The notebook

“Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper. Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.” He mumbled under his breath, trying his best to remember what he needed from the shops that morning. He walked past houses and gardens, the usual neighbours wrapping their kids up in sweaters before sending them off to school. He passed the sunflowers peeking at him through the wrought iron fence. Dogs waking. Sun shining. The day bright and ready. He passed a woman in brown boots and tan corduroy pants, hurried. Undistracted, he repeated “Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.”

When he finally reached the corner store, he had repeated his list so many times it was beginning to feel like a mantra. A reminder of the repeated morning ritual with which he began each day. Oatmeal cooked on the stove. Apples cut up on top. Cream to lighten his coffee. And the paper to enjoy it all with.”Oatmeals, apples, cream, the paper.” Almost a whisper now as he swung open the door and heard the tell-tale jingle of bells announcing his arrival. Martin, who was usually working behind the counter, was not. He did not wave a distracted hello while sipping coffee, as was his custom. He did not tell Emmett about the morning musings or the results of yesterday’s basketball game. Martin was nowhere to be found.

Emmett peered around the cramped space. Martin wasn’t unloading boxes of tea nor restocking the fridge. Nothing was out of place and the normal sounds of the ruckus street outside were of no cause of concern to Emmett so he repeated his list as he picked his items from around the store: “Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.” Martin is probably just running late this morning. Or he’s in the back with a delivery driver. Emmett rationalized his behaviour, hating to deviate from routine. He left a small pile of change on the counter and started his route back home.

He was rounding the last corner before his home. The streets were loud now with buses trundling by and groups of teens chatting on their way to school. The birds were chirping. He had just passed the blooming magnolia tree when he felt his foot catch on something. He stumbled, dropping his groceries. His apples spilled down the curb and into the street and the carton of cream crushed and spilled out of one corner. Emmett let out a low grunt as his palms reached out in front of him to catch his fall. He came to a stop on all fours.

Looking down, he grabbed what had tripped him: a small black notebook. It was weathered with no discernable markings and something crammed between the pages. Pushing himself up to a stand, he crammed the notebook into the pocket of his cardigan and retrieved his spilled food. He entered his gate, throwing the crushed carton of cream in the bin as he passed, and rushed up the last few steps into his home to avoid the embarrassment of his fall from public view.

It wasn’t until after the oatmeal was gone, the dishes washed and Emmett had settled in to read the newspaper that he remembered the notebook. He retrieved it from his cardigan and retired to his study to investigate who it belonged to. His study was lined with bookcases overflowing with stories from all over the world. Tales of bright landscapes and wild adventures had always intrigued Emmett. The turmeric sunsets and opal sunrises of places much louder and adventurous had always instigated big dreams of himself, clad in billowing khaki trousers and matching vest, holding binoculars looking over the horizon. In stark reality, Emmett had never left his sleepy hollow, growing up orphaned then living on his own for many decades researching geography and old worlds. He had learned as much as he could about places far away from home while never leaving his study. The fear of change keeping him trapped in his regular routine. “Oatmeal, apples, cream, the paper.”

The black notebook was well-loved. The cover was buttery-smooth from being opened and closed many times. Emmett flipped it over in his hands. Something fluttered to the floor. Looking down, he saw a dusting of bills around his feet. He picked them up and inspected them. There had to be about $1200 dollars. He turned his attention back to the notebook and flipped through the pages and more bills caught his eye. Grabbing the notebook by the spine, he shook it back and forth releasing more bills caught between the pages. More fell. He kept shaking it, vigorously now. Finally, it seemed all that was trapped between the pages had been released. He gathered it into a pile and began counting. “One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, ….twenty thousand. It couldn’t be?” He counted it again. And again. And again. It wasn’t until the fifth time that he admitted to himself that twenty thousand dollars had just fallen into his lap.

His mind began racing. ‘How do you find the rightful owner of twenty thousand dollars? Do I have to? Of course, I do. Don’t be silly. But what if? Do I take it to the police? What if they think I stole it? I can’t go to the police.’ The fear started to grip Emmett. “The notebook!” He exclaimed out loud to himself sweeping it up and rifling through the pages. There had to be a clue in the pages somewhere. He stopped. Halfway through in quick black ink, scribbled were the words:

“916 Neptune Way.

Find Luna.”

