The Giraffe's Book

Now, in hindsight, I can see where I went wrong. Should I have gone to a professional hairdresser for my dye job? Absolutely. But not one salon would answer my vexed phone calls at nine P.M. on a Sunday. And while I can’t say I was too surprised, the complete lack of compassion to those in society that don’t operate in the same time zone as others, was appalling.

It did have to be done though. Whether or not my therapist agrees, my impulses are worth pursuing and not controlling. If anything, I believe my resilience to pursuing such an impulse, despite the many obstacles I faced, is exemplary. The drive here was fraught with paranoia, as does happen if one has been in a car accident. Was the light actually green? Would someone in the opposing traffic lane decide to swerve at me? What if all of my gas disappeared? In the face of such adversity, I am relieved to say I conquered.

And that’s how I found myself at the grocery store at 9:30 P.M. browsing through their dismally small collection of boxed hair dye. In a spectacular fashion of forward-thinking, I went with a box on sale. Should there be a time my mother saw my hair, the ensuing outrage could be calmed with the mention of a discount. For as understanding as she was, I knew I drained her. Must be difficult when your daughter is a socially awkward recluse, numb to all the emotions in the world. But I couldn’t be what I had been before the accident. I took to perusing the aisles, running through my various coping techniques, when I was forced to duck behind a large display of paper towels.

Panic began to swirl in my stomach in furious knots. A wave of nausea slammed over me, instantaneous pressure building in my head. Merely yards away, bronzed by too many hours swimming in the sun and taller than a tree, walked my best friend Jason Gil. Even from afar the glint of a small metallic giraffe was visible around his neck. He had surprised me by immediately putting it on and squeezing my hand in thanks when I had given it to him as a joke on his birthday. I could still feel the warmth that had radiated into me. The smile that put the sun to shame. Truthfully, there was always a perpetual smile on his face as if he were musing over something humorous. Hiding a pleasant secret he would share when the timing was right.

That’s how I had known how serious it was. As blurry as the night and subsequent emptiness of the next two years, of one thing I was certain. There had been no trace of laughter on his face before the EMT declared him dead from the car accident. There had only been silence. Silence as I fell deeper and deeper into the abyss. Yet, here we were. Two years later. Very much alive and very much about to run into each other. He stopped in front of my hiding place.

“Ah, so the little mouse still seeks refuge in obscurity. Or have you lost your glasses and can’t read the fine print without close proximity?” He poked his head around the paper towel stand, the scent of a forest full of trees swirling around him. Our eyes met and I was transported. I didn’t care about the strangeness of the event. Why he was there, how I had come to see him, what it all meant, it didn’t matter. I was home.

“I was admiring the decor” I retorted, sarcasm the only protection I had to the oddity of the situation. Amusement glinted in his eyes as he let back his head in a sonorous laugh.

“Clever as ever” he smiled, “but not clever enough to get yourself out of it”. He stepped away from the stand to give me room, motioning for me to accompany him on his walk through the aisle. I hesitated.

“Jason. You’re dead.”

“No more than you are.”

“No, don't do that. I saw you. They took... they...they...why are you here? How? How are you here?”

The frustration in my voice was obvious. After countless therapists, pills, and spiritual advisors, I could finally go a day without seeing his broken body in my mind. The lifeless eyes and pale skin caked in dust and grim, blood and gravel. I thought that to be the worst image I would ever see in my life but this was infinitely worse. To see the vibrant life he had lost. How strong and healthy his energy had been. Had. Never again. My heart rate kicked up, tumultuous gray ebbing around me.

“And you thought yourself unfeeling.” he mused. His eyes grew sorrowful.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “I’m sorry it wasn’t me. I don’t know why it wasn’t me but it should have been. And I can’t forgive myself. I should have made you wear your seatbelt, I should have helped. I should have-” the words faltered as they spilled out of me, guilt I hadn’t known I carried exposed and raw for him to see. Silence fell between us and our eyes locked. A moment passed. A year. An eternity.

Finally, he took a breath.

“Do you really want to help?” I nodded, slowly. He held my gaze a moment more. Then reaching behind himself, he pulled something out from his pocket and held it out to me. It was quite a simple thing, as ordinary and as black as freshly brewed coffee. But as my fingers closed around its binding, a tingling sensation reached my fingers. My eyes widened and Jason chuckled. A hum filled the air and a chill ran down my spine. I gasped. The book was alive.

“It's part of me,” explained Jason. “When you write in it, it’ll be like you’re talking to me. Without me interrupting with silly jokes, of course,” he teased.

“I like your jokes,” I mindlessly replied, still in awe over the piece of Jason I was going to get to keep. His lips tilted into a half of a smile before he pointed to the book again.

“Look, I don’t have much time, so you need to understand,” Jason spoke quickly, a serious tone edging his voice. “It’s only going to work if you help yourself first. Get out of this numbness you’re in and keep living, that's the only way you can help-”

But what I would get and what I would help, I never found out. As my alarm blared into the room, the dream and all parts of it faded from my mind. I rolled over on my side and blindly slapped my bedside table, trying to snooze the alarm. The clash of fallen items told me I was unsuccessful. With a groan, I raised myself from the bed and dropped to the mess. I froze. There, in the middle of hair scrunchies, books, and a half-empty water bottle, was a little black book. It really was quite a simple thing, as ordinary and as black as freshly brewed coffee. But when I picked it up, the smell of trees filled the room. I burst into tears.

*****

It took a long time for me to be able to use the book. The first few entries were little more than glorified to-do lists. But as time went on, my erratic behavior and chronic numbness began to fade. I was able to work again, to socialize to an extent, and to have a normal conversation without deflecting with humor. Having my thoughts written down wiped them from my mind enough to make room for new experiences. Instead of a dismal, dreary existence based on the past and guilt, I felt called to action. I resolved to do whatever I could to ensure no one would suffer the same fate as Jason. I met with his parents and we made resolute steps to start a Memoriam in Jason’s name. Every day, I told my story. I educated students on the necessity of seatbelts and raised funds for those in similar situations as Jason had been, awaiting this surgery or that. It wasn’t easy, but I planned it all out. The little black book became a way to keep track of the help Jason and I were giving. With it in my hands, he was there with me.

I had quite forgotten about the dream that led to my ownership of the little, black book some years later when my phone rang, interrupting the day’s journal entry. My father’s normally calm and soft voice trembled as he described my mother’s critical condition. He was quick to explain that she was alive, but if she ever wanted to walk again, she would need an expensive surgery that the insurance wouldn’t fully cover. He was quite at a loss for what to do, and I could almost see him pacing the hallways of the hospital in anguish. I didn’t know how, but I had to help. Frantically, I grabbed a sweater and my purse, ready to race to the hospital when I was interrupted by a hum so intense it filled the entire room. The little, black book on my table shook violently, splattering to the floor and turning from page to page, the inked words inside blurring at the speed. This grew faster and faster, emitting a sheen of golden light, blinding me. The air in the room seemed to swirl along with it, pressing in, until it suddenly stopped. The book lay halfway open, a sheet torn out of it. Cautiously, I picked up the book and the torn sheet. Written on it, somewhere between elegant cursive and a doctor’s chicken scratch was a twenty thousand dollar check addressed to me from the Jason Gil Memoriam. I knew what to do. My hands began to shake as I called my father back, still staring at the check. He answered on the first ring.

“Dad. I can help.”