Between Pages

Have you ever wondered about your memories? What are they worth? Have you ever questioned whether certain aspects of your life that you could vaguely remember were actually real or if it were just a dream. This was a thought that had been even more pertinent as I eased out of my unconscious state, trying to recall if what I had just experienced was indeed a dream out of fantasy, or myself reliving certain memories. Except there was no time to try to figure that out, because I had come to realize I was late for work, after hitting the snooze button on my phone and subsequently sleeping through the delayed alarm.

That or I unknowingly, and out of habit, turned it off, only to fall asleep again. There was no time for attempts of piecing together already forgotten dreams from a power nap turned hibernation. Hell, there was barely enough time to grab an apple as I scrambled for my coat, then in the same panic grab my keys and backpack, rush out the door, only to tap my thigh to realize I forgot my wallet, run back, spot it on the table next to my door, holding it ajar ready to rush out yet again, lock it, run down the stairs of my second story apartment, trying to get to the corner as soon as possible, hoping the deities that controlled the bus schedule would be on my side this one time. While I stood there, anxiously waiting for the bus, angry that it did not understand my urgency, I found some solace to uncover my earbuds were conveniently in my coat pocket. Music would at least help relax me a bit, and ignoring the notifications on my phone, I put on some Redbone by the immaculate and mature, but counter intuitively named Childish Gambino and just started to drift off. Just as I started to calm down I had yet another panic attack. “Did I lock the door?”

It had been a rough few weeks up to this point, I had been struggling with juggling my final year of university and work. My parents were getting a divorce, and although I came into some money recently, I hadn’t felt comfortable touching it with everything feeling like it was in shambles. I lost a relative around the time the money showed up in my account. Twenty thousand to be exact. It didn’t feel right, but I figured once I was ready, it would still be there. For now, I was okay working and functioning in my own world until I pieced things back together.

I got off the bus, just a few steps to work. I was only a few minutes late. A few minutes was okay, right? I’d just work through my break. It wasn’t particularly busy anyway, being the middle of the week, being scheduled in for a middle of the day shift where most people would either be in school or at work. We were a small store on the corner of the city where foot traffic was busier on weekends, but we did get a trickle of regulars during the week. They loved to talk, and honestly, it was a good way to pass the time. I loved giving book recommendations of different books I enjoyed while getting recommendations for books that I could ultimately add to my untouched backlog of books which now had built a pillar in the corner of my room. I entered the store unable to avoid the knowing glance of Mr. Whitmore as he finished cashing a customer out from behind the register. I threw my stuff in the backroom, and headed out to the floor, grabbing my nametag, positioning it while I approached the front. “Sorry Arthur, I missed my bus.” He didn’t like excuses, but I felt weird just stumbling in without saying anything. Also, it felt weird to call Mr. Whitmore by his first name since I knew him from childhood, but he insisted I do so while at work. “Just try not to do it again. And for god sakes Catherine, a phone call or message would be great, especially with the mad rush right now.” I could tell just how rowdy the two customers in the store were getting. “What do you need me to do?” acknowledging my mistake by avoiding the situation and eye contact. “We got a few deliveries this morning, I haven’t finished putting them away. If you have time, could you take care of that for me?” I agreed with feigned energy to take care of that job as quickly as possible after connecting with the coupe people in the store if they needed any help. Both seemed fine to browse and read at their own time, so I had little excuse to linger.

As I unpacked the boxes, I perused through the titles and the back covers to see if there was anything interesting to read. I had already started keeping track of a few titles in my mind when I got to the last box and found a book without a cover. I mean, it had a cover, but was plain. There was no author, no title, no art. I looked more like a journal, but being bundled with the rest of the books, I was unsure if this was meant to be stocked on our shelves. I brought it out to Arthur, not wanting to open it, on the off chance it had been his. He denied it being his, or knowing the contents of the book. “Give it a quick read, and see if you can figure out whose it was.” Mr. Whitmore was always kind hearted and concerned about others well-being, so it was no surprise that he wanted to get this book to the rightful owner. “As busy as it is, I think I can manage.” His sarcasm was followed with a youthful grin as he sent me into the back to continue “unpacking”. I opened what I was now convinced was a journal, and as a surprise coincidence, on the first page of whom it belonged to was the name, Kevin Velasco, as I shared the same name as the author.

