Choices

At the end of Grayson Street, you’ll find two identical houses: 1 story, 3-bedroom, two bath houses with thick, green grass covering the front yards. This is where the similarities end. One blue, the other white.

I grew up in the blue house as an only child. My parents were out the door in the mornings as the school bus picked me up and arrived home well after it dropped me off. The few hours we were all home at the same time were not spent together. My dad would be watching tv while my mom busied herself with whatever housework I had not finished. I spent any spare time I had in in my bedroom. Most days I could be found sitting at my desk, with my head stuck in a book. Some days, I would sit at that desk, staring out the window, imagining living at the white house instead of my own.

Mason James was the owner of the white house. A kind and friendly woman with the most caring blue eyes. She lived next door as far back as I can remember. There would be times when I’d see her in the yard or dancing past her window. She would wave to me and smile anytime I caught her eye. If we happened to be outside at the same time, she would invite me over. Her eyes seemed to look straight into my soul, knowing I needed to talk. She would ask about school and my parents. Then, conversation would turn to whatever book I was engrossed in at the time. She would listen intently as I recited the latest mystery or adventure I’d checked out from the library. There would always come that moment when her eyes brightened, and a tiny grin came across her face. She would say, “Life is meant to be lived and experienced, not just read about.”

As I got older, I relished my chats with my neighbor. I looked forward to them. I also noticed a pattern in her behavior. It would start with her walking to her mailbox and retrieving a large, padded envelope. Each time, she would tear open the envelope and pull out a new, black notebook. I would watch as Mason ran her hands over it, smiling like a kid with a new toy. The arrival of a new notebook was always followed by her absence of several days. No yardwork. No movement in the windows. No trips to the mailbox. After a few days, Mason would reappear in her yard. When I asked where she had been, without fail; she would smile and change the subject. It seemed useless to ask, so after a while, I stopped and just enjoyed our conversations.

As the years passed, Mason continued to receive notebooks and disappear, never giving a hint as to where or why. She also continued to return like clockwork. I felt comfortable speaking with her and asking her opinions when I had problems. She was much more than just a neighbor. She was a great friend and listener. She was waiting in her yard when I came home from my high school graduation. She held my hand as I cried over the death of my parents. Each time, she would encourage me to get my head out of the book and get into the world. “Life is meant to be lived and experienced”, she would exclaim, giddily.

There was always a pull; a yearning to just go when she spoke those words. I found myself daydreaming about the places I read about, inserting myself in the stories. I would escape to a million different places while sitting at that desk under the window. I would dream of walking on the warm sandy beaches of Maya Bay in Thailand. Sitting outside at a restaurant in Positano, Italy, eating freshly made pasta. Hiking the Ben Lomond trail in Queenstown, New Zealand. Any place except the place I was in.

As strong as the desire to travel and see new places was, my fear of the unknown seemed to be stronger. It was easier to stay where I had always been, doing the things I had always done, rather than to pack a bag and jet off to somewhere unknown by myself. That, and I never really seemed to have the extra money. My parents did not leave me anything but bills and the aging blue house. Just when I started to put money back from my paychecks as a secretary at the local law firm in a “rainy day fund”, the roof would leak or a pipe burst. This last time, it was the water heater that decided to stop working. So, I chose hot water over savings.

It seems that same day was also notebook delivery day. As I wrote the check to the plumber for my shiny, new water heater; I watched Mason skip her way from the mailbox to the house, clutching the new black notebook to her chest as if it were worth a million dollars. She hopped up the steps like a schoolgirl, closing the door and blinds behind her. I thought to myself, “This time I will ask and get an answer! When I see her in a few days, I will find out about the notebooks.” That was three weeks ago.

After five days passed, I got a little concerned. Mason had never been gone for more than three days in the past 20 years. I knocked on every door and window. I watched for a flicker of a light, a curtain to move, any sign that she had returned. There was nothing. I realized I didn’t even know if she had any relatives to call. There weren’t any other people in town with the last name James. After ten days, I called the local sheriff’s office to voice my concern. I didn’t want to overreact or seem silly, but I was a little worried about my friend. In a town as small as ours, the sheriff is usually the one to answer the phone. As soon as he picked up, I started talking ninety to nothing. I rattled off dates, times, and what she was wearing when I last saw her. It was at that moment it dawned on me that I might have read too many crime novels. As soon as I stopped to take a breath, the sheriff said, “Calm down. I am sure everything is fine, but I’ll head over to the house”.

