The Book in the Laptop Bag

The truck was loaded and my shelves were empty. Bright light poured through the windows onto the tan carpet as I stepped into my childhood bedroom and gazed at the neatly made bed, the chair tucked beneath the desk and the LEGOs collecting dust.

I stepped through the swirling dust particles to the laminated calendar opened to August of 2015. I grabbed the black pen from my desk and with a bittersweet smile crossed off the last box before the bold capital letters reading College Move-In Day!

I capped the pen slowly and set it down on the wooden desk for the last time; the story I had been writing with it, building up to this day for years, was over now. I stepped back and prepared myself to leave my bedroom and my home for the beginning of my adult life. I gazed around into the half-empty closet where my eyes found a black shape huddled into the corner and forgotten about for several months.

I grabbed the small laptop bag and set it on my bed. I brushed a thin layer of dust off the fabric and admired the bag, smiling at it and at all the fond memories the bag and I had made together: Sleepovers and trips to the homes of my friends and family or hotels, always accompanied by my laptop for games or a bit of creative writing.

I opened the bag and reached inside, fumbling through the soft pockets in the hopes of finding a bonus phone charger. Instead, my fingers found soft leather and I froze.

I pulled the little black notebook from the bag and sat on my bed, running my thumb over the smooth cover. This particular notebook had never been opened, but even with all the others I filled with my first stories, it was perhaps the most impactful one I owned.

I closed my eyes and remembered that Christmas in 2007.

I was ten years old and, to my dismay, it was not a white Christmas. A light rain drizzled down from the steel-colored sky over Cape Anne as I moved my feet from the cold tile to the creaky wood floor toward the dimly lit Christmas tree before the bay window. Familiar reporters on the Channel 7 News gestured excitedly at a map of Massachusetts showing the conditions in a few cities — rain, everywhere — and a scarlet red sleigh pulled by a handful of reindeer flying north from Boston.

I quickly disregarded the TV. I knew that was all a lie now, and it made Christmas a lot less fun.

At least Hanukkah is still cool. I was Jewish at home where I lived with my dad, but I had spent the last several Christmases in Cape Anne.

My mom’s legs were folded next to her in thick sweatpants on the recliner, a baggy sweatshirt concealing her small frame. Her thick brown hair cascaded over her left shoulder as she looked over at me and her face lit up.

“Merry Christmas, hun!” She bustled over and wrapped me up in what I imagine was a warm and soft hug; I stiffened and tucked my arms to my sides, staring out of the window. My shoulders tensed as I waited for this uncomfortable exchange to end.

My mom released me and straightened up; she was only about two inches taller than I was. “Come on, come to the tree, you have some presents.”

We made our way to the tree where she sat on the ground cross-legged and waited for me to do the same. I obliged and she set a small pile of wrapped presents before me and waited excitedly for me to open them.

I don’t even want any of these, I thought to myself. This doesn’t make up for all the years you weren’t around. And that you still fail to show up half the time.

I wasn’t one to make a scene on a holiday and ruin it for both myself and her, though, so I started opening presents. There wasn’t much I found particularly enthralling at ten years old: A few sweatshirts, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt.

“Do you like them?” my mother asked excitedly.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I reluctantly leaned forward and gave her a hug I hoped wouldn’t last as long as the first one.

Thankfully it didn’t. My mom leaned back and said, “Oh! One more thing.” She reached under the tree and revealed a final present. It was thin and rectangular, wrapped in the same red and green wrapping paper. She handed the gift to me and I tried to guess through the wrapping paper what it was. It was too thin to be a LEGO set, but too firm to be clothes. Dumfounded, I peeled back the wrapping paper and found a black notebook within.

“Save it,” my mom told me. “For your next story.”

A part of me was a little grateful, but I stubbornly refused to give my mom any sense that she was doing a good job. I reminded myself that I strictly used Composition notebooks with hard shells, not whatever this fancy crap was: a soft-to-the-touch cover engraved with swirling patterns enclosing bright white, high-quality paper. Justifying my anger made me feel a little better.

I faked a smile, thanked her, and tucked the little black notebook into my laptop bag without opening it.

