Pink Hydrangea

There was no reason for the black notebook to be in the Free Little Library. It was very obviously not a book—completely blank and rather unassuming, only the size of Jill’s palm. She grabbed it anyway, along with a dog-eared copy of Les Misérables, and put both of them in her grocery bag on top of the bananas.

Her therapist had been keeping up a never-ending stream of little strategies and projects to try and keep Jill from falling again into the spiral of depression and anxiety that had sucked her in seven months ago. The results were mixed at best, but she hated letting the poor woman down week after week. So she kept trying.

This week the suggestion was a “gratitude journal.” Like most of her therapist’s suggestions, it seemed like just the kind of woo-woo nonsense Jill used to laugh at. The idea that she could or even should feel grateful for anything right now felt like an insult. She hadn’t even planned on attempting this particular project. But then that little black notebook had been sitting there, nestled in between the worse-for-wear paperbacks, and her thin excuse of not having anything to turn into a gratitude journal had evaporated.

Jill turned up her collar at a sharp bite of wind, and hurried the last few blocks home. After a brief struggle with the cantankerous lock, she raked a stiff hand through her hair and shrugged her coat off with a sigh. Les Mis and the little notebook were deposited on the antique desk to deal with later, and Jill unloaded her meager grocery run (Pinot Noir, rotisserie chicken, sharp English cheddar, bananas) in the kitchen. Deciding she couldn’t be bothered with any dishes beyond a wine glass, Jill poured herself a large measure of the Pinot and pulled strips of chicken straight from the rotisserie in place of dinner.

Jill took her wine to the desk in the living room where she had put the notebook. The desk was a bulky, solid wood antique that she never would have chosen herself, but couldn’t bring herself to part with—it contained too many memories. But it had been lovingly restored, and the polished wood almost glowed under the dim incandescent bulbs of her living room lamps. She pulled out the blank notebook from under the heft of Les Mis and stared at it for a minute. Her gratitude had vanished seven months ago, and never returned. Even finding a single sentence felt like an incomprehensible task.

Jill ran her fingers over the soft black leather of the notebook before gently pulling off the little elastic band holding it closed. She stared at the first blank page. Deciding that maybe a single sentence would in fact be enough of a starting point for tonight, Jill pulled out a pen.

Her Dad’s kind and worried face popped into her head. Jill winced; she’d been avoiding him a bit, these past few months. Nothing elaborate; just waiting a while to respond to a text, pretending she had missed a call. She knew she had no reason for it, as he’d been nothing but supporting, loving, and dedicated when she fell apart. But the sympathy in his voice always reminded her of just how much she had lost. It had been easier, most days, to try and not remember at all.

Deciding this was as good a place as any to start, Jill wrote in:

I’m grateful for my Dad, who loves and supports me no matter what.

The silky black ink of the fountain pen looked stark against the creamy paper of the notebook, and Jill stared for a moment—it was both much easier and much harder than she’d anticipated.

Jill jumped at the sound of her phone ringing. Confused and a little disoriented, she realized with a start that it was her Dad calling. For the first time in a while, she picked up immediately.

“Hi bean,” he said.

“Hi Dad,” she answered, a little bewildered at the coincidence.

“I’m so glad I caught you this time, bean,” the smile in his voice coming through the childhood endearment. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” Jill said, a little lost for words.

“Yes!” He replied with a laugh. “I won a vacation to Italy for two! Can you believe it? It’s real and everything—I already have a gift card for the airline and two hotels! What do you say bean, do you want to go with me?”

“I—what? Dad, wow, that’s incredible! Of course I’d love to go with you. I’m sure I can get some time off later this year,” Jill said, still attempting to pull herself together at the odd timing of his call.

“I knew you would!” he said. “It will be so great to spend more time with you, bean. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Dad,” Jill said.

“Well, I won’t keep you—I got to go get some dinner. Lost track of time in the excitement. Don’t be a stranger, bean, I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad,” Jill said as he hung up.

Jill put down her phone, closed the notebook and downed the last of her wine. It had felt good to hear from her Dad, but she’d had enough of her own emotions for the night. She picked up Les Mis and decided to lose herself in someone else’s drama before she headed for bed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Saturday morning, Jill couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that it was the act of writing about her Dad that had caused him to call. Unnerved by the thought, she made several cups of very strong coffee and breathed through 20 minutes of yoga poses before daring to walk back into the living room. Staring at the gratitude journal from across the room with her hands on her hips, she decided that it couldn’t hurt to test out her hunch. No matter how silly it sounded.

