The Little Book of Gratitude

Leandre was having a tough year. It had been less than nine months since her husband passed from complications of lymphoma, which they had caught too late. It had already metastasized to other organs, making the treatment purely palliative, and his time short.

Though Tim passed in peace, held by those he loved the most, his final days were painful. They’d left a stain on Leandre; a sharp-edged bitterness concealing her longing for a lifetime almost had, and a family not-quite built.

Leandre and Tim’s plan had always included children, yet time and again they’d held off for practical reasons, always wagering to wait for a better situation. Now, those decisions which had seemed obvious and pragmatic, were regrets she lived with daily.

She felt alone with her grief and was spiraling into what her therapist aptly labelled a ‘pretty beefy’ depression. She’d only held together this long because of one thing: her mother, Jane.

They’d visit on Tuesday and Thursday evenings at her mother’s assisted living apartment home, after Leandre got off work. Additionally, every Saturday, they’d either find something to do outside—weather permitting—or go back to Leandre’s apartment and just spend time drinking tea, playing cards, and watching travelogue shows. What they did wasn’t important, but these visits had contained the first moments where Leandre felt bits of herself coming back, and that mattered more than she could say.

There was only one other thing in Leandre’s life that provided any consistent joy or comfort. She kept a daily journal of gratitude. Initially suggested by her therapist as a one-week homework assignment, Leandre had since co-opted the practice, really making it her own. Within this small, black notebook—which earned a permanent position atop her living room’s coffee table—she recorded daily observations on all she was grateful for.

Thankfully, the goal wasn’t to write down things you were actually grateful for in the moment. Otherwise, Leandre reckoned the book would be empty, as she spent most of her days mired within the disillusionment of anxiety. Yet still, every night, when she’d center herself and really consider the day gone by, she’d always find something. Some days it would be a single thing. Other days, more and more recently, she’d find her lists grow long. She’d discover herself including the most pedestrian of daily pleasures.

It had become a ritual which she looked forward to throughout her days. Recently, she had even caught herself feeling gratitude in the moment. The first time took her aback. At the bank, of all places, a young man had been very kind to her, and she’d truly appreciated it. Immediately, a recognition had dawned on her, reacquainting her with this seemingly every-day emotion which had eluded her since Tom’s passing. She welcomed the feeling as if greeting a long-lost friend.

Slowly but surely, this little book of gratitude was bringing Leandre back to life.

***

On that day, from the first moment she awoke, something seemed off. Her alarm hadn’t woken her, so Leandre came to herself in the brightness splaying through her bedroom’s half-open blinds, realizing instantly that she was late.

Fifteen short and unconsciously hurried minutes later, Leandre scrambled from her front door, appearance far from her usual standards. Both hands full, with a purse slung over one shoulder, and still pulling up the other sleeve of her jacket, she nearly forgot to lock the door behind her.

There was an appointment to have her SUV looked at this morning, which was far past-due for suggested maintenance, and doubly so for an oil change. Tim had always looked after their vehicles. In his absence, Leandre’s SUV had fallen on hard times, and had recently begun showing signs she couldn’t ignore. On top of the occasional knocking, and squeaking breaks, it had begun leaking oil. So finally, Leandre had scheduled this appointment, for which she was now forty-five minutes late.

Accelerating out of her apartment’s parking lot, whipping onto the neighborhood’s main drag, her front left bumper dipped low on its frame and almost scraped the asphalt.

She nearly shouted at her car, “Call the dealership.’

“Dialing… car dealership,” the SUV’s infuriatingly robotic voice responded.

Leandre was greeted by a pre-recorded message, asking her to select a department to be transferred. She wanted option four, the service department. Which would have been easier to select if her phone hadn’t been pinned beneath a jacket flap by her seat belt, inside her ever-too-tight jean pocket.

After awkwardly fishing out the phone, and summoning it’s dial pad, she selected four. The next two minutes she spent driving the wooded, winding stretch of highway, serenaded by the gratingly monotonous tones of her unanswered call’s ringing. Finally, the line clicked off, and she was disconnected. No message, she had just been dropped.

She dialed again, knowing this time to select four as soon as the condescendingly pleasant, pre-recorded voice began speaking. For another two minutes she let the phone ring, knowing that they were likely too busy to take the call, but still filled with frustration. She figured she’d let it ring. Hoping they were in earshot and would feel a bit of the stress they were causing her.

When it clicked off again, she considered calling a third time, but held off. Only five minutes away now, she’d be seeing them soon enough.

Arriving to find the service center’s drop-off lane littered with empty vehicles, and its office empty, she took a seat inside. As if on cue, a young man emerged from the garage and approached one of the standing checkout desks. He removed black-stained brown leather gloves and set them beside a keyboard as Leandre raised from her seat.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the sturdily built, short statured young man said half-heartedly.

“I tried to call, but nobody was picking up,’ Leandre pre-empted as she approached the desk and continued, “I had an appointment for 9AM this morning. Which I am late for.”

