doesn’t like it, we can’t blame the other.”
“Deal,” she said.
They set up a time to meet at her apartment on Friday night.
The entire call was finished in less than ten minutes. Not enough time to get to know one another better. But his interest in her had been verified. A dinner date had landed on her calendar.
She paced her living room for several minutes, tightly wound with nervous energy.
The notebook remained in her thoughts. The more its author became a real, flesh-and-blood person, the more she felt guilt-ridden about taking his personal property.
Charles had no idea that she already knew him more intimately than possibly anyone else. If he discovered that she had been reading his darkest feelings, no doubt he would be alarmed, possibly terrified.
She knew that’s how she would feel if a stranger had been examining her own dark past without her knowledge, scrounging through the rubble of her personal pain and devastation.
For a moment, she resisted the urge to continue reading the journal. It was an invasion of privacy, wrong and disrespectful. It threw the relationship off balance. He would be exploring her for the first time through their dinner date, while she would have already learned so much about him.
She wanted to respect Charles and their relationship. But the magnetic pull of the journal proved too strong.
Within fifteen minutes of the end of their phone conversation, she had returned to its pages.
This time, as she read, she heard his voice. An even, deep tone, rich but unexcitable, broken by hesitations, an awareness of his own words, perhaps struggling for a comfort level or maybe just thoughtfully choosing a precise expression.
I begin today’s journal entry with a heightened sense of despair that is not prompted by any recent occurrences. I belong in a better place as I continue to put more distance between my current state of affairs and the evil that destroyed my earlier years. But my wounds remain open, inviting new infections, incapable of healing.
I can heal you, Charles.
I can take care of my brother, Darren. I am there for him, twenty-four and seven, a loyalty that remains deep to the bone. But who will take care of me? Darren cannot serve that role. He is too fragile, too volatile. I have no parents, no close friends. Held captive in my self-constructed cocoon, I long for a woman’s touch and tenderness. I crave the nurturing I missed in my childhood. I need someone to hold me up, not like a crutch, but to empower me through love, respect and strength.
I am reaching out to you now, Charles. Can you feel my touch?
When I don’t feel submersed in sadness, I am consumed by rage. I am certain that the origin of these mood swings is body chemistry, a stain on my brain, a fire that lives inside of me. I don’t know what to do with the fury. I don’t know what to do with the pain. I don’t know what to do about the storms that wait for me in my nightly dreams. I only know I cannot stop them through drugs, alcohol or reason.
I’m here, Charles. Together we can conquer our demons. Our past doesn’t have to dictate our future.
Sometimes I become so furious at everything around me, the impurity of my very existence, that there’s no telling what I might do. Where is the relief? Who has the cure? When will I feel at peace?
We’ll find happiness, Charles. We’ll take each other there. We are exactly what each other needs.
Chapter Ten
Ellen realized that this was her th
ird time looking at the card featuring the dancing monkeys with a “Go bananas on your birthday” punch line. She sighed and stuck it back in its slot in the rack.
The Book Shelf had a decent selection of greeting cards—one of the many ancillary items sold in the store to make up for sagging book sales.
However, nothing felt right today. The birthday cards were either too sappy, too silly or simply in bad taste. She considered settling for the most generic card possible and writing a long note — but what would she say?
To make matters worse, her mother’s birthday was the following day. Even if she dropped a card in the mail this morning, it would arrive late.
Ellen gave the card rack a spin and watched the cartoons and colored words rotate like a roulette wheel. Should she reach out and pick one at random? Eeny meeny miny mo…
Ellen thought, I should just call her. It was a notion she often considered and rejected. After moving—escaping—to Chicago, she had not seen her mother at all, and had spoken to her on the phone only a few times. Ellen initiated the calls and often regretted them when the conversation turned shrill. She never invited her mother to visit her in Chicago. She didn’t even offer an address.
The reason was simple. George might join her mother, and Ellen refused to ever see him again.
Ellen left the greeting card rack, wondering, What am I going to do?
She wished she could talk to Charles about this and seek his advice. Then she recalled a passage in the red notebook, sentiments about Charles’s own mother, filled with yearning and regret. As it turned out, Charles had already spoken to Ellen on this subject.
When Ellen returned home that night, she threw down her purse and coat and immediately retrieved the journal. She brought it with her to the couch and found the passage she had remembered.
She read: One of the saddest things about losing my mother when I was seven is the realization that I never expressed my love and appreciation toward her, stuck in that childhood mindset where everything is taken for granted and the world exists to serve you. My mother was a gentle, caring woman—far from perfect—but deep with good intentions. She’s in a better place now. If she could only hear me, if she could read these words, I would tell her, loud and clear, the simple words that every living person needs to hear: I love you.
Ellen had her answer. She called her mother, punching out the numbers quickly, before she could change her mind.
“Hello?” said the familiar voice, both far away and nestled in her ear.
“Mother, it’s Ellen.”
“Ellen?” She paused. “Ellen, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m great, actually.”
“Well…it’s good to hear from you.”
“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Is it…? I haven’t…”
“It’s tomorrow, Mom.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ve been so busy…”
“It’s good to be busy. What have you been busy with?”
“I’ve been going to church again, and I’m helping them with their rummage sale. And tonight, I’m having a little get-together for some of my friends, some of the ladies from work, we play cards. We take turns hosting.”
“Mom, that’s great.” Ellen pictured her mother being social again—a big step forward. “What else is new?”
After a moment of silence, her mother said, “Ellen, he’s gone.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“George. He’s gone. We’re apart.”
