The Little Black Book

“Happy birthday fella! 21 now eh? Well, you got about four years till your prefrontal cortex is fully developed, by which point you’re basically going to be the person you are then for the rest of your life so, if you feel like you got any developing left to do, best get a move on, eh?” Said my dad as I entered the kitchen that morning.

“Yeah… thanks dad, I think.” My dad never really found the right balance between, well anything really.

“What I mean to say is, this is the last really big birthday before you have to start contemplating your mortality. 25’s the next big one but by that point you’re halfway to 30 so that’s all you can think about. At 30 you’ll be too busy with life in general that you won’t have much time to comprehend or even care about that fact that your years of youth are basically over… I’m rambling; what I’m really trying to say is that you should enjoy this day as best you can.”

He would always make double the effort on days like this. Two purple balloons shaped like a 2 and a 1 hung just below the doorway to the kitchen where we sat. The 2 looked like it was leaking air a little. He’d even gone through the trouble of putting up some bunting, which irked me a little. The kitchen, the whole house for that matter, was immaculate. I noticed on the way down that the carpet on the stairs had that ‘recently hoovered’ look. The shoes at the front door had all been arranged perfectly in the nearby rack, contrary to the usual free-for-all arrangement. The coats hanging from the hooks next to the front door had been reduced to just the two that were most frequently worn, with the other less used items sentenced to the cupboard under the stairs time. If I’m honest, I didn’t care too much about all that, generally speaking, but I appreciated the gesture. Judging by the two freshly fried eggs still steaming over the recently toasted piece of seeded bread which they sat on, dad had been listening out for me so as to align breakfast perfectly with my getting out of bed. The ground pepper, my favourite complement to the egg, had already been applied. And just as I started up after realising the absence of my morning coffee, I felt a firm hand grip my shoulder, gently pushing me back into my chair, followed by a perfectly black cup of coffee arriving from the opposite and landing right next to my plate. I couldn’t help but smile.

The morning had an absent quality to it. There was a longing atmosphere in the air. It would have been perfect but for…

“Dad, when are you going to tell me about her?” He just about managed to finish the sip of tea he’d already taken when I’d begun asking the question. Surely, he was expecting this. Nonetheless, he was visibly startled, as if he thought his extra efforts this morning would have absolved him of any unwanted questioning. For a moment there was silence, but for the sound of his mind working away at an answer, or an explanation as to why he couldn’t provide one.

“Look son, you must understand, it’s complicated, really complicated, and I don’t have all the answers.” This wasn’t going to do.

“Dad, is she dead? Because if she is and you haven’t told me after all these years, that would be really messed up.”

“No, God no! It’s just that…” It seemed as if he couldn’t continue despite wanting to. In that moment I realised for the first time in my life just how hard it must have been on him, whatever it really was.

The ring of the doorbell was followed by two firm knocks on the door. I saw blatant relief in dad’s face, as if he’d been given the green light to breath again. He started up to go answer the door and this time the firm hand on the shoulder was mine on his. “I’ll get it.” I said, coupling my statement with a brief look that said, don’t start thinking you were saved by the bell, we’re not done here.

“Saeed Taylor?” asked the courier, holding the package out half-way, waiting for the nod or ‘yes’, before finalising the delivery.

“That’s me, thanks.”

“Sign here please, just use your finger.” He said after handing me the package and subsequently presenting his phone screen. After I signed, he asked me to hold the package out in front of me so he could get a picture as further proof of delivery. This is all a little over the top, I thought, for a package so small.

The stamps were what first struck me when I took a proper look at the package. They had no visible wording or insignia, only imagery, the style of which pointed east, far east. Don’t know anyone from out there last I checked. The packaging was freckled with dirt that would gradually end up on my fingers after a few seconds of handling it. And yet, it was obvious that someone had treated this with great care, packaged it neatly, written the name and address with perfect clarity and had made the utmost effort to ensure its safe and guaranteed passage.

At first, I considered taking it up to my room so I could open it by myself, but I never climbed a single step. It was as if some unannounced, yet fully present force was drawing me back to my seat in the kitchen, opposite the man who had been my father.

“Present?” My dad asked as I re-entered the kitchen and sat back down, turning the package over, scanning for a return address. His enthusiasm on the subject was testament to how little he wanted a return to the previous topic of conversation.

