A Life On The Page

Marcelo scanned his card and stepped onto the bus, taking a seat across from the open space for wheelchairs. It was well into spring, but that day it felt blustery and cold. As the bus sulked along, Marcelo’s mind strayed to the grading that awaited him at home, and he felt an abrupt, unusual desire to postpone this work. He pressed the tape to indicate a stop request. He wanted solitude before getting home to his mom, their apartment, and the grading. Stepping out into the afternoon, the doors closed and the bus huffed away.

As he started down the sidewalk towards home, Marcelo began to think about the rut he’d been in. Maybe it was his mom weighing on his mind. She’d been home alone for the past week since her discharge from the hospital. Even though she’d never complain, he felt bad about her solitude. Maybe we should go away somewhere, he thought, a little change of pace would be nice.

“Hey, Mr. Marcelo?”

Marcelo looked up at the voice, his reverie broken. It was Jesse, an old student of his, who had called his name from a side street. Marcelo raised his hand in a brief wave and changed direction to say hello.

“I thought it was you, how’s it going?” Jesse asked.

“I’m good, what’re you up to lately?” Marcelo felt awkward during interactions like this. Were they peers? Was he still the teacher? Marcelo guessed teacher-student was the safest bet, especially since Jesse had called him Mr. Marcelo.

“I’ve got news, actually. I’m going to school in the fall, I got accepted to study graphic design!” Jesse smiled, “That’s why I’m here. I’m taking any extra work I can find to save money.”

Marcelo hadn’t really taken it in, but there was a yard sale of sorts going on behind Jesse. “Congratulations, that’s great news! So, you’re being paid to work at a yard sale?” Marcelo inquired.

“It's an estate sale, this is the leftover stuff that no one wanted to spend real money on, so we're selling it here. Supposedly, this woman named Leena-something was a recluse who traveled the world collecting art. Never had any family either. I’ll give you a discount if you like anything.” All that was left was a jumble of once-ornate furniture.

Curious, Marcelo decided to take a closer look, reasoning that a new piece of furniture would bring a welcome change to his apartment. Plus, maybe Jesse would get a commission.

“I might check out some of the furniture. I’ve been meaning to change up my place for a while now,” Marcelo said, scanning the remaining pieces.

“For sure, I’ve got a pickup to help people move their larger purchases. I can bring anything you buy anywhere in the city.” If Jesse was surprised that his former teacher was in the market for old furniture, he didn’t show it.

Near the house sat a low, squashed-looking grey chair. On the surface it was unremarkable, but there was something appealing about its inconspicuous form that was hard to pin down. It seemed well-loved. Marcelo gestured at it, “How much is the chair?”

Pulling out a sheaf of paper, Jesse said, “We’d hoped for 75, but you can have it for 40 this late in the day.”

Marcelo handed Jesse two twenties. After stashing the bills in a cash register, Jesse turned back to Marcelo.

“I’m happy to drop it off with the pickup. It’s no hassle.” Marcelo accepted Jesse’s help, and they loaded the chair onto the truck’s bed.

Pulling up to the curb of Marcelo’s building five minutes later, he hoped out.

“You got it?” Jesse asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Marcelo replied. He had it in a firm bear hug, but as he lifted it out of the bed of the truck, his grip began to slip. As it slipped further, Marcelo bent and half placed, half dropped it onto the sidewalk with a thump. It sounded like something had shifted inside but it looked fine. Walking up to the pickup’s window, Marcelo said, “Thanks Jesse, I appreciate the ride. Nice to see you! If I don’t run into you for a while have a great time next fall – congratulations again. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks, Mr. Marcelo, nice to see you too!” and with that, he joined the late afternoon traffic.

Entering the apartment, Marcelo called out to his mom, “Look what I bought!” She was sitting at the kitchen table on the computer.

She’d spent all week adjusting to the news the hospital had given her. They’d recommended against her return to a full-time job. Marcelo had agreed, his salary could cover their bills. But she was bored and had begun reflecting on her life.

Yesterday, she had told him she missed Urubamba, her childhood home. This surprised him. She’d left with her parents when she was eight and had never gone back. He suspected that she was mostly nostalgic because the possibility of one day visiting had been dashed, along with their savings accounts, by her most recent stay in the hospital. Without her working, money would be thin. Certainly not enough for an expensive trip, especially as it would be pricey to travel with her, infirm as she was.

Not acknowledging what he’d said, she remarked, “You’re right about how expensive it would be, not many people are traveling from St. Louis to Peru,” staring at what he now realized was an airline’s website.

“Mom, don’t worry about that now. Look what I got.” This time she looked, and he spread his arms over the chair like a mock magician. “Remember Jesse, my student?”

“I remember him,” She looked at him dryly. “My mind still works you know. I’m not going to suddenly forget your favorite students.”

