The Corner of 6th and Pine

I slid the cheque, post-dated May 13th, 2017, in my last envelope right behind the velvet emerald green jewellery sack. As I watched it nearly clear the mail slot, I thought to myself there was no guarantee it would be received 21 years later.

--

“Hey stranger! Great choice.” Kat said warmly as she referenced the book he placed on the counter. “I thought of you when I added this to the shelf yesterday. It looks promising!” Kat continued as she scanned the book and placed it in a fabric shopping bag.

“I looked through the first half of it– I think you’re right. I’m always looking for inspiration. In fact, the recipe from the other day came from a cookbook I purchased here.” he said.

“That was delicious! Who would have thought to add garam masala to chili? Kat responded excitedly while handing him the shopping bag. “See you next week for class?”

“You bet!” he confirmed.

Inspired by the Spanish Paella recipe on the 32nd page, he walked out of the bookstore and turned right on Main Street toward Analog Coffee Roasters. His Sunday routine consisted of planning for his upcoming I Can’t Believe It’s Vegan cooking class, coupled sipping an oat milk flat white latte. With his crafted beverage in hand, he continued West on Main Street towards his destination, the local community centre on 4th.

I’m somewhat surprised to see what I hoped had been a thoughtful gift for my daughter end up donated to a used bookstore. I was unaware she already had a copy. I suppose it had only collected dust these past couple of years…

Upon arrival, he set the shopping bag down on the cream-coloured kitchen island and grabbed his navy blue notebook from his backpack. The notebook held his go-to writing tool - a white pen with a square-shaped body affixed with a grey clip ensuring no time was wasted scrounging for a suitable pen.

He pulled out one of the stools from under the island before starting to flip through the second half of the new-to-him plant-based cookbook published two years prior. He skimmed a few pages before glancing at the stool to his right. Him and his younger brother Jenson used to do this together. They would grab a coffee nearly every Sunday morning and catch up on their latest culinary creations before sitting down to select next week’s recipe.

Though separately, they both grew up cooking. He was 15 years older and moved out of the childhood home for university when Jenson was 4 years old. Cooking connected the two of them amongst their contrasting stages of life. The last time Jenson had attended his cooking class was three years ago before losing his battle with mental illness. He had been saving what he could from his three jobs to offer younger folks like Jenson a more dedicated place to go when they found themselves struggling. He was $20k away from his goal.

After perusing through the entirety of the book, he moved what looked like a homemade bookmark from the very last page to the 32nd. He then scribed an abbreviated recipe and quantity of ingredients needed.

--

I could tell she was looking forward to the baseball game that afternoon. She was to meet her friend Emily at the stadium later on. But first, she had her monthly appointment with Maria.

“I’ve been thinking...” she started. “And, don’t take this the wrong way because these sessions have been really helpful for me. I just…” she paused and sighed.

“I’ve found progress to be slow once I made the decision to get help. I make an initial appointment and have to wait. I get a referral and have to wait again– this time, for psychiatry for what has now become just shy of 4 months. I’ve had to share my reality with multiple people, and sometimes multiple times with those people…” she went on.

“It feels like life gets in the way of my progress– class, assignments, folding graphic tees at the mall or sorting through papers at the student’s union. I hardly have any brain power left at the end of the day. I just wish there was another way.”

Maria chimed in. “I understand. Learning how you can best manage your depression takes time. I was going to mention this to you at the end of our session, but there’s a group of kids around your age that meet twice a week at the community centre. It’s free of charge and they do everything from baking to geocaching. You’re welcome to drop in whenever you’d like. I believe they are offering a photography class Monday evening and cooking on Wednesday evening.”

Maria swiftly pulled a piece of paper from the middle drawer of the grey filing cabinet. “Here are the details. I’ll let them know you might be stopping by.” said Maria as they handed her the baby blue flyer.

At the end of the session, she folded the flyer and placed it in her back pocket.

--

She was to meet Emily for 12:45pm. Following her session with Maria, she used the time before the game to watch an episode of Friends. It was now 12:25pm and it would take her 15 minutes to walk to the stadium. One episode quickly turned into two before she knew it. She glanced at the digital clock on the microwave in the room to her right.

“Shoot!” she said under her breath.

She quickly ran to the closet to grab her jersey before fishing for the matching baseball cap in the nightstand drawer. As the navy blue accessory with white accents hastily left the drawer, a dainty gold necklace she always knew to be hers unknowingly fell on the hardwood floor behind the open bedroom door.

