Notes to Henry

Henry stirred in his bed sheets, wallowing in a warm comfort. His eyes slowly gazed across the room, until they eventually fell upon his nightstand. A sticky note was placed on the shaft of a lamp, and a light, gentle scrawling told him to head into the bathroom. Henry scoffed and grinned at the note before turning his attention to the window. It looked like a beautiful day in the middle of the fall. Orange, red, and yellow trees gently swayed, and the water down by the lake glistened with the rising sun. The whole scene looked even more picturesque due to his failing vision, giving everything an oily and blended appearance. Henry immediately thought about how he often went down to that lake to go swimming or skip rocks with his old high school friends.

He shuffled his way into the bathroom. Another note on the mirror was asking him to brush his teeth and then head downstairs to the kitchen. Henry happily complied, and while he was busy with his mundane task, he thought, Who were my friends back then, anyway? He could’ve sworn there was a brown-haired boy named Jim, but his last name escaped him. There was also a girl named Molly, and he remembered her tomboy attitude, but couldn’t remember exactly what she looked like. Unconsciously, he began brushing his teeth harder and closing his eyes tightly, trying to go through his head to find the answers he was looking for. It felt like a great pressure was building up inside his head, slowly causing his blood to pump harder. He felt his face getting warmer until finally he decided to spit out his paste and found a very disheveled man in the mirror. His greying hair was out of place, and his skin was warped and wrinkled in a red, burning frustration. He frowned at this oddity.

What is Jim doing nowadays? he asked. An architect of some sort? Or some engineer? Dammit. I swear, he was some smart ass or some other. He rinsed his mouth out with water, and left the bathroom with his head down, puzzling over Jim as he made his way downstairs and turned into the kitchen.

Henry was muttering obscenities about his terrible recall while he skimmed through the note that was stuck on the kitchen table. Check the fridge door, it said. “Sure,” he mumbled, “I’ll check the fridge door, maybe I can remember where the hell I left it last, right?” He saw another note on the door, right near the handle, but this was not just a note, it was a whole scrap of paper. It was a list of groceries and a checklist for what to stay stocked up on. There was another sticky note attached to the inside of the fridge that told him the address, the directions, and a reminder to eat first before leaving.

“Molly,” he muttered out loud as he took some eggs out. He could only remember her sarcastic attitude and the way she rolled her eyes at him all the time. Was she really a friend? he thought. Maybe she was Jim’s girlfriend, and I only tolerated her cause I liked Jim. He leaned against the stove as he threw together a rather bland mixture of eggs, salt, and pepper and paired it with a side of un-toasted bread with butter spread on top as he couldn’t figure out how the toaster was meant to be turned on.

Henry ate his meal in silence. His food wound up getting cold because he spent most of his time twirling his fork around his plate, trying to remember what job Jim had and why the girl with worn overalls was so much of a bother to him all the time. Disappointed with his conclusions, Henry threw away what he did not finish and made his way into the foyer and towards a dresser that had several ship models and medals laid out on top and above the mantle. He always went on a walk around the lake every day, usually despite whatever the weather was. It was a calming sensation of hearing the wind sway and the leaves rustle together in the trees. Nearest to the door, there was an olive wood bowl that had yet another note attached, telling Henry to take his wallet, cellphone, and papers with him before leaving. The note made it a point to remind him to take his jacket, with several underlines and a circle surrounding the word. Henry promptly placed everything into his pockets and swung his jacket off the nearby rack. He slid it onto his shoulders and quickly adjusted the collar.

It was then that he felt a light pressure against his chest. Something with weight slapped against his breast as the jacket came on. Rifling through the jacket’s inside pocket, he found a small black book with a white box placed squarely in the middle for a title. It read, “Read me.” Henry glanced over at his wristwatch and noticed it was only 10 am. He returned the book safely back into his jacket, hoping that its nagging weight will offer as a reminder in itself. Henry fixed his collar and walked out the door. As he left the porch, the morning sun gave him an instant relief of warmth against a cool breeze. He buried his hands into his pockets and made his way down the driveway and towards the front gate.

He noticed that there was mail delivered, so he fetched it out on his way back up the porch and back into the house. Henry returned his wallet, keys, and phone to the bowl near the front door, and began sifting through the mail. They were mostly bills or promotions for one thing or another. One, however, was a check, from some agency made out to a Hank Colton. The letter informed him the Alzheimer’s Association contributed $20,000, included in the check, as support for his bravery.

