Permanent

It arrived one day with the rest of the mail. Bills, a magazine for LL Bean, and the notebook. Tucker brought it in and tossed the pile carelessly onto the kitchen table. We rarely opened the mail anymore, so it quickly got buried under a newspaper, Ella’s abandoned homework, and – I’m ashamed to admit – a decent amount of crumbs.

On a Thursday, after having dropped Ella off at school and Kelly at daycare, I came home and surveyed the house. It wasn’t much, but it worked. Sort of. It’s somewhat painful to think we’ve been in the cottage for almost six years already. We moved in when I was pregnant with Ella; getting approved for the mortgage was more of a surprise than she was, to be honest. A small two bedroom in the boondocks of New York; it’s a shame we weren’t a few miles North, in Canada – I always did love the idea of international travel. I looked around. Tucker loved this place. I… I loved the people in it. But I did what I could with what we had, and what we had was a home. That was enough.

I started organizing the mess that is life with two little girls and one closet. Dolls go here. Shoes get shoved there. What is that on Kelly’s pillow? Never mind. I don’t want to know. By the time I make it to the kitchen everything has been put back in its place and to look around you’d never know that just this morning Tucker and I had a whispered argument next to this fridge over another overtime shift he “just had to take”.

I started flipping through the old mail hoping we didn’t miss a bill again. Trash, crap, garbage. What is this?

I felt the weight of the notebook in my hand. Bound in smooth, black leather, it left a strange sense of comfort in my palm. Comfort and – what else was it? – intrigue, perhaps? I’d never seen it before, I was sure. I opened the front cover and saw a single page, covered edge to edge, with flowing cursive.

Hello Anette. Congratulations! You are the worthy recipient of “The Guerre.” Don’t be frightened. You are moments away from all of your wildest and most selfish dreams coming true. But first you must pass the test. You are being given the gift of two choices. The first is to close this book at the close of this entry, without question. By doing so you will secure your receipt of The Fortune. You will have more than enough money to build your perfect life. However, should you choose the second option and continue reading, you will receive a gift of a different kind. Rest assured – this choice will still result in you never worrying again of caring for your loved ones. It will serve as a permanent solution to all your problems. Will the prize justify the risk? Close the book now, you will never know. Read on, and you will learn. Either choice is final. It is now up to you, sweet Anette, Will you allow yourself to trust, or give in to curiosity? This, my dear, is up to you. Make your choice. We will be watching.

What kind of sick joke was this? Who the hell sent me this little black notebook? They addressed it directly to me. How had they known I’d be the one to open it, to read this? The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I raced to the windows. I checked for someone standing outside, scanning the tree line with particular caution. I didn’t notice until I was sure no one was there that I noticed my hands. They were still holding the book, precariously, neither closing the cover nor turning the page. I hadn’t made the choice. What choice? This must be a stupid prank. But then why couldn’t I bring myself to turn the page? Why, at the thought of stealing a glimpse of the mystery, did my mouth go dry?

‘This is ridiculous, no one is going to give me a medal for closing a stupid moleskin diary,’ I thought to myself. I reread the letter and my eyes zoomed in on the words “wildest and most selfish dreams.” No one could know that, I never said anything to anyone. Whoever wrote this could never know that deep in my imagination, I pack the girls in the car and drive away, watching this pathetic cottage burning in the rearview mirror. They’d never guess that, even deeper down and hidden behind my cold heart, I pictured myself in a private plane high above the clouds, having left a note for Tucker – not too different from the one in my hands, actually – saying I love you but I can’t do this anymore, take care of the girls, goodbye. These were absolutely selfish thoughts, but whoever wrote this letter had no idea. They couldn’t.

And yet there I was, still holding the notebook. My mind raced. Is it worth it? I debated. Close the book, win money. That’s obvious. But keep reading and what is the prize? Unclear. Risk. No risk, no reward. Perfect life. What even is that? Permanent.

I glanced over my shoulder again. Alone, in the cottage that I love to hate, and hate to love, with the people I love, who are the same ones who make me hate myself, I curve my pointer under the corner of the page and hold my breath.

I felt his presence before I heard him. The icy hot air pulled at my skin. Although every fiber of my body told me to turn around, to see the face behind me, to run, my body stayed frozen with the page half turned. I couldn’t change my mind. Permanent. The voice ached in my ears, both pounding and shrill all at once. It was a voice I felt, not heard. I knew before he spoke.

“I believe you have made the wrong choice.”