The Pages of Her Life

by James L. Rubart

  By five fifteen she pulled into her driveway, happy about the loan but still ticked off about Linda. She needed a way to exorcise her frustration. She strode inside, greeted her mom and gave her the good news about the loan, then went to her room to get ready for a run. She glanced at her watch. Plenty of time to get up the mountain and back before twilight settled over Issaquah.

  Allison’s heart pumped like a jackhammer as she pounded up the mountain, pushing herself harder than she had in months. It hurt and felt good at the same time, each step squashing Linda’s pathetic control issues into the ground.

  By the time she reached the top of the mountain, her lungs burned along with her legs, but her spirit felt release, and the peace that often comes after extreme physical exertion washed through her. After her breathing returned to normal, she strolled over to the lookout and gazed down over the cars on I-90 likely streaming their drivers home. Clouds were thick on the horizon. Rain was bound to arrive soon. The sky would darken early. She should head back home.

  She turned to go and her breath caught. On the far edge of the clearing with his back to her stood Richard, the man who had been in the coffee shop the day she’d first seen the journal. Had to be him. Same running outfit from ten days back. Same hair, height, build. As she marched toward him, he began to stroll away from her. No. Not this time. This time she would catch him, and get answers.

  twenty-four

  RICHARD!” ALLISON JOGGED TOWARD HIM.

  To her relief, he didn’t break into a run back down the mountain. He turned, his eyes quizzical as she approached, hands stuffed in his blue windbreaker.

  “Your name is Richard, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” He peered at her. “Have we met?”

  “Not exactly.” She stood with hands on hips, studying Richard. The same look of gentleness and intensity she’d seen in The Vogue that day filled his eyes. “I saw you in The Vogue toward the end of April, you and another man. I sat at a table next to yours. He had a journal and he said his life had been changed.”

  “Yes. That’s right, we did see each other.” Richard smiled at her the way Joel used to do, and it peeled something back inside her. “So you eavesdropped on our conversation.”

  She couldn’t tell if that bothered him or if he thought it amusing.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He didn’t comment.

  “Can I . . .” She stopped. What did she want to do? “Can I talk to you about the journal?”

  “Sure.” He glanced at the sky. “Might we chat as we walk back down the trail? Looks like rain is coming.”

  “Good idea.”

  They made their way back to the trail. Just before starting down, Richard offered his hand. “My name is Richard. But you obviously already knew that.”

  “Yes, I did.” She took his hand. Large. Warm. “My name’s Allison.”

  “Pleased.” He smiled. “Impressive to remember a name you’ve only eavesdropped on once.” He winked.

  Good. He wasn’t offended.

  “Your conversation made an impression on me. I’ve been journaling my whole life, so it was hard not to pick up on your discussion. I love all kinds and styles, but the one I saw that day is one of the most exquisite I’ve ever seen.”

  “Is exquisite? Not was?”

  “Is.” She peered up at Richard. “I have it now.”

  “Oh really? I’d like to hear all about that.” Richard motioned down the trail. “Would you like to lead?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “As you wish.”

  They hiked down the path, and as they weaved in and out of groves of trees and collections of boulders, she told Richard about getting the journal, talking to her mom, and mustering the courage to write in it. She told him about her conversation with Parker, and about going to Carl and learning of the monk who created the journals and of the legends surrounding them.

  Richard asked a quick clarifying question here and there but otherwise spoke little till she’d finished.

  “And you’ve told me all of this, Allison, for what reason?” She wished she could have seen his face as he spoke the words. Was he kidding?

  “First, I want to know why your companion, Alister, gave the journal to me.”

  “Because you’re the one he chose.”

  “Chose?”

  “Yes.” Richard turned and gave her that warm smile again. A dad smile. A smile she’d longed for from her own father. “He chose you to have the journal next. As you said, the legend is that these journals are passed from person to person. You apparently are the next in line for this particular journal. Anything else?”

  “I only have three or four hundred more questions.”

  Richard laughed, a hearty laugh of peace and thunder. “Ask away.”

  “I want to know more about the journal. Everything I can. You obviously know something about it because of your friendship with this Alister guy.”

  She stepped over a log fallen across the trail and scraped her leg on its bark.

  “Here are a few of the things I know: I know Alister believed the journal was special. Supernatural, you might say. I know he wrote in it, and he told me he often felt the journal spoke back to him. I know he was a different man after having the journal than he was before.”

  “How do you know him? Where can I find him?”

  “How do you know he wants to be found?”

  “I don’t. But I need to find him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to find out what the journal is. What it does. What I’m supposed to do with it.”

  “From what you’ve told me, you know what the journal is, you know what it does, and you know what to do with it.”

  “Tell me about Alister. Please.”

  “I met Alister a year ago. We got together a few times a month, sometimes more, sometimes less. A coffee shop. Hikes. He needed a friend. I became one to him.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  Richard laughed. “You’re not a reporter, are you? Talk-show host?”

  “No and no. I’m an architect.” She held up her hands in mock defense. “But I’m motivated to find out everything I can about this journal. Sorry about all the questions.”

