The Little Black Notebook

The Little Black Notebook

It never left my side after that. One missed opportunity. I hadn't realized the importance.

The first time I opened the little black book, it was blank. There were no words, no lines, no dedications. I found it at a GoodWill. I was always doodling so it was a real find. People often leave notebooks empty, with one or two pages written on. I had found a treasure, a totally empty book for my own doodlings. I guess what you called my writing was journaling; but it might be drawings, or a word. My thoughts were often jumbled. I threw it in my purse for the next random thought and forgot about it.

A few days later I needed a place to write a grocery list. I know most people would not write a grocery list in a journal, but food has always seemed part of my day. I opened the notebook while looking for that elusive pen in my purse. I must have grabbed the wrong book. It was filled from cover to cover with tight, machine like words. Worried I had picked up someone else’s notebook I traced my steps. I had not carried this purse since that trip to the Good Will. I looked for another book, but there was none. Yes, I knew it was wrong to read the notebook, but I had to look for clues to whom it belonged. I looked briefly for a “This book belongs to” but there was none. I looked at the words which turned out to be mathematical equations. They were written in long-hand. I know I made a face. I had always hated math, but this hatred was a new passion since I started trying to help my daughter learn Algebra II. I scanned the pages. Wouldn’t you know, it was exactly what Beth was studying. Torn between wanting to embed the book into a wall and my apparent morbid curiosity, I chose the latter. I read a few pages. It made sense. That elusive math concept was in the book, and I understood it. I mean, no doubt. I knew how to do it and was confident with showing Beth. This was the best book ever. I knew I would never give it up. I read it cover to cover and I understood. The rest of the year would be a breeze. Beth thought I was a genius. There were so few tears from there on out.

But here is where it gets strange. I am so glad I read that little black book in its entirety. I put it on my shelf for safe keeping. I wanted it handy in case I needed to peek again for some elusive concept. It was not needed so I forgot about it. Until one day I was dusting. I rarely dust. It is something I do when I am feeling sorry for myself and want to clear away the brain cobwebs and the “poor me-s.” This was a particularly pitiful moment, I was feeling lonely. I had lost my husband shortly after Beth’s birth. It was horrible, and painful, and boring to tell the details. I missed him everyday, and longed just to be held and hugged and loved. My hand at that moment hit the little black book. I don't know why I opened it. Probably one of those mindless things that we do everyday. It was different. The handwriting, the words, the subject. Where there had been tight, precise handwriting in the math book, there was now loopy, cursive writing. There were even hearts over the “i”s. Most of the book was filled with cutsie drawings, with hearts and unicorns, and butterflies. Toward the end, on a page of its own, was an address, of sorts. “Fountain, Central Park, 10:00 a.m. Friday.”

My melancholy was replaced with interest. I do not know how I glossed over the fact the book had changed. Somehow, I just accepted it. This book changed. That is about as much I dwelled on it. Maybe my acceptance was the biggest mystery. But it was not the most interesting mystery. My practical side said, “Let’s head to the park on Friday, you can return the book to the owner.”

My romantic side wanted to live vicariously through someone else's love story - I was sure it was a romantic meeting, not even a little doubt. They would meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after. I needed a little of that, even second hand. I planned my week around Friday. I wanted - needed to be there. So I was sitting on a bench, across from the fountain a little before 10:00 a.m. I had a book, so I told myself I was not wasting my day off. The park was empty, except for the birds. They were everywhere. I lost myself in watching them interact. Then he was there. Stan, of all the ridiculous names. Stan was there and I knew after the first smile and before the first hello, he was there for me. There aren't a lot of details to be given. We chatted that morning, which led to coffee, which led to dinner, which led to forever.

That little black notebook went back on the shelf. I knew I had something special but I also knew I should not be greedy. I am not that great a person and the notebook helped me in so many little ways over the years. Once I opened the book and found Christmas lists written out and the best places to buy them. I was very popular that Christmas, everyone got the perfect gifts. If I lost something, a quick peek in the book let me know where to find it. If I was worried about Beth, her moodiness, and any secrets, the book would put my mind at rest. It would not tell me her secrets, but opening it, and seeing her very distinct scribble stating “Everything is fine.” I knew and believed everything was fine. And it was.

Until that missed opportunity. How might things have changed if I had done things differently. It ended up as a lesson on how to use the book; how to never underestimate the book. I opened the book with no expectation. I had no wish or question I needed answered. I just wanted to look. There was a cryptic drawing, it matched news reports the City had been following. A drawing left on a wall at some very grisly murder scenes. There were no clues, no DNA, and the police were chasing every lead, listening to every tip, and taking a lot of grief. Under the drawing in the book; in crude sloppy letters, a name, an address, and reason. It took the air out of my lungs. I knew what it was immediately. I wanted to get the information correct. I laid the book on the couch open. I needed to find the hotline and a phone. I could help. I would do it anonymously. I would not want to explain how I found out the information. Could they track phones? A million thoughts went through my head at once. This book finally would help someone other than me.

I ran to grab the book from the couch. It was not there. Beth, who had picked up my habit of dusting when working out an issue, had picked up the book, closed it and put it back on the shelf. Feeling beyond ill, I reached for the book. Maybe, just maybe, it would still all be there still. The pages were blank. I missed a chance to save the next victims. Every new name in every news article stabbed me in the heart. Eventually she was caught, but not before six more had died. I did not remember the name or the reason until I saw it scroll across my television for weeks after.

I put that book back in my purse and refused to look at it again. I wrapped a rubberband around it and left it hidden. It was too painful. I could not let it out of my sight though. Then - it was needed.

Beth was going to travel. College had started way too fast. It had ended even quicker. She needed to travel. It was work, and wanderlust and her drive. She was going to freelance which meant she needed money. We had got her through college with no loans. She worked, she got scholarships, I had savings. She needed $20,000 to start her life. It would cover everything. But Beth did not know where she would find it. I knew where I would find it. In that dusty book, never forgotten, but pushed to the back of my mind. I wondered if it had forgiven me.

Before I went to buy that lottery ticket, I knew the book had forgiven me. Written in my own handwriting were 6 numbers: 02-05-17-20-34 and 40.

Beth’s future could start.