Words Matter

Words do matter, which became more apparent as I aged, growing wiser. This story is about me and the impact words have had on my life.

For better, or for worse. I repeated those words so many years ago, but I didn’t really understand then what worse could entail. He showed me in the numbing years that followed, but not hurting me the way some husbands hurt their wives, with broken bones, bruises or constant fear. No. He broke my heart, and spirit.

Words matter, and Hank’s were condescending, cruel and biting. He believed he was superior to everyone in the household, especially me, choosing words that reinforced his outdated beliefs. It got too much for Millie, my youngest daughter, who left the house two years ago at just 16. She had always been intuitive and feisty, so it was of no surprise that she uttered these words as she confidently walked out the door: “I love you mom, but I can’t live here like this, and nor should you.”

I should have listened then, but I stayed, even going to work at the local grocery store. That didn’t help. Hank believed that a woman’s place was at home, and that work was reserved for men, but he didn’t stop me either. We needed the money, especially as his gambling habit started to take its toll on our savings. Then, one late Spring evening, everything changed.

As was typical, Hank offered no help after supper, leaving such housework to me. His dirty plate and glass rested on the scratched up dining room table, waiting to be carried to the sink. That was fine. I preferred when he wasn’t around. But then, as he walked away, he muttered in his typical patronizing and gravelly voice “Put a cold beer on the side table. I’m gonna watch the baseball game. And keep it quiet in here.” Perhaps it was the warm, Spring air, or perhaps I recalled Millie’s parting words, but just then, I was done enduring Hank’s pronouncements. These last ones were too much for me. I am done. I committed myself to leaving. It was not going to be easy. I was alone, having long ago pushed away family and friends in an effort to save our marriage. I knew our church would offer no support either. After all, they witnessed my vow. As I dried the dishes, an incredible feeling started to arise from deep inside me.

At 16, I was young, carefree and in love, soaking up each day I spent with my first true love. In those days, parents didn’t look lightly upon these things. They could never find out. One glorious late Spring day, my first love delivered to me a little black notebook, asking that I capture our shared experiences, never to be forgotten. I was good with words and readily agreed. Writing fastidiously, smiling and giggling, I recalled our daily adventures. Pen gliding across the blank, smooth pages, I knew this little notebook would forever guard the joys of our youth, and a lifetime of emotion.

At 18, it suddenly ended. Somehow, my parents found out, and vowed not to let us spend a minute more together. That night, I scribbled It’s all over in the notebook. Sobbing, I slid the ribbon onto the page, and snapped the elastic across the cover. Then using a wax seal, I closed off that chapter of my life.

Thirty years later, standing in the kitchen drying the dishes, the desire to hold that little black notebook filled me. It was all I could think about. That night, Hank’s snoring signalled it was time to move, and I descended to the crawlspace. Hidden in an old, discoloured shoe box was money I stashed over the years. Underneath the old bills lay those memories of my youth. Emotions rushed back as I surveyed the worn, black cover before picking up the notebook and stepping back into the house. Grabbing a pen, I took a seat in the kitchen, ran my hand across the old wax seal, and slid my index finger along the ribbon. My hand moved almost unconsciously, breaking the seal, removing the elastic, and turning the pages. I studied my last words, now faded over time. It’s all over. From my pen, my hand coaxed out Time to start anew.

Early the next morning, I stuffed an old duffle bag with my belongings. There was no orderliness to the packing, just items quickly and quietly tossed into the bag. My purse held some of the money and the rest was tucked away in the side pocket of my backpack. My coat's inside pocket cradled the notebook. On a notepad, I scribbled down “Don’t come find me. I am done. Georgia” and left the pad on the dining room table. Snoring could still be heard coming from the bedroom. I edged out the door to the waiting taxi. Once at the bus station, I purchased a one-way ticket, found a bench, and stared out a window. Thoughts washed all over me.

From time-to-time during the last two years, I found myself searching, just out of curiosity. It was easy enough to do as the name was routinely in their local paper. A move to a coastal town, a successful publishing business, a stake in the local hockey team, and a commitment to charity. All the information was there, including a business address in Tacoma, Washington. The newspaper never mentioned a spouse. My first love never married.

Three days later, I arrived at my destination just before 2:00 p.m., anxious, but sleepy. The hotel located across the street had a room available. I dropped my bags, slid off my coat, and eased into bed. Sleep didn’t last long before hunger pangs arrived. I headed to the nearest sandwich shop, notebook still resting inside my coat pocket, comforting me. Ham and cheese sandwich consumed and plans made, I walked back to the hotel, showered and put on my best clothes. I was still attractive, a head-turner to some, and I felt confident. But apprehension arose. 30 years had also altered my youthful appearance. As it turned out, it would not matter.