Ellen wanted to let out a cheer, but held it in and said, “What…where did he go?”
“We split up. It wasn’t working. All those years, no ring. Throwing tantrums at every little thing. He’s not very nice.”
Jesus, Mom, it took you all this time to figure that out? thought Ellen.
“You made the right choice,” said Ellen.
“I don’t know.” Her mother sighed.
“No. Trust me. You did.” Ellen felt an urge to unleash the truth. She wanted to reveal George’s true evil, the late-night abuse. The urge pressed inside her, but she held back. She had never discussed it with anyone. She couldn’t open that door. There was too much anguish on the other side. She remained afraid.
“I think I’m better off now,” said her mother.
“Definitely. He was a bad man, Mom.”
“Perhaps.” Ellen’s mother changed the subject. “So what about you? How are you?”
“I’m doing really well.”
“Work is good?”
“Work is very good. My health is good.” Then Ellen couldn’t resist adding, “Mom, I have a date tomorrow night. I think this guy might be someone really special.”
“Really?” Her mother sounded surprised.
“I’ve gotten to know him…intimately…but not intimately like you’re thinking…intimately as a person, his feelings, his philosophy…”
“Oh, Ellen…” said her mother, and the tone was not what Ellen was expecting. It sounded despondent.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Let me give you some advice, dear, from someone who has been there, a woman with a lot of experience…”
“Yes?”
“Stay away from men.”
Ellen laughed.
“I’m not being funny,” her mother said. “Jesus, Ellen, look what I’ve been through, first with your father, then with George. They have destroyed my health, they have ruined my sense of well-being and happiness. The only way to keep yourself true and together is to stay out of relationships. I’m not the only one who thinks this way. My new friend Bessie—”
“Mom, stop it,” said Ellen.
“Buy yourself a vibrator.”
“God, Mother!” Ellen wondered if her mother had been drinking. It was hard to tell; she tended to murmur, drunk or sober.
Ellen’s mother continued, “You’ll see. Whoever this young man is…he’ll disappoint. He’ll leave you. He’ll hurt you. He’s dangerous, they all are. He’ll make you feel terrible in ways you never felt before.”
Ellen couldn’t stand hearing any more of it. “Mother, I need to go.”
“Be strong, Ellen. Don’t become dependent on him. Save yourself.”
Ellen rushed the phone conversation to a conclusion. After she hung up, she paced the room.
How dare she try to tell me what to do? Just because she’s never known true love doesn’t mean I don’t have a chance in this world.
Then Ellen realized she had failed to complete her one goal of the phone call. She had not said, “I love you.”
Their relationship remained a mess.
Ellen turned her thoughts to Charles. She vowed that her mother’s warnings wouldn’t get in the way of her date. She would block them out entirely and with ease.
She was ready to hope again.
Chapter Eleven
Charles picked her up on time, seven o’clock on the nose, showing up in a long, dark coat, hands in pockets, smiling and fumbling for words. His shyness and unease comforted her—she no longer felt obligated to produce a slick front herself. They could be awkward together.
Upon his arrival, she felt an unusual urge to hug him. The journal had created a tremendous sense of familiarity. She reminded herself, He knows nothing about me, while I’ve been learning everything about him.
“Ready for Portugal?” he asked.
“I’ve got my passport,” she joked.
“We’ll grab a cab—is that okay?”
“Of course.” She had her own car, but felt strange about offering to drive on a first date. Besides, parking in the neighborhood was a nightmare—a good way to start the date off on a note of aggravation.
The cab arrived and Charles opened the door. She had nearly circled the cab for the door on the other side before realizing he’s holding it open for me.
She giggled, “Sorry,” returning. Thanking him and climbing inside, she realized it had been a long time since she had dated—and a really long time since she had dated
a gentleman.
The small backseat of the cab brought them closer together. She could feel her heart thumping. Her knees were brought up, long legs exposed. She wore a dark blue dress, so new that the price tags had been torn off less than an hour ago. He wore a charcoal gray sweater and black slacks. She wondered if the cabbie thought they looked cute together.
Charles gave the cabbie directions to the restaurant. The cab pulled away from the curb.
During the ten-minute ride, they skimmed a light conversation, commenting on the recent snow and promises of better weather later in the week.
At the restaurant, he again opened a door for her, but this time she was ready. Still, she nearly giggled nervously a second time. She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and the reflection looked like someone else. When was the last time she had dressed up to look this good?
Her reddish-brown hair was fresh, unleashed and dropped forward. She had gray eyes, long limbs and a skinny teenager’s build equipped with just enough feminine adult curves, nicely accented by the dress.
I can be pretty good looking, she thought, and it reminded her of the period in her life when she had enjoyed a good number of first dates.
Now just don’t blow it with your personality.
Fortunately, with Charles, she didn’t need to force a boisterous and flirtatious personality. He seemed to appreciate her more subdued approach. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Extroverted himself.
They received menus and he studied the options before choosing the sautéed pork loin with clams. Ellen picked the broiled salmon with lemon dill sauce. She offered to share bites with him as long as he didn’t have a cold.
“I don’t have a cold,” he said, almost defensively.
“I know, just joking.”
He studied her. “You’re supposed to smile when you make a joke.”
“I wasn’t smiling?” Ellen could hear Terri’s voice at the Book Shelf: Smile at the customers. You never smile. It’s a bookstore, not a funeral home.
“How’s this?” She made a big grin, silly and exaggerated.
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