Missed Connection

On a mid autumn day, I was walking in the river valley. This is easily my favorite season with its kaleidoscopic coloration of trees. I often stop at this little park to sit and meditate. The park really hit that sweet spot of comfort, being sunny and protected from the wind. There was even a bench with my name on it, carved in my delinquent youth.

But today my bench was occupied. Though not with a person, but by a weathered black book. "Strange" I said to myself as I walked up, gazing about for the human who had so carelessly discarded their papery companion. I considered for a moment what I’d want someone else to do in my shoes had I forgotten a book, and decided to leave it where it was.

I sat beside the book. This was my bench, after all, and kept it company for the next 30 minutes while I meditated. Often, my thoughts would drift to this book, and I’d wonder if someone would come by. No one did.

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"You just left it?" Charlie said with incredulity.

"Why wouldn't I?" I replied, offended.

"What if it rains? What if someone left a phone number and offered a reward? What if some unscrupulous book thief came by? What if there was a treasure map!?" Charlie said, his tone growing more dramatic with each question.

"You’re such a snoop. I did what I thought anyone should do and left it." I replied with a patience that comes from knowing someone for many years.

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I expected the book to be gone, that its existence would fade into the background as one more unsolved mystery. But there it was, sitting in the same place I’d left it the day before.

My meditations proved far more difficult that day, as I could feel the book exerting its gravitational force upon me. Whispering about its sweet written mysteries and taunting me to peruse its depths. I resisted, but decided that the book might be in danger from rain. So I moved it under the bench, where the seat acted as an umbrella.

"At least it’ll be safe." I said to myself, satisfied with my upstanding citizenship.

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Me - Hey. I went back to the park and the book was still there.

Charlie - Seriously? You read it yet?

Me - No. I moved it so it wouldn't get rained on.

Charlie - You. Are. Sooooo. Boring.

Me – And you are ridiculous.

Charlie - Tell me where it is and I'll go look at it.

Me - No! If it’s there tomorrow I'll look for a number.

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Somehow I knew the book would be waiting for me. It was as if the book had been cleaved out of someone's life and left for me. So I felt no surprise when I saw it. I sat down on the bench and reverentially picked it up.

It had a well worn look to it. The cover was shiny and black, one of those soft notebook styles so favored by the travelling writer. I opened it up to the first page hoping that the author had written their contact info, but all I found was a series of whimsical yet beautiful drawings of flowers. This person had talent. I flipped to the next page.

The author had written a poem about long dark nights of winter. Two talents already, I thought, feeling both admiration and jealousy. In the margin, there was a cartoon of a strangely gothic looking snowman. As though Frosty had gotten mixed up with a punk crowd and began experimenting with dark eye liner.

I flipped to the next page, and this one read like a journal entry. I closed the book, feeling a wave of guilt wash over me. It was one thing to look inside a journal for a name or number, but another to read their private thoughts. But I picked it up and took it home.

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By nighttime, curiosity had overcome my reservations, and I opened the book. I’ve never read a journal before. Most books take you through a planned narrative, but this book was a journey through the psyche of a troubled girl. I assumed it was a girl, though at no point did "she" say so. Who self-references their gender when writing their inner thoughts?

There was illustrated poetry that depicted the wonderlands of the author’s dreams. Some cute, some dark, often melancholic. Journal entries that spoke of her struggles to belong and the feeling that she would one day vanish from the world and no one would notice. There were drawings of trees, flowers and even the park I meditate in. I could picture her sitting under a tree, sketching out the bench I had spent so much time on. I wondered if I‘d ever seen this girl before, if we’d said "hi" in passing. As I read, a picture of her took shape in my mind.

She was younger than me. She agonized over belonging, loathed social media, loved small animals, and had a great eye for capturing details. She lacked faith in her own talents. And she was depressed. Her parents were quite financially successful, but often too busy to spend time with her. She suffered from chronic illness. Her friends had begun to avoid her. By the end of the book, her pain was woven into every poem, drawing and journal entry.

I had to find this girl, but only had one thing to go on. There was a drawing of a house. It had Victorian design and looked to belong to a wealthy family. There were two giant evergreen trees on either side of a path leading up to the front door. The rooftop had steep arches, and a hexagonal window graced its forward peak. It looked familiar.