At 4:30, my taxi arrived at the mid-century building. I was hoping the day’s work would be done and my unsuspecting former flame would be unoccupied. An excited laugh escaped my lips as I caught sight of a restored 1979 black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am occupying a parking space close to the front door. In the notebook, a page described the first car we both dreamed about, the one with a gold firebird painted on the hood. Reaching inside my coat, I touched the book’s leather-like cover. Beaming, I walked towards the building’s frosted glass door, eased it open, and entered a pristine foyer.

“You must be Ms. Andersen. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Janette Winslow.” Janette was a strikingly beautiful woman who looked in her thirties. A white, silky blouse and black, pencil skirt hugged her trim figure. Glasses framed her almond-shaped eyes, and straight, auburn hair flowed down her back. “You are a bit early. Please do have a seat.” As she showed me to a classy leather chair, the slit in her skirt showed off a long, shapely leg. “Wine?” I nodded, keeping my sunglasses in place. “Is your husband arriving separately?” she said while pouring two glasses of Bordeaux. Her smooth voice was distracting. “Uhm…sorry. I’m not Ms. Andersen. I was looking for the owner of the business. We are friends from some time ago.”

Janette turned around, a concerning look bathed her face. “Oh.” There was a long pause as she struggled to find words. “I…I don’t know how to tell you this.” The second pause felt like an eternity. “The owner passed away recently. I’m sorry.“ This confident woman who greeted me upon entry was now fumbling her words. “Umm…cancer…stage 4.” My skin went white as the blood drained. My mouth dropped open. Janette paused as she searched for a way to provide me, a stranger, some details without making the situation worse. “It was undetected and came as a surprise to everyone. The quick passing, not two weeks ago, shocked us all,” she disclosed. My lips quivered as I absorbed the blow of her words. The person I travelled across the country to see, the person whose life intertwined mine on the pages of our little black notebook, was gone. I became acutely aware of the weight of the notebook as it rested up against my chest.

“Were you two close?” Janette asked, searching for a way to move the conversation along. “Yes, but some time ago. We lost touch.” My heart was sinking. “I was hoping to reconnect.” Realizing I was being impolite, I removed the sunglasses which shielded my now damp eyes. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. My name is Georgia Brownlee."

The glasses trembled for a brief moment, threatening to slip from Janette’s graceful hands and smash into the hardwood floor. As I read her face, it was clear she knew me. “Have we met?” I asked, still trying to process the situation. Steadying herself, Janette replied “No. But I know so much about you. I was a friend of…” She was flushed, the colour of her cheeks adding to her beauty. “How much time do you have?” She locked the front door, turned the sign, and sat down. “The Andersens will have to wait.”

I placed the little notebook on a small table as Janette shared with me everything she knew, including how she was a previous romantic partner of my first love, how my name always overshadowed hers, but held no bitterness. Warmness grew inside me as I learned how prevalent I remained in the life of my first love. I glanced at the notebook, knowing the words inside recounted a deep bond between two young lovers. Janette left the room, but returned shortly thereafter carrying a small, weathered chest and a vintage-styled envelope. “As I said, you were never forgotten.” In red wax, the initials A.B. sealed the envelope. I smiled tenderly. How perfect. Wax cracked as the envelope opened. “My dear Georgia…” By the time I read the final words, I was sobbing uncontrollably. It was all in there, everything I wanted and needed to know. I strained to compose myself, re-read the three numbers at the bottom of the letter, and looked at Janette. She smiled and nodded. I opened the lock on the chest… and gasped.

“It could only be you, Georgia. No one else stood a chance. Why don’t you take it out.” I slowly lifted out the classic wedding dress, taking it in, however more remained. Inside the chest, on top of a smaller box, lay a picture. 18 year-old Aine Byrne smiled at me, the sun shimmering on her milky skin and flowing locks. I was lost in her deep brown eyes. Radiant indeed. Lifting out the small box, I opened the lid. Dumbfounded, I gaped at Janette for answers. She gave me one. “$20,000. Meant your wedding. But it’s just yours now."

As we exchanged goodbyes, Janette slipped her card into my palm. “Aine was a beautiful person. She said you were too. Please do call me if you need anything.”

At the hotel, I put down the chest, opened the notebook, and copied down Janette’s number before sliding her card into the book’s back pocket. I stared into the empty room. Time to start anew. I picked up the notebook and wrote. Nothing went as planned. Will never see Aine again. However, I was comforted by a new friend, one who seems as kind as Aine ever was.

Then I picked up the phone.