It probably wasn’t a big deal, because it was a fairly common last name in Spanish families, let alone be Filipino or related to me. I read the first few pages, realizing this was a memoir of some sorts. It didn’t start in his childhood, but somewhere during his high school through to college days. His handwriting was eligible, though improved significantly over time. I only had the intention of searching for information to find the owner, but couldn’t help myself from reading further. It felt awkward reading about a complete stranger’s life, yet felt familiar. He struggled with his parents and home life, searching for love, falling in love, and losing it. He travelled abroad to explore himself, finding passions and his place in this world. Between all the stories of getting lost in numerous cities, once in a lifetime experiences, and unique people he met throughout his journey, I could tell he was still lonely. Deep down, I knew that as much as he travelled to grow and learn, he also did so to escape his pain. This in particular resonated with me. We all struggle from time to time, that sometimes it feels easier to just run away from our problems. This is why books resonated with me, why I have mountains of them in my tiny apartment that I can’t seem to get through. Because the escape to new worlds and stories always helped me feel alive. I guess this is why these words also hit me hard. Something about the words written from a stranger resonated with me unknowingly. I started crying uncontrollably. And then it got worse. As I flipped the page, it was empty. Kevin had just returned from a three month trip to Japan. His last written words were, “I can’t wait to get out there again, but for now it’s nice to be home.” I felt lacking. There was still more out there. The journal wasn’t nearly filled yet, and incomplete. I felt unsatisfied, and to be completely honest, a little angry. The journey had been so detailed, so intriguing, still so full of potential, and all of a sudden, it was over.

I left the back room and back into the shop, not having realized it was almost closing time. No lingering customers, just Mr. Whitmore at the front of the shop doing a little tidying. I was ready to apologize for losing track of time, but he hadn’t even acknowledged that. “How was it? Did you figure out who’s book it was?” I was still confused about how I felt, feeling let down by a story that seemed to be unfinished. “Yes and no. I just don’t understand how it ends the way it does, or actually ends without a proper ending. I get that it’s a journal and maybe not a novel, but it still feels as if it's missing something. I learned about Kevin, but still don’t know who he is, if this is his, or how to get it back to him.” Arthur Whitmore then said something that would change my life. “What if I told you this is your journal?”

“This is Kevin’s journal but it is your memory of him.” I felt a surge of emotion with that single statement. “Catherine, Kevin is your brother.” I struggled to find the words. Piecing together what could have been a dream, or memories, or somewhere in between. Was I awake? The more I focused on the journal, the more the missing pieces fell back into place. Kevin was my older brother. I looked back at Mr. Whitmore, starting to understand but still lost. His words returned audibly, “You came into the shop a few weeks ago. Didn’t want your memories anymore. You were in so much pain. You wanted to throw out Kevin’s journal, the keepsake you held onto since his passing. I bought it from you, not wanting you to throw it out.” I was now frozen at the front of the shop, stumbling on my words trying to make sense of everything. “What about… how could I just lose any memory of him?” Arthur continued, “Your memories create links and associations when they form. The moment you sold and rid yourself of his image, you repressed all your memories that were linked to him. The stories in that journal don’t have any mention of you because it was not something you wanted to see.” As soon as he mentioned that, I flipped through the journal once more, finding it filled even more with mentions of his younger sister Catherine. The memories started coming back, and as they did, the pain flooded my eyes with tears. “These are your memories Catherine. This journal is your brother’s, and it is only right that you keep it.” I closed Kevin’s journal, feeling safe to take it home once again. Putting myself together as best as possible, I turned to Arthur. “How much for the book?” I already knew the answer to the question. “20 thousand. And I’ll throw in a pen as well.” He must’ve seen the confusion behind my tearful gaze, and acknowledged it with a smirk.

“The story’s not over, there’s plenty left to write.”