Questioning Everything

Once more, I undid the clasp around my late father’s little black Moleskine notebook, just as I had watched him do a thousand times while he was still alive. It was a little while now since he had passed after an arduous battle with cancer. The funeral was over and done. The vegetable trays and sandwich platters had stopped arriving. The random hodgepodge of visitors spanning decades of relationships had ceased. Now, it was just me and the mission I had taken on. I was determined to track down the mystery person that had left a most valuable package on my doorstep in the days following my father’s death.

It was comforting and devastating at the same time to see my father’s varying manuscript and cursive writing on the college-rule lined pages. Anyone that knew my father had to be familiar with the notebook. He took it everywhere. It was part of all facets of his life. He used it to write down measurements if he was taking on a project. It had all of his contacts, all of his reminders, and all the information he deemed critical to keep up with. If you were in the middle of a conversation, it was quite common for him to stop you dead in your tracks so he could whip the notebook out and jot down a note or two. Now, I thumbed through the pages of his acquaintances which I had systematically placed the tiniest of black ink dots by to mark them off without tarnishing my father’s testament. I was nearing the end, and now it was time for the one name uncharacteristically cut short. Cynthia W. No phone number, no address. Just a name stowed away in the W section with no further explanation. Cynthia was a mystery in a sea of fully completed contacts. This, of course, raised the difficulty in locating her quite a bit. It also made me feel that it was that much more critical that I do so.

It was just a couple of days after my father’s death that the package appeared. It was nothing fancy at all, a business envelope sealed with only my first name on it. Inside were crisp one hundred dollar bills equaling twenty thousand dollars. The only explanation was a handwritten note. It was a glorious script that I figured was probably that of a woman, not to be sexist or anything. It simply offered condolences and a desire for the money to help with the circumstances surrounding my father’s untimely passing.

Twenty thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at, but it was completely unnecessary. Our family had done okay for itself and Dad took great care to make sure his affairs were in order long before cancer relegated him to a hospital bed. My mother would never need for anything, and there was quite a bit of money left over for me, the only child, after we took care of the things that needed to be taken care of. Maybe it was just a way of coping with everything that was happening or even some sort of psychic-like foreshadowing that there was more of my father’s story to be told, but for whatever reason, I felt compelled to track down whoever had left the gift and express our gratitude but ultimately return it. So, I set out with the little black notebook.

I used the only clues I had to try to narrow things down. I did think it was probably the handwriting of a woman, so I figured I would go that route first. I figured it was not a family member or really good friend due to the anonymous nature of the gift’s delivery. I signed out women that I did not immediately put together the connection to my father and tried my best to find them. Sometimes it was easy. I would get lucky now and again and have a good phone number and a person that was willing to talk to a stranger freely. After all, one couldn’t just open the conversation by asking if this was the person’s twenty grand and did they want it back. There would be a great chance that someone along the way would take me up on that deal. So, I framed things as me trying to piece together a mental tapestry of my father’s friends and acquaintances.

It was a soothing journey. Almost everyone had wonderful anecdotes to share about my father, some more recent and some from decades ago. I learned about what he was like before my mother came along, which was the only mode I had ever known him in. I heard stories of when he was more youthful, happy-go-lucky, and not the frugal, cautious man that raised me to expect the worst but hope for the best. It was almost like I was being told about a person that I had never actually met.

Once I had reached a certain comfortable point in the conversation, I would decide whether to ask about the money or not. Sometimes I did, and in each occasion I was assured that I was not talking to the responsible party. Sometimes I didn’t ask, because it turned out that the connection to my father just wasn’t great enough for me to think it was realistic that they would have left such a kingly gift. I worked my way through the notebook, but then there was Cynthia W. No explanation, no number. Nothing. The mission’s difficult had increased. Finally, through a network of my newfound friends from the little black notebook, someone pointed me in the direction of Ms. Cynthia Waites, an old retired woman that kept to herself. She had been friends with my father, although no one seemed quite sure of exactly what the connection was. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Ms. Waites came to the door, muttering under her breath at first. Perhaps she though I was someone trying to sell something or asking her to vote for the latest, greatest political candidate. As soon as her eyes met mine though, her expression was different. No introduction was really necessary. She was looking at my father’s eyes, not mine, but she understood the difference. Soon, I was taking a seat as she prepared tea.