Ignoring the retort, he continued, “I ran into him working at an estate sale. Only charged me 40 bucks for this. I’m thinking it can go there,” he gestured between two bookshelves. “Can’t be comfortable sitting on those all day,” this time indicating the chairs around their kitchen table.

Now she gave him a smile and inclined her head. “It’s nice, maybe it’ll shake things up like you’ve been wanting.”

“I hope so,” Marcelo responded.

–

Later, Marcelo heated up leftovers from last night’s dinner and they ate together. He told her about his day and the grading he had to do. After finishing, she began to tell him how she'd been doing some research on flights to Peru when he came in, and that they were just too expensive.

“I know, Mom, you told me. But I think we should go somewhere. I know that you’re not supposed to sit in a cramped space, but do you think you'll be fine to sit in the car for a day? I was thinking we could pack light and drive to a national park once summer starts.” He got the sense she was thinking about something else.

“You know, I should’ve just gone when I was younger, when I could. But I always had stuff going on. Nothing I remember now, but it just seemed too difficult to take the risk, spend the savings, take the time. But now Urubamba seems further than ever.” She paused, still thinking.

Marcelo didn’t know how to respond to this. They were very close, but his mother rarely talked about her aging or regrets. She was right, they didn't have the money to fly to Peru and rent a place, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to be able to tell her that they could.

Before he could respond, she brought up the hospital and they talked about her upcoming post-op while he cleaned up their meal. Soon, Marcelo was left alone grading papers on the kitchen table. Growing weary, he moved over onto the new chair, settling in with his final paper of the night, illuminated by a small lamp.

He couldn’t quite get comfortable. It felt like a spring had been knocked out of place, maybe when he half dropped the chair on the sidewalk. Marcelo kneeled, put the remaining papers on the floor, and pulled the cushions from the chair. Squeezing his hand into the seam where the back of the armchair met the seat, his fingers searched for the disturbance.

They landed on something soft and out of place. Marcelo maneuvered it into his grasp and slowly drew it out. Clutched in his hand was an old black book, soft with age and thick with use.

Marcelo flipped it open, and a heavily used journal full of a tiny, gorgeous cursive stared up at him. It must have belonged to Leena the recluse, Marcelo thought. She doesn’t have any relatives, so what's the harm in reading it? With that satisfying justification, he clicked the lamp to its brightest setting and began to read.

Leena had travelled to the Galapagos, Kuala Lumpur, Nairobi, Bombay... As Marcelo turned the pages, her adventures and relationships flowed by, captured on the soft ivory sheets. He learned that Leena hadn’t been a recluse, as Jesse had thought. She was surrounded by people. Some would only make a single appearance while others flitted along with her for decades. As the night grew later, Marcelo learned of Rafa, then Adonis, then Sofia, each a different love. Sofia was her companion for the longest, but each seemed to occupy a unique space in her life, a crystalline chapter, unblemished by eventual separation.

Marcelo, entirely absorbed in the life the little black book had witnessed, was surprised when he flipped a page and the thin cursive ended. But there were still more pages before the back cover. Thin plastic sleeves had been pasted onto each of the next pages and were filled with stamps. As Marcelo turned the last page, a small piece of paper fell out. On it, in the same handwriting, though shakier, a note was penned:

To the reader of my life, welcome. For you to be reading this, I have passed on. While you do not know me, you now know some of my story. I had much, and hope to pass on a little piece of me in the last pages of this journal. The stamps you just flipped through may look like any other, but they can be sold to any collector as a valuable addition. They are rare, old, and perfectly preserved. I recommend you accept no less than $20,000 for the collection. Spend it as you see fit. My last advice to my fellow traveler: seek beauty, but appreciate the mundane.

With my best wishes, Ms. Leena Laurent

P.S. Mr. Paul Randelle is a prolific stamp collector. His address is on the back.

Marcelo reread the note. It stayed the same. Overcome by shock and wonder, Marcelo decided to sleep. He could think things through in the morning.

–

Marcelo arrived home in the early afternoon from his meeting with the collector. The warm weather had finally come swooping in, and he wore khakis and a light button-down.

“Well, were you able to get anything for them?” His mom sat waiting at the table. She thought that Leena had been wrong, and the stamps were worthless. Marcelo, not trusting himself to say anything, placed two envelopes onto the table. His mom picked up the top one. On the second envelope, the name Jesse was written, an address scrawled underneath. Marcelo hoped it would help his former student in school that fall.

Still not saying anything, Marcelo gestured for his mom to open the envelope she held. Flipping it open, two plane tickets and a printed piece of paper, a rental agreement for a small house in Urubamba slid onto the table.

Marcelo’s mom covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Slowly standing up, she hugged him, and he hugged her back.