Anamnesis

Her hands were beginning to shake as she looked down at the small black notebook placed before her. It laid there unopen, its spine was creased and deep lines were beginning to crack along its centre. Beside it, a single grey pen shared the otherwise empty desk. The window directly behind the desk let in streaks of purple twilight through the spaces between the dusty blinds, gently lighting up the small study with the fading memory of a bright autumn’s day. The lady sat upon a mahogany chair with only a stiff cushion for support, its original colour had faded beyond recognition. She drew in a pained breath and gingerly pulled herself towards the desk before placing her shaking hand over the pen, and then leaned back into the few creaky splat rails that remained on the seat. Her gaze never left the notebook as an excitement began to grow within her at the idea of opening it for the first time and putting her pen to paper, anxiously awaiting the words that would begin to flow from her mind and onto the pages. The notebook would be her portal to limitless possibilities; in it she could write her hopes and dreams, her most secret thoughts; she could be pensive or careless, explore new ideas, justify her beliefs or simply jot down words without aim. Above all, here she would find something that would finally understand her, and see clarity in her thoughts. The anticipation was becoming too much, the lady slowly wrapped her fingers around the pen, grasping it awkwardly, and with her other hand placed her thumb on the edge of the cover, ready to dive into the notebook’s crisp paper and unleash its fragrance of almond and vanilla. As she was about to flip onto the first page, the lady paused and observed her pale hand slightly hovering over the coal black cover. The hand was thin, its pearly white skin was taught over skeletal fingers. The lady studied it in shock; dark blue veins rose and fell over its bony ridges, and countless brown spots dotted its wrinkled back. Nervously she turned her eyes to the other hand only to see the same image. Fear and confusion gnawed at the back of her mind, and her heart began to pound as her breath quickened. She could feel a familiar anxiety growing; her eyes began to dart back and forth, when finally they looked past her hands and fell back towards the notebook. A calmness slowly returned as she saw its blackened leather, and her breathing slowed. She became excited at the idea of opening up its cover, wanting to revel in the freshness of its pages and then to simply write.

The last light of the day was fading fast, and the lady was feeling the fatigue that coupled with the darkness, but she wanted to at least write on the first few pages before she retired. With what strength she had, she clasped the cover of the notebook between her thumb and index finger, and slowly opened onto the first page. Her eyes felt weak, and they strained in the encroaching shadows of the study, but it did not take perfect sight to see that the first page was already marked. There was a single black line that ran horizontally along the middle, and above it was written the name Letha. The paper did not smell of almond and vanilla, instead a slight earthy odour wafted up, but otherwise remained undetected. Tears welled in the lady’s eyes.

Once again a confusion set itself upon her mind, and with it a great and unknowable fear. The lady let the tears fall down her cheeks as she turned to the next page in the notebook, hoping that the remainder of it was empty. It was not. This page was filled with a beautiful script. The flourishing of the letters flowed into the next, and the fire red ink jumped from the page, its flames licking at the spaces between the words. The hand that wrote it was clearly well practiced, and the lady marveled at the penmanship. An anger then began to burn within the lady; she silently cursed whoever it was that came into her study, taking her beloved black notebook for their own, and usurping her opportunity to fill its pages with words and memories she could otherwise not find. Indignantly she decided that whoever would dare to blot their ink in her notebook deserved to have their own secrets spilled. The lady was not usually bitter or resentful, but a plaguing confusion and the distress from this loss of escapism made her decide that breaching Letha’s privacy was a small price to pay compared to what the lady had just suffered. Spitefully, she began to read the first entry.

March 2, 1960

“I’ve always loved the feeling I get when writing in a new notebook. The sound of the pen scratching along the coarseness of fresh paper and the sweet smells that rise from the pages as you flip them brings me joy like no other. The endless possibilities that one can choose from to fill its pages would be paralyzing if it were not for the sheer excitement that comes with having such a refuge. I’ve thought long and hard about what I would like to write in here. Perhaps short stories to share with my friends, or maybe a list of my goals, or my dreams of the future. I even thought about writing down a collection of lists, from groceries to monthly budgets (boring). Instead, I decided I would fill these pages with the most wonderful things that will happen to me, so decades from now I can look back and remember the joys of a life well lived.”

April 29, 1960.

