Pearl

The day the little black book came to me wasn’t exceptional, except for the small fact that it changed my entire life. I had just stepped outside into the biting cold, cursing as the condensation from my breath into my mask fogged my glasses. An older woman--a customer leaving the store at the same time I was, tapped gently at my elbow. I turned to look down at her. Between the scarf around her head, her mask, her voluminous shawl, and her shabby winter coat, she was fully swathed in a circus of bright and clashing colors.

“Can you hold this?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply, she began unloading possessions from her purse into my hands, which were somehow outstretched and cupped for holding. Finally, in a deeper reach than a purse should be able to have, she located her keys.

She shook them triumphantly and began loading the items back into her bag. Slowly, the pile in my hands became less unwieldy, until all that remained was a smooth, iridescent stone, an ancient tube of mascara, and a little black book.

She took back the mascara and plucked the stone carefully from my palm, touching it lightly to her lips through her mask, then looked thoughtfully at me. She looked as though she were looking into me. It’s so unusual and intimate to feel beheld.

“You know what?” she patted the book in my hands, “You keep that.” She appeared to consult herself then, with a nod, “Yes. You keep it for as long as you want, and then pass it on.”

I opened my mouth to say that I couldn’t keep the book--store policy, late stage capitalism, yada yada--but she rushed into the parking lot, a car passing right after her, and she was gone.

Honestly, working in retail, that wasn’t even the weirdest thing that happened that day, so I shoved the notebook into the pocket of my work smock. I probably would have forgotten about it and thrown it in the wash if it hadn’t been for Pearl, my niece.

Pearl. I watched her after work most days. When the pandemic hit, my brother’s job shifted from daytime mechanic to night time cleaning crew. Now, he spent his days trying to get a little sleep in between taking care of his daughter and looking for better opportunities. When I got off work, I took over Pearl duty, and he went to sanitize surfaces at the peanut butter factory.

It was a living, but not much of a life. Pearl, though, she was life itself. And just like life, she was a roving ball of chaos, and also like life, liked to spend time emptying my pockets. That night, she was rifling through my smock looking for discarded candies, forgotten stickers, and generally anything she could use to make a mess. Instead, she found the notebook.

“What’s this?”

She waved the slim volume in front of my face so quickly that the lines of it blurred. For a moment, it didn’t seem like a book at all.

“Give me that, Wildling, and stay out of my pockets.”

For the first time, I really looked at the book. It had a smooth, soft cover. The corners were rounded and gentle in my hands. I opened the book and ran my fingers across the smooth, ivory pages. The paper felt sturdy and tangible beneath my fingertips. On the first page was a small inscription:

Put pen to paper

It was simple, but I felt power in it. It was as though there was a subtle electric current to the words, and when my fingers traced over the letters, there was a buzz of inspiration.

I flipped through the notebook and found it full of maybe thirty different, distinct sets of handwriting. Every few pages, the author of the book would change, but the format --densely packed with tight sentences and scribbled passages--stayed the same.

The last three pages of the book were blank. It seemed like the old woman hadn’t so much given me a gift as given me something to discard. Still, it felt so good in my hands...

In the back of the book, there was a small paper pocket. Inside, a sheet of paper that didn’t match the rest of the book at all. Yellow, faint gray lines, like from a legal pad.

To the holder of this book,

You are the latest (and maybe last) in a lineage that no one even knows about. The book you now hold in your hands is a very special one. It has the power to completely change your life.

This book has been passed from stranger to stranger for more than twenty years. Use their words as a guide. Learn from their successes. Be wary of their mistakes.

Be abundant.

Be joyful.

Be so very careful.

As I sat there, feeling very stupid about how badly I wanted to believe the letter was true, Pearl broke my daze by zooming through the living room, using my smock as a cape that flapped behind her, screeching at the top of her lungs.

That’s her dinner bell. You know it’s time to feed the niece and start winding her down for bed when she gets the zoomies.

“Come on, Wigglebutt, let’s get you fed.”

While she demolished the better part of a can of off-brand spaghetti rings, my thoughts drifted from the little black book.