“Not sure, looks like it’s come a long way though, no doubt.” His enthusiasm was quickly replaced by worry. No. More like dread. That absent quality from a few moments ago seemed to have entirely escaped from the room the moment I opened the door: in its place, inevitability. That was all that filled the room at that point, my dad said no more, only waited for what he knew, had always known, would eventually happen, not how, or when, just that it would.

A mini gust of cardboard smoke exploded from the packaging as I pulled down the perforated edge, revealing its contents. What fell into my hand was a little black notebook. The soft cardboard cover had endured what looked like a decade of wear, and yet still it hadn’t entirely lost its shine, its mysterious energy. I ran my fingers along the spine and in that brief moment, I felt a frustratingly familiar strike of déjà vu. Even now, after he’d seen the notebook in my hand, dad remained silent in his knowing.

‘Turn to the back’ was what I noticed written in the bottom-right corner of the otherwise blank first page when I’d gone to turn to the next – which I could see through the thinness of the first, was full of written words. Before I had a chance to even see what was on (or in) the last page of the notebook, a small, thin, rectangular piece of paper fell from it as soon as I’d separated the back cover from the last page.

“What’s this…?” I could read the numbers and the words, my name in particular, but I couldn’t put all the information together in a way that made any logical sense. A cheque, for £20,000… with my name on it. I was far beyond the point of confusion; things were moving fully towards the seemingly impossible now. I placed the cheque on the table, realising there was no more to be learnt from just staring at it. I took a deep breath and used all the composure I had left to turn my attention back towards the final page of the notebook.

My boy. I wish you could know just how much I miss you. Let me go no further without first apologising. You never asked for this, you ended up right in the middle of things that go back further than you know and are beyond your control, and for that I am sorry. Sometimes I wish I could have gone back and done things differently, and then I realise, doing that would mean not having had you. I wish that one day you and I can sit face to face so I can tell you everything, but for now, a mere page in this notebook will have to do. I hope that your father has managed to bring himself to tell you this already, but I doubt it, and I don’t blame him one bit. There’s a reason you’ve never met your grandparents on my side of the family. You see, for me, growing up, I was told that marrying a man like your father was a big no-no. But, as I’m sure you know, or one day will know, you can’t help who you fall for, and more importantly, it shouldn’t matter. Me and your father had been together for years, I really thought we were in love, and yet, my parents wouldn’t have it. Your father suggested marriage, hoping that making it official would play better with his soon to be in-laws. In all honesty, I accepted, not because I agreed with the prospect, but because, deep-down, I knew it would anger them. I resented my mother and father. I wanted their disapproval, their anger, their suffering. In truth, I was unsure about the idea altogether, not because I had no love for your father, but because I felt I’d never made the most out of my independence from my parents. They didn’t attend the wedding, predictably. It didn’t take long to realise I wasn’t ready for it, any of it. I had rushed into marriage, not because I wanted it, but because my parents did not. For the next few years, I embarked on a mission to make your father leave me. I was distant, unaffectionate, rude, sometimes even abusive, but he stuck around. Eventually, I’m ashamed to admit, I slept with someone else. I was going to tell him, hoping he would finally want rid of me, but there was one problem: I was pregnant. For nine months I kept quiet about it, and then I had you. When I first held you, when I first looked into your eyes, I couldn’t see your father, only the man I’d been unfaithful to him with. From that moment, I couldn’t live it any longer, I told your father everything, how I’d fallen out of love with him, how I’d cheated on him, and how you were not his. The worst part of it all, the part that made me leave, was that he forgave me. He said he didn’t care, that he would do better by me and that he wanted us to be a family. I couldn’t stay after that; I couldn’t live with the guilt of what I’d done. Forgiveness can hurt more than punishment sometimes. I knew your father would take care of you. I’ve been travelling since then, moving as much as I can. I’ve kept a record of everywhere I’ve been in this notebook. This money is yours to do with what you will, but I hope you use it to travel the world, with this little black book as your guide. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll find each other, and I can tell you the story of how I came into this money in the first place. Until then my boy, know that I love you and miss you, always.

Happy birthday.

P.S. Don’t think differently of your dad. No one loves you more.