  “Don’t be.” Richard glanced at the sky and picked up his pace down the trail. “I was Alister’s parole officer.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Used to be. Guess I’ll always be, in some ways.”

  Allison sniffed out a soft laugh. Of course Richard was a cop. Nice way to remind her of her dad. God certainly had a sense of humor.

  “My dad was a cop. Leon Moore.”

  “I know of him. But I never met your father.”

  Her dad would have liked Richard.

  They lapsed into silence for five or so minutes and Allison slowed. Richard was right. She did know what to do. Write in the journal. And she knew what it was—if Carl’s words were true. She picked up her pace and caught up to Richard.

  “So you believe there are seven of them? That they’re angel journals?”

  “What do you believe, Allison? Has anything strange happened since you started writing in yours?” He turned and walked backward down the trail a few paces, somehow avoiding the rocks and roots that could have easily tripped him up.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to tell me about that?”

  Did she? She barely knew this man, yet the answer was yes, she did want to. Not simply because the warmth that seemed to radiate off him invited her to believe this space was safe; her intuition whispered that the more open she was with him, the more open he’d be with her.

  “I’ve written in the journal, and the words I’ve written have changed. It wasn’t my imagination. They changed. Not once, but two times now.”

  “Alister said the same.”

  “So it’s real? The journal? It really is the hand of God writing in the journal, or changing the writing?”

  Before she finish
ed her question, the clouds opened and rain poured down. Richard glanced back and said, “Mind if we pick up the pace and get off the mountain?”

  Allison shook her head and they both broke into a run. Little pockets of the trail turned to mud, and dodging the larger puddles made her think of playing hopscotch as a kid. But after another half mile, her shoes and socks were drenched with fresh rainwater and ancient mud, and she gave up trying to stay out of the muck. No chance to get her question answered till they got to their cars.

  But when they reached the parking lot, the rain had turned into a torrent, not exactly conducive to finishing their conversation.

  “Can we talk again?” Allison shouted to be heard over the deluge.

  “Anytime you’d like.”

  “Where?”

  Richard yanked open his car door, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “Call me. Or text. I look forward to next time.”

  With that, he jumped into his car, waited till Allison was safely in hers, then drove off, leaving Allison enlightened, bewildered, and inspired all at the same time.

  twenty-five

  Wednesday evening, May 29th

  I don’t know what to think about what is going on in my life at the moment. Work. This journal. And Mom. She’s at the point where she doesn’t need to live with me any longer. Her ankle is doing well. But where would she go? With her house now sold and all the proceeds gone to the loan, there’s no other option. It’s fine having her here but would be nice to be back on my own again. She asks about the journal a lot, and I don’t mind that much. I tell her about it, but there’s a big part of me that wants to—no, needs to—go on this journey, whatever it is, on my own.

  And the money. Always the money guillotine hanging over my head. Payment next month? Yes. But when my home loan is gone . . . then what?

  Then there’s this Richard guy I met today. What’s his story? Why is he willing to talk to me about the journal? Is he just another father figure who will let me down in the end?

  And of course my ongoing struggle with Derrek. He wants me to lie to clients, he continues to put off getting the partnership finished, is aloof for long periods, then turns around and tells me I’m talented and gifted and he appreciates me. I hate the mixed messages! Because it opens me up and gives me hope for what things can be like at Wright Architecture. I went there thinking it would be the last place I’d ever work. But now? I don’t know. Have to, have to, have to get the partnership finalized. And life can settle.

  Which brings us to Linda. Why does she hate me? And why don’t I stand up to her? And why can Derrek praise me one moment, then throw me to Linda the Wolf the next?

  And what are you going to tell me, Journal? How are you going to rearrange my words to change the meaning of what I’ve just written?

  I need answers, God, and direction and guidance and all of the above. Change the words, Lord. Show me what to do.

  But in the morning, when Allison checked the journal, nothing had changed. As strange as it had been before to find certain words of hers taken out, and words that were not hers put in, to find her entry exactly as she’d written it was somewhat shocking.

  She could talk to her mom about it, but the person she really wanted to chat with was her brother. “Where are you, Parker?”

  Parker had watched Allison trek away from his homestead, equal parts peace and sorrow. He’d missed her, and the time they’d had together over Memorial Day weekend wasn’t enough. She’d been his closest friend all through junior high and high school. Even during college when they were apart too often. She was the person he could tell anything to. And right now she was right. He needed to talk. But he didn’t want to. The hermit life agreed with him. Maybe too much. And then there was the matter of their mom. What if Al’s new partnership thing didn’t work out? What then? Could he leave Al hanging? Leave Mom hanging? No way. What he should do is find the loan sharks, stick a gun in their faces, and tell them to forgive the loan. Yeah, sure he should do that. Perfect solution.

  Al said things would be fine. Yeah, maybe they would be. But there had to be a way for him to help. In the morning he’d head into Mazama and make some calls to some old friends. Find work.

  Parker got to Mazama at eight o’clock Tuesday morning. By late afternoon he’d found a job. After that he put in a call to Allison.