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I couldn’t search full time as my boss was getting annoyed at me for missing some deadlines. Also walking for 8 hours a day is exhausting. I'm not sure how the heroes of my favorite stories manage it, but kudos to them. It was the following week that I eventually found the house. And with pounding nerves I knocked on the door.

"Can I help you?" asked the tired woman who answered the door. She was in her mid forties, well dressed in dark business casual clothing, and had rich auburn hair that was just beginning to show some grey. Her eyes had dark circles underneath them, and her expression was one of barely contained exhaustion.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you." I said to her, feeling nervous and realizing only now that what I was about to say might come across... well... crazy.

I took a deep breath and said, "My name is Ashley. I found this book at a nearby park, and am trying to return it to its owner. But I couldn't find any name or number to call, though there's a drawing of your house in it. I was wondering if you know who it might belong to?" and showed her the little black book I'd been carrying with me for the last week.

She frowned at it and said nothing for a moment.

"May I see it?" She asked, clearly hesitant. I offered it to her, and she took it slowly. She opened the book, and stared at the drawn flowers. Her face twisted up with emotion, tears welling up in her eyes, and she began to collapse. Though shocked by her reaction, I managed to catch her before she fell to the floor. Feeling a sense of bewilderment and dread, I held her as she sobbed in my arms, and then helped her into an armchair near the door. She sat down and cried, and I retreated back to the book, gingerly picking it up.

"I'm sorry... do you want me to leave or come back later?" I asked her, speaking quietly and trying to be reassuring, her own emotions hammering into me as my sense of empathy collided with my growing feelings of awkwardness.

"No... no..." She said, visibly trying to pull herself together. "The book... it's... was my daughter's. Nicca."

The look on her face and the awkward correction to past tense told me my suspicions were correct.

"She... passed away recently?" I asked hesitantly.

"She was very ill. We thought she was getting better, and the doctors said she was improving, but she collapsed 9 days ago after coming home from her walk. She died in the hospital two days later." She said. She sat sorrowful for a moment, and then came back to herself.

"I’m Darci Walther. Nicca was always carrying this around, writing and drawing in it. I recognize her style, though she never showed much of her art to me." Darci said.

"I had to look through her book to figure out how to return it. She was a very talented. I think she used her poetry and art as a way of coping. I wish I could have returned this sooner, but it wasn't easy finding your house." I told her.

"You should have it," I said, handing it to her.

Darci gave me a questioning look, and then asked me if I’d like some tea. I felt bewildered and emotional but said yes, as I felt a sense of grief that this experience had come to an end without getting to meet Nicca. Darci and I spoke about how I had come upon the book and what I went through to return it. Darci told me a more about Nicca, her illness, her life and her journey as an artist. We spoke for almost an hour, at which point I excused myself, feeling it was time for me to go. Darci thanked me for the book, and gave me a hug as I left.

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It was a cold October morning, and these were not my favorite days to be out. It had rained recently, and the winds were ramping up to their pre-winter rampage. Every time I came here, I felt like some piece of Nicca was there waiting for me, to wax poetically on how the wind rushes through the trees, or how the rain collects in tiny lakes that block the passing of ants.

I was staring out over the river when I heard a car door slam from the nearby parking lot. I looked over to see Mrs. Walther coming towards me waving. Surprised, I returned her wave and walked towards her. She greeted me with a familiar hug, which I leaned into because it felt right.

Darci told me that she and her husband had both read Nicca's book. She said one of her biggest regrets was that they had been too busy with work in the last few years to be with their daughter. Reading Nicca's book had been a moment of connection to her daughter when they had needed it the most. Her husband had also agreed that I had put in a great deal of effort to find them, and they wanted to give me a gift. She handed me an envelope.

She stood there awkwardly as I opened up the envelope and looked inside. There was a cheque made out to "Ashley" with no last name, for twenty thousand dollars. I gaped, stunned by the amount, and stammered out that this really wasn’t necessary. Darci gave me a sad smile and said Nicca was an only child, and that they don't really have anyone else to give their money to. She asked me to please just take it, as the gift I had given to her couldn't be measured in dollars, but she could at least try to return the favor. We exchanged numbers and shared a final hug.

As she was walking away, a thought struck me.

"Darci!" I called out to her.

She turned, "Yes?"

"How did you find me?" I asked.

She gave me a wry smile, "Nicca's book. She drew your park.”