647 W. Blissful Lane

A black pathetic notebook that had been curled at the cover from many years of what Summer could only presume were written accounts of affairs and lies, resided in Summer’s hand.

It was all her mother had left her.

“So, this is what you amounted to?” Summer muttered to herself as she threw the notebook on to the coffee table, only touching it again to straighten it perpendicular to the glass. The notebook stuck out like a sore thumb against her neat, tidy apartment- a dirty black smudge on a spotless platform.

Nights came and went as a thin layer of dust started to pile on the journal.

It wasn’t until boredom reached its all-time peak that Summer fingered the edges of the tattered notebook, cursing to herself as it finally landed firmly on her lap.

She hesitantly opened the journal and was instantly taken back at the smooth, satisfying loops and neatness of her mother’s handwriting. She only knew her mother as a mess, not someone capable of such beautiful calligraphy. The first journal entry peeked from below a $5 bill.

My Summer,

One day you will receive this journal and in it I hope you gain a better understanding of me, and in turn, yourself. But my adventures are for pages to come, this one is about you and the start of your own beautifully reckless, messy, perfect life.

No snowcapped mountain, sunsetting beach, or field of blowing wheat could ever top the beauty of my favorite day. The day you were born.

The way the clouds parted, leaving but the thinnest streak of light through the hospital window and onto your tiny, soft head. I knew you were mine when the warm hazy light hit your cheeks and for the first time your eyes opened- the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen- a kaleidoscope of emeralds, aventurine, and citrine. You took in the world for the first time with a wide gaze full of wonder that I knew could never dissipate. You will do things that far surpass my grandest limits.

Yours,

Mom.

“Well that couldn’t be more wrong.” Summer hatefully commented. She set aside the notebook and sighed.

Working as a journalist didn’t allow for Summer to have much free time so the black notebook camouflaged into the shadows for the remainder of the year.

One cool, fall night Summer sat on her couch, grasping a glass of red wine. From the ajar patio door, the breeze crept in to tickle the hairs on the back of her neck as a strange light caught her eye. The light of the moon illuminated the Moleskin cover of the notebook, much like traffic lights reflecting on rain-slicked roads.

She approached the notebook cautiously, as if any moment it would spring open and bite her. The moon looked particularly full and bright, contrasting the heavy feeling in her chest.

She downed the glass of wine, looking first outside to make sure her neighbors weren’t there to witness the unladylike manner she was exuding.

Light in the head, she reopened the journal, turning to a random page. This time the passage peaked from under a $10 bill.

My Summer,

Oh, it is a perfect day. It’s early for snow but here I am writing you while delicate snowflakes play hooky on my lashes.

I know you hate when I leave but one day you will understand these frequent trips. You remember the picture you drew that I have hung up on the fridge?

The little cabin with pink curtains and smoke billowing out of the chimney?

I’m there. Not poetically or metaphorically, but physically.

I can’t wait for you to get here. You will love it.

Yours,

Mom

Summer reread this passage over and over, trying to figure out what on earth it meant.

She grabbed her phone and dialed a number from her memory, not ever looking at the contact.

Brrrrring Ring

Brrrring Ring

On the third dial the gruff voice of her father answered.

“Hi Sum-" her dad started but was interrupted by Summer.

“Do you know about some cabin that mom wrote about?” Summer questioned.

Her dad hesitated on the phone and before he had a chance to respond, a wave of hatred beat out Summer’s curiosity.

“I’m sorry dad,” Summer whispered, hanging up as fast as he had answered.

The memory of her mom leaving on frequent trips was all that could occupy Summer’s mind.

How could she do that to Dad? My hardworking, simple, good dad. As if it wasn’t obvious that she was cheating. Leaving every couple months to god knows where, a “soul vacation,” she would say. Doing what? Going where? With what soul? And dad? The way he looked at her as if each time she walked out the door she may never come back.

She went to bed that night heart racing at all the things she wished she could have said before her mom’s idiopathic death.

Summer jolted awake. It was nearing 4:00 a.m. A thought had awakened her.

Who was she at the cabin with? Could I find the man that ruined us? The one responsible for making my father sad so many nights? She was such a good mother…except for this. I need to know.

She sprung out of bed and tore through the pages. Hating herself as she got lost in the lull of her mother’s eloquent writing and vivacious storytelling. Each entry with a random amount of money attached. Some $49, others only $1 or even $0.25.

Was this how she rated her memories?

No. Summer shook her head, remembering that her birth was encompassed with $5.

The reasoning haunted Summer and eventually led her to buy her own notebook, writing down each dollar amount in the order it was received. She noticed that in between some pages lay no money.