“Today I was hired at the local flower shop as a card writer, the manager was so impressed with my handwriting that he offered me a position on the spot. I can’t lie, it wasn’t my first choice when I was out searching for jobs (I would have loved to work at the diner for tips, but remembering all the different orders would have definitely stressed me out), but I think I will be happy here. At least it will be good writing practice, even if it is just for cheesy cards. I have my eyes on a nice apartment a few blocks away; I’m hoping I can convince mom and dad that I’m ready to live on my own now that I have a job. They can certainly be stubborn though, and dad always insists that I’m bad with my money (really he just wants to make sure I don’t end up poor like them). Since I can remember, mom and dad have been hard up for money, and sometimes I feel guilty for adding to their burden, and I know they feel guilty for not being able to send me to college. I’m okay with that, but it’s time for me to make my own way.”

May 4, 1965.

“My landlord finally kicked me out. I don’t blame him. He knows I would have paid the months I owed if I could, but things have been difficult since the flower shop closed. So, I’m back at my parent’s place. It creeps me out now that I’m older, especially the study; so many memories. Mom isn’t doing well; I think her mind is going. It makes dad sad…and me for that matter. I did meet a nice gentleman named Elliot at the local bookstore though, he interrupted me as I was reading and said he’s been wanting to come and talk to me for a while. He gave me a bouquet of forget-me-nots and complimented my soft hands and green eyes that “shine like the ocean”. I said that sounds like it came from one of the tacky cards I used to write, which got a laugh. It was a nice gesture, but the sight of the flowers made me uneasy. I have a date with him next Friday, and he mentioned he may be able to find me a position at the publisher he works for. Fingers crossed!”

August 15, 1980.

“It’s my anniversary! Hard to believe it’s been ten years since Elliot and I married. We hoped to finally take the honeymoon we could never afford, but it looks like we won’t be able to now either. Elliot was laid off and my salary as an editor can’t support a trip along with hiring a babysitter for our Matthew. The sum of my inheritance: an old mortgaged house with nothing more than old mahogany furniture in it. Matthew must know I’ve been feeling down, he gave me a beautiful grey pen with jet-black ink, but he made me swear to only use it when I am old and grey like it, to make sure it doesn’t run out so soon like all my others (thanks kiddo). I do wonder where he got the money for it though.”

January 17, 2009.

“Matthew’s daughter is called Poppy. It is a lovely name. After Elliot died Matthew went away for a long time, but I am glad he is back home. He says he will take care of me with his wife Margot. Unlike me, he’s always enjoyed this house. I am grateful for the company; I have not been feeling like myself lately, but I think it will pass now that I am not so lonely. I regret not being able to send Matthew to school, but he’s done well for himself as one of those computer programmers. I don’t understand any of it, but he loves his modern version of "writing" as much as I love mine. I still miss Elliot every day. All he left me was an envelope, which I have not yet had the courage to open.”

The dark of the night engulfed the study as the lady read, and despite the bright colouring of the letters, she could not continue to read the entries. The old lady was interested in the life of Letha, she felt like she could have been friends with this woman had she known her, and the anger she felt a few moments before was all but forgotten. She was growing very tired and knew she should go and rest, but curiosity had her in its clutches, so the lady decided to turn on the single lightbulb above her and continue reading. She slowly rose from her chair, her legs wobbling from sitting for so long; she placed her hand on the desk to support herself but accidentally knocked the notebook to the floor in doing so. At the sound of the thud of the notebook’s heavy spine hitting the floor, a young girl no older than eleven walked into the room, and said:

“Grandma, are you alright?”

The lady lifted her head up as she collected her balance and saw the little girl standing in the light of the hallway. A moment of recognition passed over her as she looked into the girl’s green eyes. The young girl approached and took the lady’s arm, walking her out of the study towards a bedroom down the hall. The notebook lay forgotten on the floor, its cracked spine enduring one more blow, the pages sprawled open to the final entry written in black ink.

March 2nd, 2020.

“Enclosed in the final page of this notebook is an envelope. It was left to me many years ago, and I now leave it to Poppy, having changed only the name of the recipient. Inside is a cheque for $20,000. When Poppy is old enough to receive it I will not have the mind to recall this gift, so here in these pages I have written my final wish to ensure it lives on after me. Let Poppy build a future worth remembering.”

-Letha