The North Room

Today marks two years.

Five seconds in through the nose. Seven seconds out through the mouth. Repeat 10 times. I hear the voice of my therapist in my head. Let’s do a grounding exercise. Pay attention to your senses starting from your toes all the way up to the top of your head.

My feet feel snug from my tightly-laced hiking boots. My legs are chilled and numb from the crisp mountain air. My hip flexors feel tight. I lift my leg up onto the giant, mossy log on the side of the trail and bend over. I stay there for about ten seconds with eyes closed. Heat radiates within my Patagonia pullover and puffy jacket. My hands are red — skin chapped with dried blood within the tiny cracks. I wish I remembered to put on lotion. My heart rate has finally slowed. It feels like I’m coming back into reality. I open my eyes and see the majestic evergreens ruling over the forest. Their presence is enhanced by the peaceful silence and the misty fog laced between each pine needle, forming critical mass and steadily rising into the top of the valley. I take another deep breath and smell the fresh pine and soil. I hear rushing water from the confident stream full of glacial bliss. I admire the garden of ferns surrounding both sides of the trail, and in this moment, I am reminded that this is where I belong.

My name is Fern. I sometimes wonder if I love the mountains simply because of my name. You know, like a self-fulfilling prophecy? Kind of like how my high school librarian’s name was Mrs. Books. No joke. I often wonder if she predetermined her career path when she was a kindergartener. If so, I’m proud of her for sticking with it after all of those years. I can’t even stick with a simple diet for 3 weeks, let alone live out a lifelong career aspiration.

I look at the time. 2:22 pm. No surprise. This number comes up consistently for me, especially in profound moments or times when I feel like I am in an emotional crisis. This number lets me know that someone sees me. Someone is listening to my thoughts and affirming me, encouraging me to keep going. I lightly jog down the trailhead, looking down to make sure I don’t roll an ankle, when I catch a glimpse of what looks like the corner of a little black book sticking out from underneath a tire-sized rock along the side of the trail.

With a knee-jerk reflex of curiosity, I stop in my tracks and pivot toward the sight. Finally, after a few attempts, I am able to tilt the edge of the rock up just enough to wiggle the book loose. I skim through the book as I’m still catching my breath, looking for some sort of contact information, when something suddenly catches my eye. The Improv Parlor was written hastily, followed by North Room Experience Freedom, taking up an entire page. The next page was torn out. I know The Improv Parlor, very well actually. It was the comedy club located in the downstairs of the building where I attended most of my NA meetings. The upstairs was owned by a church that offered up the space for our group to meet. I also went to a few shows back in the day.

I study the page, perplexed. I look closer. North Room Experience Freedom. NREF. My name. FERN…backwards. My heart skips a beat at the realization and I feel like the wind is knocked out of me. I know the possibility of this being a coincidence, but I let myself be swept up in the narrative that someone is trying to send me a message. Adrenaline overtakes me. I flip through the rest of the book - only empty pages. I decide to take the book with me, even though I have no idea what to do with the information I’ve just stumbled upon.

I wonder about the little black book all evening and all night. I lay awake, staring up at the popcorn ceiling in my apartment. One minute, I can’t sleep, and the next minute, I am inside The Improv Parlor, surrounded by a crowd of people roaring with laughter at the act on stage. The atmosphere is hazy. There is a lot going on around me but my soul remains still. The noise is blocked out. I am drawn to a diffused white light shining down the stairs off to the left of the stage. It holds my gaze. Something inside me directs my path through the mob of people and toward the stairs. Nobody stops me, even as I approach the stage. When I arrive at the stairs, the light continues to a wooden closed door around the corner. I peek through the narrow window of the door to see a tiny, green room, with just enough space to fit an ivory suede loveseat, a circular end table and a small entertainment center.

A serene male voice whispers to me,

Enter the room that is green

You will find something under the screen

Remember that you are seen

I turn around to see who is speaking, only to discover that I’m back in my bed, heart racing, hands and feet clammy, hair dripping with sweat. It was only a dream.

But was it?

I glance at the time. 6:39 am. Sunday morning.

I rummage through my closet looking for clean clothes, only to inevitably put on a baggy gray hoodie and some stained sweatpants out of the dirty laundry. I slip into my moccasins and rush out the door, swiftly snatching up my keys and the little black book from the countertop on my way out.

My 2001 white Ford Explorer engine purrs as I turn the keys in the ignition and drive away.