It took just minutes for the sheriff to arrive. I ran out to his car as he pulled in the driveway. My mind was spinning, and my mouth was moving as he climbed out of his car. The tall, broad shouldered man that I had known all my life as Sheriff Michaels put his hand on my shoulder and told me to stop talking and take a deep breath. “Wait here,” he said. “I am going to knock and see if there is an answer. If not, then I will make entry for a welfare check. The most important things you can do right now is to stay here and stay calm.” As much as I wanted to run behind him, I did as I was told and stood impatiently by the car.

I watched as the sheriff knocked on the door and peered into the windows. No answer. The next thing I saw happened in a flash. Sheriff Michaels turned his back to the front door and made a swift kick backwards with his right foot. The door popped open, just like in the movies. He then disappeared inside. Time seemed to stand still. I could hear my heart beating. My breath was deafening to my ears. It felt like an eternity. Finally, I heard my name. The sheriff was standing on Mason’s porch with a confused look on his face.

Again, I heard my name, but it wasn’t coming from the porch. The voice was behind me. I turned to see Robert, the neighborhood mailman holding out a large envelope. Seems that Mason had mailed it but failed to put enough postage on it. After much debate, Robert told his boss he would just drop it off and cover the cost. I ripped open the envelope like a kid on Christmas morning. As I ripped off the end, a set of keys fell out. A single page, handwritten note remained.

“Here are the keys to the house. It is yours. I won’t be returning to the house from this last trip. You’ll find everything you need in my reading room. The answer to your question is waiting. Remember, life is meant to be lived and experienced, not just read about.”

Mason

After making a call to the tax accessors office and finding out the white house was, in fact, now in my name, Sheriff Michaels got in his car and pulled away; leaving me still stunned in the driveway between my two houses. Mason’s note kept nagging at me. “You will find everything you need in my reading room. The answer to your question is waiting”. My head was spinning with a hundred different questions, not just one.

What did she mean she wasn’t returning? Where did she go? The white house is mine now? What am I going to do with two houses? Why didn’t she tell me all of this in person? How long had she been planning this? Why me? I asked myself these questions as I made my way through Mason’s house. My house. I was surprised to find the décor to be modern and up to date. The house was clean with a place for everything. I couldn’t help but run my hands over the furniture while I quietly roamed the area, searching for this infamous reading room. As I turned a corner, heading toward what I thought to be the kitchen, I came face to face with stained glass double doors.

I walked forward, slowly pushing both doors open at the same time. What I saw took my breath away. A large room wrapped with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Each one filled with black notebooks. There must have been thousands of them. It was years’ worth of deliveries sitting on those shelves. My first instinct was to grab one and start reading; to see what Mason had been doing. To get a peak into the life of my mysterious friend. To see what the big secret was. They technically were mine now, so why not. I grabbed a couple off a shelf and headed to the only chair in the room. Sitting down, I felt something underneath me. It was a black notebook and an envelope with my name on it.

“My dear sweet friend. Right now, you are surrounded by my life’s adventures. Years ago, I set up an automatic subscription with a stationary company. I made a vow that each time a new notebook was delivered, I would go somewhere I had never been. I would do something I had never done. I looked forward to those deliveries. I took notes and wrote about where I had been, who I met, and all the wonderful things I experienced. It was the second greatest joy in my life. The first was our friendship and conversations. So, now you have a choice. You can sit here and read about all of the amazing places I have been or you can take the $20,000 in cash in the envelope and set out for your own adventure to write about.”

Mason

As I sit here on the beach in Thailand, looking out over the ocean, taking in everything around me, I can’t help but to feel thankful for my friend and wondering what kind of adventure she’s on right now. I’m also wondering if I can order my notebooks in bulk instead of one at a time. I have a lot of living to do!