  “Hey, Al. It’s me. I know we’re supposed to talk on the phone tomorrow, but I have a better idea. Let’s do it in person. I’m coming over. I’ll be there on Thursday, late afternoon, early evening. Hang in there. We’ll figure out this thing with Mom together. I’ve figured out a way I can help.”

  On Thursday midmorning he drove his quad to the mechanics garage where he stored his Ducati 1098 motorcycle. Paid the guy twenty dollars a month to keep it there. The bike was twelve years old but in great shape, and it could still shred a highway. And right now Parker wanted to shred the North Cascades highway.

  He marveled at the scenery as he headed west. The skyrocketing mountains shooting up to the sky never failed to impress. Traffic was light, affording him the chance to punch the gas on the straightaways and take the corners only slightly slower.

  Just over the pass, he saw a straight shot, and something inside told him to go for it. See how far the speedometer would climb before the curves appeared that would force him to slow down. He’d had this bike over 140 only once, and once was far from enough.

  Parker kicked the bike into fifth gear and eased down on the throttle for a few seconds, then opened it up wide. The torque almost lifted the front wheel off the highway, and Parker focused on the pavement sliding by underneath him. Speed, baby. Pure speed. The engine screamed as he hit eighty. One hundred. One ten. When he hit 120 a wry smile formed. When he reached 130 it was a fun grin. At 150 laughter poured out of him. No one holding him back. No one holding him down.

  Three seconds later a yellow sign came into view. Curve ahead. Parker braked, then dropped a gear and glanced at his speedometer. Eighty-three. The curve came into view, long and gentle. Should be able to take this pup at ninety. He gave the bike gas and leaned into the curve, the rush of danger filling him.

  Fifty yards in, a white car with lights on top came into view and his heart skipped. A half second later Parker shot past him and caught a glimpse of the cop’s face. Not happy.

  The cop pulled out, lights whirling. Parker looked in his rearview mirror as the cop’s car pulled a U-turn. Parker’s stomach lurched and he glanced at his speedometer. Thirty-five over. This was going to be expensive. Not just this ticket, but his insurance was sure to bump him to higher premiums. Getting four speeding tickets in less than two years will do that.

  He slowed and pulled over on the shoulder, toed out his kickstand, but didn’t get off his bike. The officer pulled in behind him five seconds later, popped out of his car, and strode toward Parker. As he did, Parker took off his helmet and goggles.

  The cop was tall. Lean, strong jaw. Eyes hidden behind mirror shades. Parker kept his hands on his handlebars, stared straight ahead, and waited for the crunch of the cop’s boots on the gravel shoulder.

  A temptation circled his mind. Tell the cop about Dad. The guy probably wouldn’t know him, but there was a chance. And then what? The cop would let him off? Yeah, right. Parker kept his mouth shut and pressed his lips together.

  The cop scraped up next to the bike, hands loose at his sides. He didn’t speak for a few seconds, and Parker didn’t turn his head.

  Finally, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Of course he knew. What a stupid question. How often was anyone pulled over when they didn’t know what they’d done wrong?

  “Yep.”

  “You know?”

  “Yeah. I do.” Parker glanced at the cop, then turned back to staring straight ahead. “You think you’re looking at an idiot?”

  The cop drew in a hard breath and stepped closer. Parker could almost feel the tension rising.

  “You want to tell me?”
/>
  “Nope, sure don’t.” Parker gripped his handlebars harder. “I mean, I did want to tell you at first, but then I thought about it for a few seconds and changed my mind.” Parker cocked his head and looked at the cop.

  The cop placed his hand on his gun. “You should be on late-night. I’m busting a gut.”

  “Thanks.” Parker shifted his weight. “I work on my material a lot. Especially for cops.”

  “Guess what all the comedians I meet out here get.”

  “What?”

  “Maximum penalty allowed.”

  Parker nodded. “Not surprising.”

  “I’d like you to tell me why you think I pulled you over. Right now.”

  Parker leaned his head back and stared at a hawk circling above them. Freedom. Fly, baby, fly.

  “I was speeding. Way over. Doing probably ninety in a fifty-five when you spotted me. Stupid move. Really idiotic. But there hasn’t been a rash of great decisions in my life lately.”

  The cop sniffed out a laugh. “I’m going to have to document this. First time I’ve gotten an honest answer in eight months.”

  Parker didn’t respond.

  “I clocked you at eighty-eight miles per hour.”

  Parker nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “You want to tell me why you were in such a hurry?”

  “Because the speed felt good. And I haven’t had much good lately. I’ve been doing the hermit thing, and it’s not always the best choice for my mind.”

  “Oh?” The cop shifted his weight. “Any other reason?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay,” the cop said. “License and registration, please.”

  Parker handed him both and the cop started to stroll back to his patrol car, but after five paces he stopped, spun on his boot, and meandered back.

  “Your license says your address is in the Seattle area. What are you doing on the east side of the mountains?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t live over there anymore. Life got weird. I decided to make a change. Move to Mazama. Build a place on a remote piece of land. Get away from everything and everyone. Start over. And I feel really stupid telling you all this like you’re a bartender or something, but like I said, I haven’t talked to too many people lately.”