Aunt Betty's Diary

They heard him from the living room, again. They couldn't make out what he was saying over the television, but they'd grown concerned, and with a look, Sharon sent her husband Dan to investigate.

As Dan walked quietly up the stairs, the boy's muffled voice slipped through the crack under his bedroom door and echoed gently against the dark paneling and hard wood floors in the upstairs hall. He spoke and paused, spoke and paused, in hushed tones, as if having a conversation with an unheard voice, something private, secret. His phone was broken, and his friends had just gone home after swimming. Dan followed his son's wet foot prints to his bedroom and listened.

“Oh! Man, yeah!” The boy said. “That's a great idea! No. I'd never say anything.” Dan gently knocked on the door.

“Andy?” He turned the knob and opened the door. Andy jumped up from his bed, looking awkward, caught, embarrassed. He looked down nervously at the little black book on his bedside table.

“Are you alright?” Dan asked. And then he noticed the diary Andy was worried about was the one Dan's aunt Betty had insisted he keep watch over in her will, a condition of leaving him all that she had in the world, a few sundries from her apartment, a handful of books, and $20,000 in cash and coin. The diary's black leather was well worn, the pages yellowing, evident even from the edges. When their eyes met, Andy apologized for taking the book and on Dan's request Andy handed it over.

“Dinner's on the grill, so it'll be ready in just a little bit.” Dan nodded, with a slight smile on his face.

After Dan tucked the diary away in his den, the family ate by the pool as the odd leaf tumbled from a tree into the still gently rippling water. Andy offered nothing in the way of conversation. Sharon and Dan looked at each other, and then Dan broke the silence. “How's your story for class coming?”

“Pretty good. I guess.”

“Is that...what you were working on, when I knocked on your door?”

“Uh. Oh. Yeah.”

“You read what your characters say out loud?”

“Kind of. Sometimes.” Andy fumbled his words.

“Sounds interesting. Can we read it? When it's finished?”

“Sure.” Andy avoided eye contact, but then realized how that made him look. So he met their eyes, the best he could, and shrugged. “It's due next Friday.”

“Next Friday. Swim meet day. Are you ready?”

“I'm always second or third. Never first.”

Sharon finally joined in. “Going and doing your best is what it's all about. We're proud of you.”

The week went by. Andy's parents waited patiently on the story, the swim meet came and went, giving Andy a bronze in the hundred meter free style, and during the entire weekend following, hardly a word was spoken.

His parents wondered if Andy had forgotten that he offered to share his story, or if perhaps he was simply nervous, as writers tend to be, especially with work they feel falls short. And would it matter? They weren't aware of any new instances of Andy seeming to talk to himself, and every day without it brought more and more relief.

The day came that the the students read their stories for class. And after Andy finished reading his, the other students applauded. His teacher, Mrs. Bingham, leaned back and looked at him proudly. “That's quite a story.” Andy blushed, slightly, and held up the first page to show off the big “A+” written at the top as he shuffled back to his seat.

“This took real imagination.” Mrs. Bingham chimed. “Do you know where you got the idea?”

Andy opened his backpack, dropped his notebook inside, and noticed the little black book was there among his things. He didn't remember taking it, but here it was. Had his parents given it back to him? He lifted it up and looked at it. “Actually, it was this.”

“What is that? Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

“You didn't just copy a story out of this, did you?”

“Oh. No. That's..I don't know, kind of like a personal diary. It belonged to my father's aunt Betty.”

“Oh, okay. And how did this help you?”

“I don't know. It's-it's hard to explain. I read some of it, and it was like....like she was talking to me.”

Mrs. Bingham flipped through the pages. “Poems, personal anecdotes, notes on a life.”

“Yeah but my story-”

“No. It's alright.” Mrs. Bingham interrupted. “I can see what you wrote isn't in here at all. You really were inspired.”

“Yeah, and now it's almost like even my own notebook, any blank page really, wants to talk to me, they have something to say, or help me have something to say.”

“You sound like a real writer in the making.”

That afternoon, after school, Andy walked home in a slump, dumped his backpack on the patio table and sat staring at the clear blue water in the pool. He wanted to feel happier but he couldn't decide whether to feel proud or ashamed. The idea, after all, wasn't really his.