Seventeen minutes later, I arrive at a large parking lot with only 2 other cars parked alongside the building. It’s a quiet morning — sun slightly peeking through the layers of clouds. I catch a glimpse of my expectant eyes in the rear view mirror and let out a long sigh through the narrow opening of my pursed lips.

Marching up to the entrance of The Improv Parlor, I pound on the locked double doors five times with the palm of my hand. I wait a moment and then do it again, each hit sounding a little more desperate. All I can hear is the reverberating metal. I hope with every fiber in my body that someone is there.

I wait in silence, worried about what will happen if someone comes to the door. About ten seconds later, which feels like an eternity, I hear light footsteps. Nerves consume me as the door opens wide from inside the venue.

I stand face to face with a thin, middle-aged brunette woman wearing a black apron. I study her straight, thin bangs and piercing blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” asks the confused woman in a raspy voice.

I open my mouth to speak but I stare at her, dumbfounded, unsure of how to explain why I am there.

“Do you need something?” reiterates the woman.

Still wrapping my brain about how to articulate the situation, I trust that the words will come out.

“Uhh, yes. Sorry. This may sound absolutely weird and crazy, but I was told by somebody that there is something for me in a green room at this place. Does that sound familiar to you?” I ask timidly.

“You mean the North Room?” she inquires sharply.

North Room Experience Freedom. “Is...is it green?” I stutter.

“Yeah, it’s a private room for our performing guests.”

“Oh. Well, uhh, is it okay if I check it out real quick? I know you’re closed, but it will just take a minute. I’d really appreciate it.”

The woman shrugs and nonchalantly says, “Sure, come on in. I’m Melissa, the manager here.”

“Ah, thank you so much,” I let out a sigh of relief. “I’m Fern.”

Melissa escorts me through the club’s hallway, past the restrooms, and into the large performance room. She walks up to the stage and makes a left at the stairs and goes around the corner. There stands the wooden door with the narrow window. The same room from my dream.

Melissa unlocks the door, opens it wide, and motions for me to walk in.

“Take as long as you need, I’ll be here,” says Melissa while taking a step back but making it clear that she doesn’t want to leave me unattended.

“Thanks.” I smile at her.

I enter the room slowly, looking around. Same ivory loveseat. Same end table. Same entertainment center.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the words from the man in my dream. You will find something under the screen.

I walk over to the 40-inch flat screen television and peer inside the glass doors of the tv stand. Inside it is a small wooden box, I assume to keep the remote. I glance over at Melissa who has her suspicious eyes on me. Breaking eye contact in embarrassment, I boldly open the door, reach for the wooden box, and open it.

In front of my face is an envelope with Fern scribbled on the front. I’m afraid to open it. I hold my breath as I fold up the flap of the unsealed envelope and open the contents. In my hand, I hold an anonymous cashier’s check written out to me for $20,000 and a handwritten note with a frayed edge and familiar handwriting. It reads, “You know what this is for.” The piece of paper matches the torn out page from the little black book. I pull out the book and turn to the only occupied page - same style of scribble.

Before I can even process this, my knees buckle and I drop to the ground. I’m face down in a child’s pose on the carpet, shoulders bouncing up and down, weeping silently.

Melissa hesitantly moves closer toward me, kneels down next to me and puts her hand on my upper back. Filled with deep concern, she asks, “Honey, are you ok?”

I can’t speak. Memories flood my mind. That time I stole my mom’s wedding ring and sold it for $3,500 (she thought she had lost it). That time I asked my dad to loan me $10,000 for school, when I knew damn well it wasn’t for school. That time I pleaded with my ex-best friend to transfer me $1,200 so I could pay my “rent”. That time I told my sister I couldn’t afford groceries, and she sent me $1,000. Just to name a few. I’ve tallied the list of all the cash I’ve stolen from the people I love, and the number persistently haunts me. $20,000. I have been utterly consumed with shame for 4 years, unsure of how I would ever be able to pay them back.

I may never know who wrote me the check for $20,000 or where it came from. And that’s ok. Whoever, or whatever, it is, I am eternally grateful. This check represents hope. Hope that I will one day find reconciliation with my family and friends. Hope that I will be forgiven, both from others and myself. Hope that I can let go of the past. Hope that goodness really does exist. Hope that that it is possible to be known and understood.

I stand to my feet slowly and thank Melissa for her time. I simply cannot find the words to explain this to a stranger right now. Maybe one day.

I walk out the double doors of The Improv Parlor. I try to make sense of what I’m feeling right now. I am reminded of the note. North Room Experience Freedom.

Ahh, yes, that’s it. Freedom.