A few months after that day I stopped seeing my mom. I was sick and tired of waiting in vain for her to come to spend her Saturdays with me. Whenever she didn’t show up my dad put a comforting hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted to go mini-golfing but I wanted none of it. Instead, I locked myself in my room and brooded for hours on end.

It was five years before I saw her again. Eventually we made amends - I realized a large part of me was empty without her. I was almost sixteen, I reasoned; soon I could drive myself around and I wouldn’t have to wait on her to show up. Maybe that would make it easier to have some sort of relationship, even if it was platonic.

All the while I kept the notebook in my laptop bag. That day in August of 2015 was the first time it saw sunlight since 2007. The notebook accompanied me on eight years of trips and sleepovers but never once did I remove it from my bag; That would involve confronting it and confronting my past, all things I was trying to convince myself I had already faced and dealt with so I could move on and start my new life.

But my past always weighed me down. Looking at this notebook as sunlight fell across its cover for the first time I knew I had to end my abstinence and open the thing.

I glanced out of the window as the murmur of my parents’ voices carried through the window from the driveway. I gazed down to see them standing next to the old silver truck, packed and ready to go.

They had been separated since I was born but came together and got along when they needed to. They were best friends in high school; shared some of their greatest traumus; and shared a child. Whether they liked it or not their fates were intertwined as inseparably as my two strands of RNA. As I watched, my dad made some loud comment, probably a jab like Jenn, there is NO WAY anyone that YOU are related to went to Brown University and my mom doubled over laughing, calling him a jerk, I imagine.

If you didn’t know any better, you might think they were still in love.

I returned my attention to the little black notebook and undid the metal clasp with a deep breath. I flipped through the pages absently, admiring the solid but faint lines and the gentle swirls on the upper corners opposite the tight spine.

It was nice, I decided. It was a shame I hadn’t used it.

I reached the back page and stopped. Neat black print etched into the page stood bold against the white page from years of shelter from sunlight and the elements. The writing was dated Christmas Eve of 2007.

Hey hun.

I swallowed, my palms beginning to sweat a bit, and started reading the second line.

I hope that I’m right in thinking someday you’ll use this notebook. I also hope I’m right in thinking you won’t throw it out. That would pretty much suck.

I smiled; as I became immersed in her careful print, the laughter carrying through my window faded away and I heard my mom’s voice only in my head.

Hun, I’ve said it a thousand times and I can never say it enough. I know it won’t change anything, but I have to tell you I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. I don’t know when you’re reading this, and what else I’ll screw up between now and then but I’m sorry for all that, too.

Wherever and whenever you are, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re living an exciting and fulfilling life whatever that may be, because truly all I want is for you to be happy. Having this second chance with you has been the greatest gift of my life; you bring so much happiness to me. I learn from you all the time; You’re caring and kind and you’re hilarious and a genius. I don’t have the words to describe how much I love you.

I want the best for you always. And I know you’re a good kid and that someday you’ll grow into a great man. Now that you’ve reached the back of the notebook, I hope whatever story you used it for is complete and that it brought you happiness. I can’t give you all the notebooks in the world so I wanted to give you something else at the end of this one to help you create your next story. You can use it as the foundation of your career as the next great writer. Just use the login below on the TD bank website :)

I love you always,

Mom.

Dumbfounded, I reached for my phone and did as the letter instructed, typing in the login my mom had carefully written beneath her name. I waited anxiously while the website loaded, trying to predict what I would find: Maybe $300? That would be really great, I could buy some food for my dorm.

But when the website loaded and the savings account was revealed to me I was met with something I didn’t expect in even my wildest dreams.

$20,000.

I blinked and read it again. And again. And again.

I had never seen such a huge number in a bank account. I whipped my head around to watch my mom in the driveway laughing with my dad. My dad checked his watch and shouted, telling me it was time to go and to stop taking six hours to do everything.

A giddy grin split my face as my mom looked up through the window and smiled at me, almost as if she knew.

“Coming!” I hollered back, standing shakily from my bed and making for the door with my phone clutched in my hand, too shaken to take a final look around.

But in the doorway I froze, replaying my mom’s message in my head:

Create your next story.

I dashed to my desk and grabbed the calendar pen; maybe it wasn’t over for this pen.

Maybe now it was really time to start fresh.

I ran down the hall from my bedroom and didn’t look back.