The heart-shaped centrepiece was opened now revealing a pea-sized folded piece of card stock. The tarnished locket had gotten caught on the excess piece of cotton fabric used to adjust the ‘one size fits all’ cap. At one point in time, the necklace lived in a small velvet emerald green sack closed with two symmetrical drawstrings. For the last two years, it hardly saw the light of day buried under a variety of pay stubs, candy wrappers and knickknacks.

The necklace hadn’t been found until the next morning when she went to sweep a couple of dust bunnies behind her bedroom door. She seemed puzzled as she knelt to pick up the fragmented halves that held a plentiful centre. The locket had never been opened while under her possession.

She plucked the piece of card stock wedged from under the heart-shaped grooves that lined the lower half of the locket. Carefully, she proceeded to unfold the small pasteboard square as she slowly paced towards the end of the double bed in the middle of the room. As she sat on the edge, the third fold unveiled a scribbled messaged in black ink:

At the corner of 6th St and Pine St, you’ll find the world’s best salted bagel. See Reva.

--

If it wasn’t for the photography class, she probably wouldn’t have even considered it. The third line of the flyer, Learn To Shoot A Mirrorless Camera!, caught her eye. She knew her way around a DSLR from shooting soccer games in her sophomore yearbook class but had never had the chance to play around with one of those shiny new cameras. She pushed herself to go when Monday evening came around. She had somewhat of a busy weekend and was fairly tired from running a multitude of errands in the downtown core.

--

It took him two trips to bring in enough tomatoes, vegetable broth and rice (among the various accoutrements) from the car to feed the 15-20 or so friends expected the next evening. As he started to measure just the right amount of smoked paprika and turmeric from their respective mason jars, the sharpness of the sunset beaming from three identical vertical windows in front of him started to interfere.

He proceeded to close each set of blinds before noticing a black pocket-sized notebook on the windowsill below the furthest right pane. The personal notebook, he would later discover, sat face down with a violet thread that peeked out from the middle splitting it in two equal parts. He picked it up and saw something so familiar he could have almost mistaken the notebook for his.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the contrast of what looked like a piece of white paper taped to the top of the cream-coloured page below his left thumb. He recognized the handwriting first and a vague memory of the words second:

At the corner of 6th St and Pine St, you’ll find the world’s best salted bagel. See Reva.

Underneath, in divergent handwriting, the lined page read the following strikethroughed text:

Coffee & Bagels

Luke’s Market

No. 26

The Creperie

Bin 905 Wine

With a look of confusion and impulse, he followed the instructions on the first page of the notebook - In case of loss, please return to: Alice Davies. He proceeded to dial the associated telephone number.

Upon an answer, he introduced himself as one of the teachers at the community centre and explained what he had found.

“There’s something else too.” he continued.

“This might sound strange– and believe me, I didn’t even glance at any of the other pages…”

There was a brief pause. “But, it had already been open to a specific page. The one with the taped piece of paper?”

“Yeah?” Alice questioned.

“Well, I’ve seen that exact message before. I’ve got this bookmark – it’s not mine, actually, but it came with a cookbook I bought last week at Sam’s… you know the used bookstore downtown?” He continued. “Do you know what it means?”

“Oh, uhhh…” Alice was caught off-guard. “No, I don’t. I spent the weekend trying to find a place in the area that sells salted bagels. Though, I was unsuccessful.”

“Hold on let me check something.” he said as he put the call on speakerphone and pulled up a navigation app. “I used to take my younger brother to this bagel shop. I forget the name of it now, but it was right on the corner…” He paused for a brief moment and continued. “It looks like there’s another place where it used to be, No. 26? The coffee shop?”

“Yeah, I went in on Saturday and they couldn’t tell me anything. I mean, it was pretty busy…” responded Alice.

“You could try going on a weekday? Usually places like that have students working over the weekend.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“In the meantime, I’ll leave your notebook at the front desk for you to pick up anytime.”

After they hung up, he kept his promise and dropped off the journal on his way out of the building.

--

Two weeks later, his mobile rang with an unrecognized number that went straight to voicemail.

“Hi it’s Alice– you found my journal a couple of weeks ago? This is going to sound– well, your cookbook had been my biological mom’s, gifted to her from her mother 2 years ago before she passed. The identical notes were created in hopes my biological mom and I would eventually meet. If I hadn’t gone back to No. 26, I wouldn’t have known she showed her note to Reva last year before the bagel shop rebranded. Luckily, Reva’s granddaughter had just started their shift when I walked in the Friday before last.” Alice continued.

“This has flipped my world right side up… and I can’t even begin to thank you for your encouragement. I managed to get your email from Harry at the front desk and sent you a reward of sorts for my appreciation.”

--

The Alice & Jenson Centre, the city’s first young adult intensive programming for mood and anxiety, trauma and addictions, opened its doors one year later.