Wrong address, Henry thought as he grabbed a pen and began writing a letter. “Dear Mr. Alzheimer,” Henry stated out loud as he wrote. “Thank you for your letter. I’m returning this check to you as you unfortunately seem to have the wrong person. My last name is indeed Colton, but my first name is not Hank. You must have sent this to the wrong address after searching for the wrong name. I hope you can return this to Hank quickly. Sincerely, Henry Colton.”

He looked over the letter proudly before placing it inside an envelope and making his way back outside to place it in his mailbox. The sun was still high overhead, but the coolness in the breeze stung a bit harder now. Henry curled his arms into his jacket, but was suddenly nagged by something in his chest. He patted his coat and felt the book. The little black book he wanted to read later by the lake, he remembered. The old man kicked up his pace to the mailbox, deposited the letter and raised the pin, and then turned towards a dirt path that lead to the lakeside.

Squirrels and rabbits darted across the path as he came by. Birds were zipping above his head in droves, chirping loudly with each other as if they could barely hear one over the other due to how many were singing. The lake wasn’t the largest Henry has been to. It took maybe 40 minutes to stroll around its perimeter. What made the lake one of the best, in Henry’s opinion, was how the lake sat right at the edge of a valley. If you were to go to the other side of the water and looked back, you could see the blue and purple mountains in the distance and the forest that surrounded them like an ocean around an island. Several benches were placed around this viewpoint for all visitors to enjoy. It was the perfect spot to spend a few hours wisely, and Henry believed it was also a good spot to explore his curiosity on the black book nestled inside his jacket.

Henry sat down with a huff and pulled the book out in front of him. The faux, black leather was worn, and even the color was fading away. The pages were stiff from age, and some served as placeholders for pictures taped onto them – it was old, and it has probably been left in his coat for a while. Henry peeled the book open to read the inside cover, “Happiness is a log, and memory is the tinder,” Henry read, “Molly Colton.”

Colton? Henry thought. Maybe a sister, or my mother or-

Henry’s eyes widened a bit. Molly, the tomboy! This is the girl! Henry smiled and lifted his chin, content on how the mystery he just shattered. He noticed the handwriting to be the same as the notes he has been seeing. We know each other well, he concluded.

“Hello Hank Colton,” it read. “This is Molly Colton, your wife of 42 years. Your friends call you Henry, the government calls you Hank – please remember that with the mail.” Henry chuckled and mumbled how he must not forget to retrieve that letter out of the mailbox.

“Dr. Oman told me that my condition is not getting any better anytime soon, so I figured it would be best in both our interests if I put this book together for you.” Henry furrowed his brow as he began reading faster about this past he was seemingly only now made aware of. Molly went on to explain how he was suffering from memory loss that would only get worse over time. How she ordered subscriptions to sudoku puzzles and crossword puzzles. Walks twice a day, drinking lots of water, leaving notes to remind him of things he needs to do. She detailed camping trips to Colorado and Utah to see the Rockies and explore the canyons and arches. Blunders from failing to cook a ham properly every year for Christmas dinner. The marriage they had, and how they spent the first day in a motel because they overshot their stop while on the train towards the Florida Keys. Henry found picture after picture of him with Molly at beaches, restaurants, with family.

Henry’s mind was racing as he flipped back and forth through the book. He felt his hair stand up over the idea that if this were all true, he does not recall most of it. As if anticipating his line of reasoning, he reached the back cover of the book. Henry, it started, I know you to worry a lot. I can guarantee that if you are feeling panicked or lost and confused, you have felt this way before, and have probably done it plenty of times reading through this. I would like to remind you that this book is not meant to scare you on what you don’t know, but to remind you of the life you already lived. The doctor said your brain is not as good as it used to be, and there is no medicine to treat it. I should’ve known to find a new doctor, cause he clearly never heard how timeless a book can be.

A tear hit the page. Henry wiped his eyes clean and then tried to dry off the stain from the book using his finger. The warmth of the sun was hiding behind the trees, but the wind had died down. The chill was seemingly gone. Henry flipped back to the beginning, taking his time to take every story in this time around.

He had forgotten about the letter on his way back home, as he did before. The next morning, he would find that little black book again in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Only tomorrow would tell if he remembers what was inside it, but the one guarantee would be that he would always find out.