The young man’s name tag read ‘Trae’, and he didn’t make eye contact as he pulled up her info on the computer.

Still typing, Trae said calmly, “Sorry for not answering the phone. We’re crazy short staffed today. We can still get you in though.”

Leandre was disarmed. She’d wanted to say more, but found herself unable, and this frustrated her.

He took her keys and said he’d get her through as fast as he could.

Leandre decided to call and tell her mom she’d be late. First though, she would have coffee, and knew the dealership’s waiting room would have some for her.

Though harshly bitter, and a paltry approximation of her normal brew, Leandre found that half a cup later she felt infinitely better. These days she just didn’t feel awake without her coffee.

It was here, ruminating on her own culturally accepted addiction, where she received the call.

‘HARRINGTON HEIGHTS’ displayed on her phone’s screen. Her mother’s apartments. She answered.

“Hello, is this Ms. Dawson?”, a young woman’s voice inquired.

“Yes?” She managed to ask in response, though immediately struck with a knowing anxiety¬; something had happened.

“Your mother’s had an incident. She’s collapsed. We have paramedics on the way.”

“Is she breathing?” Leandre demanded, drawing the attention of the two men in the waiting room, whom she had previously felt invisible to.

“Yes, she’s breathing. We have people with her.”

“I’m on my way,” Leandre said before abruptly ending the call.

She was out the door of the waiting room before she caught her breath, looking for her car. It wasn’t where she’d parked it.

Her head spun, literally and figuratively, as she tried to process the situation.

Trae was on his knees in the garage, holding a controller for the mechanical lift Leandre’s SUV rested atop, slowly raising it upward. The sound of shoes slapping on concrete and belabored breathing drew his attention.

Just inside the garage’s only open bay door, was Leandre, completely panicked.

“I need my car back!” She shouted.

Trae, startled, glanced over to his coworkers—a young woman in her 20’s, and a middle-aged man— each busy working another vehicle down the line. Neither of them seemed prepared to deal with this.

Grudgingly, Trae rose to his feet.

“Ma’am, you can’t be in here.”

“I need my car, now!” she shouted, tears welling in her eyes.

“My mom—” she couldn’t get the words out, interrupted by her own tears. She just stood there, crying.

Trae was taken off guard, feeling Leandra’s helplessness in the situation.

“Okay,” he said, padding the air with his palms, “Can you just step back for me, out of the garage? We’ll get your car pulled down right away.”

Leandre, still seemingly unable to speak, just nodded.

Trae put a hand on her shoulder and held her gaze, offering a gentle smile.

They worked towards the open bay doors, as Trae’s female co-worker began lowering the SUV.

Leandra was able to calm herself, though her eyes were still red and puffy, when she accepted her keys from Trae outside.

“Are you okay to drive, ma’am?” he asked delicately.

She nodded to him. Then simply said, “Thank you.”

Leandre’s drive passed as a blur. Though her mother’s apartments were less than ten minutes away, the time stretched for ages. She imagined a future without her mother, feeling the utter solitude. She would have no one. She imagined herself managing a funeral service, alone. Imagined what it would feel like to never speak to her mother again. Then, she brought to mind joyful memories from childhood, and times more recently when they’d shared happiness, and wept in the cruel juxtaposition of the current situation.

Finally skidding to a stop in the parking lot of her mother’s apartment homes, Leandre left her driver’s door hanging open, and literally sprinted for the entrance. She noticed the ambulance parked outside had no lights on, and no nearby paramedics.

Sliding doors parted for her. Leandre clattered to a stop inside lobby space, head on a swivel, catching the wide-eyed gaze of a teenage employee who was working the front desk.

“Ms. Dawson?” a nurse called out, drawing her attention across the lobby.

It was Heather, a woman Leandre knew well.

“Can you come with me?”

As Leandre crossed the lobby, she studied the woman’s face, unable to draw conclusions from her expression.

Heather led Leandre into the entrance hallway, where she stopped and turned back.

“Your mom is awake. She’s okay,” Heather said.

Leandre hugged her uncontrollably, relief surging through her very being. Then, realizing she might be crossing boundaries, pulled back and apologized. Heather smiled wide and assured her it was no problem, then took her to her mother.

The rest of Leandre’s day was spent by her mother’s side. Although they didn’t follow their normal Saturday routine, Leandre found herself enjoying their time more than ever.

That night, after a day spent at the doctor then pharmacist, and an evening spent in her mother’s apartment, Leandre made it back home.

She came back into the same apartment which she’d seen filled with loneliness and sorrow. The home which had felt so empty. And she saw it transformed, through eyes filled with hope, strength, and love.

That night she found no trouble when it came time to write in her book of gratitude. In fact, it was the first time she’d ever filled up an entire page. She found herself thankful for the small kindnesses of others, like Trae, and Heather. She found herself grateful for any and all the time she’d been afforded with her mother. But most importantly, she felt gratitude for life itself; for all her experiences, good and bad, which made her life unique and meaningful.