When his mother came home, she found him lost in his thoughts, sitting on the edge of the pool, feet in the water. “Andy?” She called.

“Huh?”

“Did you get a good grade on your story?”

“A plus.”

“Great! Can I see it?”

Andy shrugged, “Sure.”

“Can you help with the groceries?”

“I guess.” He shrugged again, otherwise not moving.

Sharon peeked into his bag, fished out his English notebook, and then found the little black book. She knew Dan had put it away. She carried the two books into the kitchen and opened Andy's. “The talking notebook.” She whispered to herself, reading his semi-crooked hand writing. She thought, and then smiled. Maybe it was all just an exercise in imagination.

At the end of dinner his parents prodded, with both notebooks on the kitchen counter behind them, next to Andy's backpack. “I really liked your story.” Sharon said.

“Thanks.” Andy sighed.

“Cute idea, a talking notebook.” He waited, and when Andy didn't respond, he added, “Of course, we all know notebooks can't talk. Inanimate objects don't communicate.” Again, Andy didn't say a word, not at first, but sensing his parents' concern he said, “Right. Duh.”

The meal ended. Nothing else was said. Andy excused himself but his father asked him to put the notebook away in the den. “I'm glad you like reading what she put down, and that's fine, but I'd hate for anything to happen to it.” “Sure.” Andy said. He put his English notebook into his backpack, which he slung over his shoulder, and carried aunt Betty's diary out of the kitchen and through the house. Sharon and Dan looked at each other and sighed, assuming, and hoping, that the whole affair was over.

Sharon turned on the tv, and Dan headed for his computer in the den, but when he reached the open sliding door he stopped and watched. Andy stood with the little black book open. He whispered into it. “Thank you.” He started to close it, but then said, “No. We have to stop.”

“Andy!” His father called out, more concerned than ever. “Are you actually having a conversation with that notebook?”

“Uh, no, not really. I mean-”

“You just told it, 'we have to stop.' What on earth does that mean?”

“It's....”

“Is this some kind of game?”

“No.”

“Are you hearing voices?” This was the conversation his parents had dreaded, hoping, almost praying, their son hadn't developed some kind of mental problem. “Son, you have to tell me.”

“It's not....no, it's not like that.”

“Well then how is it exactly?”

Dan approached Andy, who was starting to wonder himself if he might have lost his mind. These things don't happen, not in real life. Do they? “Dad-”

“Andy do you have any idea how troubling this is?”

Sharon joined them, her hand cupped over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Andy felt cornered. His parents' fear and anxiety got to him and he was almost ready to cry. “Dad, please stop.”

Dan took the notebook out of Andy's shaking hands, open to one of the blank pages in the back of the book. “What's happening?” Dan insisted.

“I don't know, okay?” Andy yelled.

They sent him to his room, but as Dan held the book up to his wife, she turned pale and pointed. “Dan! Look!”

“What?” Dan looked down. The words, 'Dan, I'm here', slowly appeared on the otherwise blank page, in his aunt Betty's hand. Those words faded, and then were gone, and then new words faded into view. 'I don't know how but here I am. I helped Andy. Be kinder. I'm sorry.'

The words disappeared. Both Sharon and Dan had seen it. They didn't want to believe it. Never had they been so shocked. They called Andy back into the den and apologized. Sharon put her arm around him.

“Did you see it?” Andy asked.

Dan closed the book. “I...I'm not sure what I saw.”

“If you saw it that means I'm not crazy.”

“You're not crazy, honey.” Sharon sighed.

“Unless we all are.” Dan said.

“You should talk to her, dad.” Andy smiled again. “I think she misses you.”

“Yeah?”

He looked at Sharon, who had no answers. Andy added. “Ask her something. She'll answer.”

“Come on.” Dan led them to the kitchen table, book in hand, where they sat together and opened it.

Dan flipped through a few poems, and some memories Betty had notated, and then Andy reached in and turned to the empty pages in the back. “It's okay, dad.”

Sharon took a deep breath, and composed herself. Dan waited, and grappled with both his disbelief and finding the right first words to say. And as they waited, his aunt Betty sent the words, which slowly appeared, 'We can talk any time, I'm right here."