She spent days trying to figure it out. Adding them up, subtracting them, even calling the digits.

No luck.

Exhausted from countless sleepless nights, Summer trudged into work, never tired enough to miss a shift.

Today she was covering a story on a flight that had disappeared. On her desk lay all the known facts. How many people were on board, where they departed, where they were headed, the name of the pilot, the forecast on that day, the make of the airplane and the coordinates of their last known whereabouts.

Coordinates, the numbers were coordinates. How did I not think of that before?

She fought the urge to run back home and instead worked as diligently and quickly as possible until her shift was through.

That night she pulled out her own notebook with all the written numbers and her laptop pulled open to Google Maps.

What she discovered was profound. There was not only one coordinate but multiple. Each entry with a quarter or penny symbolized a decimal in the coordinate. In the blank pages resided vivid written memories of when her mom was at that place and signified the start of a new location.

She looked in awe at the different places that lay before her. The first coordinate in Utah, recounting a memory of kayaking in the blue canal that cuts through the salt flats. Another in Yachats, Oregon at a quaint coffee house by the sea. In another entry she writes about the surreal, multitude of blues in the Mendenhall Glacier Caves, the vibrant colors of the leaves in Vermont, and the wildflowers in Colorado.

The last coordinate tinged Summer’s heart. This coordinate led to a little log cabin tucked deep back in the mountains of Montana.

Is this the part that I find out that my dad is not my real dad and that some backwoods creep is? Did my mom fake her death and now lives in this cabin? Her illness did come on remarkably quick… Does this cabin even belong to her or will I be trespassing to go?

Every thought crossed Summer’s mind as her frazzled brain didn’t register what her fingers were doing beneath her.

Beep

Her computer screen lit up with a green “confirmed” checkmark. Finally registering what she did, she yelled any obscenity that she could and frantically clicked the back button.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage…”

She arrived in Montana at around noon that day. She walked aimlessly into a diner trying to rationalize why she was there in the first place. Her phone lit up next to her-temporarily subsiding her oncoming panic attack.

It was her dad.

“647 W. Blissful Lane. Code: 8484”

My dad did know.

The car ride there felt longer than the flight had. Every bump on the road followed with a swallow, trying to keep down her jumbled nerves. Her leg shook as the car veered the corner up the mountain.

Alas, sitting at the top in a clearing sat a dinky, little cabin.

The steps were uneven and crooked but not in a run-down kind of way. The porch was lined with windchimes of emeralds, aventurine, and citrine - a perfect contrast against the cherry wood. The windows were covered with delicate, lacy pink curtains. Seemingly out of place, but familiar.

Her shaky hands lingered on the numbers, desperately yearning to feel the touch of her mother once again.

A bohemian rug covered the floor. A deep red with an Aztec print. Shelves caressed the small room with hundreds and hundreds of books. Each spine thoughtfully placed by each other to create the most beautiful mosaic of muted colors.

Summer’s eyes filled back with wonder as she scanned the room. That’s when she saw it- an identical black notebook sitting on the chair.

Summer walked toward the notebook, picking it up and noticing its hard spine, crisp paper, and stale new smell. She sat in the chair, enthralled with the feeling of warmth that the sun had created.

My Summer,

I hope that you find this on a sunny day- one where the rays of light can brush your cheeks once again and warm you.

I hope that in this moment peace resides in you with the new realization that not every book can be judged by its cover.

The truth is, I knew I was sick long ago- around the same time you were born.

I first arrived in Montana for treatment, just miles from this cabin. It was on a hike that I ran into this perfectly imperfect place. It reminded me of you, and your drawing.

I promised myself after that I would live a life inspired by you, one that would make you proud.

Over the years I have seen the lightness fade from many faces, myself included. I knew the day I met you that if I could do anything, it was to make sure that it did not fade from you.

I hope you find my efforts not to be as selfish as it is encouraging.

With all my love forever and always,

Mom

p.s. I forgive you.

Summer stood up, her eyes now a rain-slicked road. She floated over to the bookshelf and her stomach sank as she noticed that it was lined with every book she had ever loved. Every book that had made her want to be a journalist and write.

She took a book off the shelf and opened it. Every page was lined with a $10 bill. Summer frantically flipped the pages revealing more money. She grabbed another book, each one lined with various amounts. In just 3 books she had collected near $20,000.

She turned around to look for any kind of explanation and was met with her own gaze.

Opposite to the shelf was a mirror on the wall with one sentence scribbled in gold, smooth, satisfying loops.

“I suggest starting at the canal.”