The house was nice but modest. I took a cursory look around. Things were about what one would expect from a lady her age. Pictures were everywhere. The presumed husband. Kids. Grandkids. Various stages of their lives, and from what I could tell, they were all having good ones. Ms. Waites returned, served me a glass of iced tea with lemon, and then asked me what brought me here today.

As I had done so many times before, I pulled out the little black notebook to show her the page with her mysterious entry. She immediately reacted to the sight of it, her eyes tearing up. The very visceral nature of her emotion let me know that she knew my father on a different level than the acquaintances I had gotten to know over the last few weeks. This wasn’t frivolous storytelling and fun memories. This was pain. Sadness. Loss.

So, against the backdrop of photographs of a family I had never met, Cynthia Waites explained to me gingerly that she had been in a relationship with my father for many years. No, mother didn’t know, or at least she had certainly never gave any sign. Yes, they thought of leaving their respective spouses at times. They had a very real and natural love, but they also loved their families and their children, and ultimately, they remained lovers forever in the shadows.

I was surprised of course, but the thought had crossed my mind that maybe this was something like that. Now, here was this huge part of my father’s life that my mother and I knew nothing of, and soon, I was tearing up also. She assured me that my father did indeed love my mother and that I shouldn’t take this news as some condemnation of their relationship. There are different kinds of love and people have different needs, and my father and Ms. Waites fulfilled something for each other that they couldn’t quite get at home, but it was only one piece of the puzzle, and their other life with their happy spouse and happy family was the part that also had to exist to fulfill these needs. There was no doubt in my mind at that moment that I had found the one who had left the twenty thousand dollars on my porch. I pulled it out without explanation and tried to give it back. She explained that nothing was going to make her take that money back. Maybe it was guilt or just a desire to help out, but she felt an overwhelming need to make this contribution. Take it, she begged him. Just take it and do something good with it. Give it to charity or the church. She wasn’t taking it back.

The conversation lightened up a bit. She reflected on how her and my father’s secret relationship had started and some of the better times. She recounted just how much he loved me. It was strange to hear it. My father was pretty typical in that he didn’t say things like that much. After I was in my teens, I can’t really remember hardly a time ever that my father said that he loved me. I didn’t remember ever saying it myself except for in one of the last moments before the cancer took him away to whatever lies in the great unknown. Hearing her say it now was almost like his voice was echoing from the grave. Overcome with emotion, I knew it was time to go and let Ms. Waites go back to the life she now lived with my father only a memory. She walked me to the door, expressed a sincere desire for me to stop by again sometime when things were better, and then grabbed me in a warm embrace. She hugged me forcefully, and as we began to let go, she stood on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear.

“Take care of yourself, son.”

As the door closed behind me, I walked down to the car and sat down. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, I exhaled long and the tears started to stream down. I wasn’t sure if I should have come here. Was this better to know, or better not to know? Did my mother really not know anything? Should I say anything?

I promised myself that what happened today was stay between myself and Ms. Cynthia Waites, for better or worse. I didn’t want to do anything to cause anyone to change their perception of my father or either of our families. Some things were just better as a secret. I didn’t blame Ms. Waites or my father. Living with my mother wasn’t always the easiest. We did love her though, and while everyone wants to believe that these things are not going to happen to them, the truth is it happens all the time. My family and Ms. Waites’ family were not that unusual. Still, people form their own opinions about such things, and I decided it was better to hold my tongue. Especially about that last word she has said to me. Was I just hugging my mother?

I pulled out the little black notebook and removed the clasp. Beside Cynthia W. I put a very small dot. Then, I closed it, replaced the clasp, and I never opened the little black Moleskine notebook again.