Jill sat down at the heavy oak desk. This time, it was her sister that floated to mind. They weren’t as close as they used to be; Sara’s beautiful family couldn’t help but remind her of the future she’d lost. But her sister had spared no expense to make Jill more comfortable—flying out immediately despite childcare costs, stocking Jill’s fridge, and cleaning her apartment when she couldn’t get out of bed. Jill opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and wrote:

I’m grateful for Sara, and for the selfless way she helped me.

Closing her eyes again, Jill took another deep breath. Her phone rang.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday afternoon, Jill sat with her fourth cup of coffee of the day, staring at the journal in the bright light streaming in from the unseasonably beautiful day. Sara had gotten an unexpectedly large bonus at work that came with an extra week of vacation time; she’d called to ask Jill if she could come visit and treat them to a spa day at a local luxury hotel. She had of course agreed, her real gratitude for her sister swallowing up the hurt of comparison to a life now unachievable for her.

What Jill wanted to write in the journal today was true; but it had no hope of producing the same effect as writing her Dad and her sister’s names down had. It was impossible. But the impossibility didn’t change the truth of it; so Jill did it anyway. She wrote:

I’m grateful for Daniel and the life we built, even though it’s gone now.

Blinking rapidly against the tears that had started spilling over, Jill put a hand against her mouth to stifle the sob wrenching its way out of her chest.

Her phone rang, and Jill’s heart shot into her throat.

It wasn’t Daniel. That would have been impossible.

It was, however, his mother.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Daniel’s mom lived across town, and Jill hopped on the Metro to visit like she’d asked. She stopped on the way to pick up some beautiful pink hydrangea for her, hoping the flowers might be able to convey something of the feelings she could never seem to put into words. Jill made her way up the brick steps and knocked.

The door opened and Jill was hit with the wonderful smell of kimchi-jjigae, Daniel’s favorite comfort food. She’d never quite mastered it, despite how simple it really was, because she had liked watching him cook too much to pay attention. Mrs. Kim gave her a big hug, exclaiming over the flowers, and ushered Jill into the kitchen to serve her some of the stew.

“I hope you didn’t cook just because I was coming over, Mrs. Kim,” Jill said.

“Of course I did! And how many times do I have to tell you Jill, call me Omma, or just Mom. You’re still my daughter, no matter what happened.”

Jill stared down at her hands, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. If she’d been evading her Dad, she’d been flat out avoiding Daniel’s Mom. They had been too much alike; seeing her made Jill feel like she was walking around with an open wound.

Mrs. Kim came over with two steaming bowls of kimchi-jjigae, and a small business envelope tucked under her left arm. Setting one bowl down in front of Jill and one in front of her own chair, she placed the envelope face-down next to Jill.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” Mrs. Kim started.

“No, Omma, I didn’t mean—” Jill exclaimed, the shame tinting her cheeks red.

Mrs. Kim held up a hand, a small smile on her face. “It’s ok, Jill. Everyone grieves differently. I was lucky to have Daniel when my husband died—I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t. Probably hid in my apartment, to be honest,” she paused to eat some stew, kindly looking away from the play of emotions on Jill’s face as her words sank in.

She sat back up, setting down her spoon and resting her hand on the envelope. “But it seems Daniel had one last surprise for you. Go on, open it.”

Jill’s hands were trembling as she picked up the envelope. Inside was a check for $20,000, made out in her name.

She clapped a hand to her mouth, dropping the check in surprise. “How… I don’t understand...”

Mrs. Kim smiled widely. “It seems he got lucky with one last antique before he died,” she said. “The sale took a while to go through, and his contact was an old one that didn’t know how to get a hold of you. But he apparently left very clear instructions: ‘The entire sale should go to Jill, and make sure to tell her to finally take that trip to see the Northern Lights for me.’”

This time, Jill didn’t even try to hold back her tears. When Mrs. Kim reached out to cover her hand, Jill grabbed on with both of hers.

“What would you say to some company on that trip, Jill?”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Walking home, Jill felt lighter than she had in ages—as if this time, the tears had finally scrubbed her clean. Passing by the Free Little Library, Jill stopped. Reaching into her tote for the little black notebook, she pulled it out and flipped to the first page. She was unsurprised to find that it was once again totally blank.

Jill opened the door to the library and tucked the notebook back inside, just behind a battered copy of Moby Dick. Closing the door and smiling to herself, Jill walked back to her apartment in the clear winter sun.