Extraordinary Events

It’s pretty strange how two events that are polar opposites, which are both unusual and unlikely to occur, can happen in one day and cause such a stir of emotions that can pull one in so many directions. One year ago today was such a day. It was the day where I came by twenty-thousand dollars and also the day my mom disappeared. In my heart, I feel these events are connected, but I have never been able to explain them to anyone or even make sense of them myself.

It was a cool spring morning. A beautiful day in late April when flowers had already started to sprout, leaves had begun to appear on trees and bushes, and birds were chirping outside the windows. I loved those days because the breeze was cool, and the weather was just perfect for bike rides.

I was in between jobs and wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life. I had always wanted to be a writer, but too afraid to pursue my hobby as a serious career option. I had decided to stay at my mom’s for a few weeks to clear my head and find out what it was that I really wanted to do.

“You only have one life, hon, follow your heart and do what you are good at and makes you happy. Writing is your innate talent. Don’t let it go to waste.” My mom had always supported my dreams. It was I who was too afraid to do anything about them.

That day I woke up unusually early and headed downstairs to get a glass of water and possibly a cup of coffee. I wasn’t tired, even though I’d only managed to sleep for a couple of hours. The sun had already made its appearance and the sky was shining a bright blue, with very few clouds navigating the firmament. My mom’s house was in the country, so everything, except the singing birds and the rustling of the leaves dancing with the breeze, stood still. It wasn’t a property isolated from other houses, but it was definitely a big change from the city life I was used to. I needed the quiet. I craved serenity.

On the kitchen island, I found a small black notebook, not unlike the ones I had used through high school and university to doodle, record ideas, and write short stories.

I opened it cautiously, and on the first page, in my mom’s handwriting, I read:

“First, think. Second, dream. Third, believe. And finally, dare.” —Walt Disney

I felt a surge of energy pass through my gut all the way to my head. So much so that at first I felt dizzy. I had to steady myself by resting both hands on the island. I can’t explain why I felt that way, but it usually happened when I felt connected to a deeper purpose. It was a good dizzy, not like the one you get when you get up too quickly, but rather like the one you get when you realize you have fallen in love and you can’t stop thinking about the other person.

Further down, she had written:

You know it’s never too late. Check the last page for a little something to get you started without worrying about other things for a bit. Love you!

It was one of those notebooks with a pocket on the inside of the back cover and with a red nylon bookmark to help you find where you last left your ideas.

Inside the pocket was an envelope with a cheque for twenty-thousand dollars made out to my name.

“Mom?!” I called. I waited, but nothing stirred inside the house. “MOM??!!” I yelled. Worried now. Where could she be? Orwell —my Australian Shepherd that I’d brought with me— looked at me with curiosity, his head tilted to one side which made his ears hang in a funny way. “Have you seen her buddy? Do you know where she’s gone?” I asked him in vain.

Where could she be at this hour in the morning? Even though she had always been a morning lark, she usually did things around the house before working on her garden. My mom had retired early due to an injury. There hadn’t been a mortgage to pay, as my mom had inherited the house from her parents. She had always managed to live a comfortable life and give me a good life, but she wasn’t the kind of person to have 20K to spare just like that.

Where could she be? I tried her phone. After four rings it went to voice mail. I left a message. I waited. I decided to make myself that coffee. I waited. Nothing. I called her again. Nothing.

There was no note explaining where she’d gone off too, and no hint either of where she was headed. Her car was in the driveway and, well, she was just gone. Vanished.into.thin.air.

I have gone back to that day and the days leading to that one many times in my head. Reliving our conversations, rewinding back to every minute detail, and there’s one thing that stands out. Three days before my mom disappeared, we had a visitor. I didn’t see him, he didn’t come in. The bell rang and my mom almost ran to open the door, as if she knew who it was. Orwell hadn’t barked or even gone with my mom to find out who it was. He loved people and was always excited to meet someone new. However, he didn’t even react. As if he’d already known the visitor. I could see his silhouette through the frosted glass on each side of the main door. I didn’t want to be noisy, so I stayed where I sat, reading a book in my favorite nook of the living room. I could hear whispers from my mom, and slight grunts from the individual, but nothing precise. I could also observe that he was wearing a top hat and carried a cane and seemed extremely short even with the hat on. ‘Who in this century wears top hats?’ I remember thinking.

After a few minutes, my mom went back to the kitchen. She seemed flustered and slightly nervous.

“Mom, who was that?” I inquired. I hoped I sounded aloof, didn’t want to spook her even more with my own curiosity.

“Oh! Uhm… That? Just… uhm… an old friend.”

“Are you OK?” I was concerned.

“Huh?... Oh, yes. Good, good.” She replied absently. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem agitated, is all.”

“Oh! No, I’m fine. Thanks for asking, hon!” She sounded more like herself, but I could still distinguish a hint of fear (could it be?) in her voice.

It didn’t take long for her to start acting her normal self again, but the incident left me uneasy. There was something odd going on that my mom didn’t want me to know about.

I also remember —or perhaps I’m imagining it now, I can’t be certain that my memory isn’t playing tricks on me— that the night before the disappearance, while I was walking Orwell, I saw a figure hiding among the trees matching the description of the aforementioned character.

I think it’s all connected. The figure, all the money my mom suddenly gave me, and her disappearance. To this day, I’m still trying to figure it out.