It was only after I’d tucked Pearl into bed and was trying to shut off my brain for the night that I was no longer able to resist the idea of at least trying. No one would even know how stupid it was to write in there, because no one even knew I had the book to begin with.

I had a stash of pens in an old coffee mug by the bed. I opened the little black book to the first open page, took a deep breath, and wrote,

“I wish I had plenty of money and no obligations.”

I looked up from the notebook and looked around. Nothing felt different. I pulled my phone from the nightstand and opened up my banking app. Nothing had changed. Because why would it? It was just a weird book from a weird old lady. I rolled my eyes at my childish hope, set my phone to charge, and laid down to sleep.

The next morning, before I even opened my eyes, I knew that something had changed. It’s so hard to explain, but I just knew that the book had worked. My phone confirmed the hunch with three voicemails. First, one from my boss offering me a promotion.. The second from a publishing company who saw my instagram and wanted to pay me for book cover artwork. The third, my doctor’s office letting me know they had overbilled me and had issued a refund of $300 to my payment method on file.

I hopped out of bed, energized and excited about the opportunities opening up before me. I needed someone to celebrate with, but the house was too quiet.

I went to wake Pearl for celebratory breakfast, but she wasn’t in her bed. Nor was she in any other part of the house. I checked the time again to make sure it wasn’t later in the day than I thought. I checked the yard. I checked her room again, my panic growing sharper and more insistent. She was gone.

With a pit in my stomach I realized that I’d asked for more than the money. And if the money had come true, what else had?

I rushed to the book and re-read my wish. Of course, Pearl was an obligation, but one I delighted in, but how could the book know that? I wrote “I wish Pearl was here." Nothing.

I scribbled out “no obligations.” Nothing.

I called into work and spent the rest of the day flipping frantically through the book, trying to glean what lessons I could from it, then running to Pearl’s room in hopes that I’d just somehow overlooked her. The more I read, the more I saw how much of the book really was crossed out. I squinted and leaned into the pages, trying to figure out why so much would be marked out. Almost everything crossed out seemed like exactly the sort of wishes a person would want.

I wish we were happy.

Please cure cancer.

Please no more hunger.

No more suffering

No more anger.

World peace.

Honestly, I felt a little guilty reading how many people had tried for peace when all I asked for was to line my pockets.

But even though I hadn’t read the entire book, line-by-line, I had read it enough to be pretty sure that there wasn’t a single incidence of a “world peace” that wasn’t crossed out. And I was 100% certain that peace hadn’t suddenly fallen across the land at any point.

Inspiration struck, and with my heart in my throat, I flipped back to my own writing. With one bold stroke, I crossed out the entire line. I felt reality pop, the way your ears pop when flying.

“I went on an adventure!” Pearl zoomed into the living room with her arms out like an airplane.

So the rules were clear:

Nothing vague. One request per sentence. If the unaltered sentences were to be believed, you could wish for anything at all. If the crossed out sentences were to be believed--and my misadventure with Pearl confirmed--there were consequences. The last line, in handwriting I now recognized from the letter as belonging to the old woman, read, “And may I always follow my gut to do what is right.”

Somehow, she felt that giving me the book was the thing that was right. It was a lot of pressure, but to honor what was right, I’d need to use the book ... right?

With great care, I clicked the pen and wrote. I steered clear from easy wins and focused on giving myself the space and grace to create. I wrote to follow my ease, but to also follow my diligence. To write. To draw. To laugh. To breathe easy and well. And to always follow my gut to do what is right. By the time I set down the pen, I could feel the air around me, shifting me towards my new reality.

I thumbed through the blank pages of the book. Only two now, with my wishes written. I looked over to my niece, playing with my work smock on the rug. She was absolutely swimming in joy, wearing the garment puddled around her, digging through pockets that might yet contain candy. I felt my heart expand and fill my body with a warm, joyous light.

What wouldn’t I write … what wouldn’t I do to give her the best possible life?

I wrapped up the book with its two precious blank pages. I trusted implicitly that what I had written was enough to give us the life we deserved, and then, when it was time, I’d give the book to my niece, let her put pen to paper, and unleash her own unique voice.