The words were jotted at an angle as if they were written quickly, using a hand or a thigh to support. The handwriting was messy and slanted and looked like it was written many years ago. Emmett considered his options. After pacing his study, he stopped suddenly, grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door, notebook and money still in hand.

He wasn’t one for maps or directions as he had no reason to stray from the norm. As he peered up from the subway map, he ran his finger along the coloured lines demarking the tracks. “The green line to orange line, switch at the West End stop, exit at Saturna.” He began his directional mantra. “Green line to orange. Switch at West End. Exit at Saturna” repeating it over and over again under his breath as the train pulled up. “Green to orange, West End, Saturna.”.

He found a seat on the train, among the few others riding midmorning. Too late to be the normal working commuters, too early for the lunchtime crowd. A woman in brown boots and corduroy pants reading a book entitled “Celestial Beings and Where to Find Them” was seated alone in the back. A teenager listening to music blared it through the subway, mixing it with the clanging of train cars and wooshing winds from open windows. The cacophony of sound echoed creating a reverberation of harmonies and clangour.

Emmett reached his final exit and repeated his mantra one last time as he stepped onto the platform. “Green to orange, West end, Saturna.” He set off down the street towards Neptune Way.

He counted the houses as he passed 912 and 914 scouring for 916 Neptune Way and almost missed the tiny black door nestled under the stairs of the neighbouring house if it weren’t for the small crescent moon painted in faint gold above it. He approached and lifted his fist to knock.

The door swung open from a strong breeze before his knuckles could make contact.

Thrust forward off balance, Emmett stumbled into the dimly lit room. His eyes slowly adjusted to his new surroundings. He smelled rich flavours of cardamom and sweet ginger. Long golden velvet drapes hung from the ceiling down to the floor, pooling into soft puddles on the orange carpet. A small table sat in the middle of the room and books sat in piles all over the room.

He saw pictures on the wall of Martin, the shopkeeper with a woman and a baby. There were pictures of the three of them in a desert and atop tall mountains. The child’s age progressing with each adventurous snap shop.

‘Martin?’ Emmett thought to himself. ‘The man from the shop he saw each morning.’ Emmett had shared very little with Martin over the years, other than the daily tidings.

Reaching down to the crowded coffee table, Emmett picked up a thick book. He flipped the worn-out paperback in his hand and held it up to a stained glass window to see the title more clearly: Celestial Beings and Where to Find Them. Flipping through the pages, he saw notes in the margins and highlighted passages. In the front jacket of the book was written ‘To M. Quibbly. Love Luna’. A small two-inch square picture of a boy was tucked between the pages. ‘Our boy, Emmett. 1986.’ scrawled across the back.

Emmett couldn’t breathe. It was becoming too much. He stumbled back. Reaching for the doorknob, he twisted it and let the weight of his fall on it. He spilled out onto the street and right into a woman in brown boots and corduroy pants.

He knocked into her, spilling the contents of her purse onto the street and splaying both of them in a pile.

“I’m so sorry! So sorry!” He repeated as he picked up the contents of her bag. She was an older woman. Old enough to be his mother maybe, with soft curly hair beginning to gray. He had seen her before. He passed her the contents he had picked up: A map. A watch. A book.

As he passed the woman’s book back to her he realized he was carrying the same book: Celestial Beings and Where to Find Them.

“Martin would have loved it happening this way.” She whispered quietly as she accepted the items Emmett was holding.

Emmett looked at her in confusion. He took a step back. And then closer. He paused and she let him take the space to come to realization.

“Emmett, you just came out of my home. I am Martin’s wife. I am your mother. I'm Luna. ”

She slowly guided a confused Emmett back into the home he had just fallen out of. Once settled on the golden velvet couch with a cup of warm chai in his hands, Luna began to explain.

Many years ago, Emmett had been studying to become a pilot. He loved to be in the sky and had dreamed of flying the world twice over. Until one day, a speedy descent on a small plane had caused it to stall. The Cessna had crashed. The fall back to earth had caused irreversible damage to Emmett. He became a recluse. He forgot who his family was. He forgot who he was. His father had taken care of him every day but each reminder of the accident had led to another repeated outburst, a traumatic reminder and a falling inwards.

Martin had decided he would no longer remind Emmett of who he was. He would watch him from afar, from the shop. That was until Martin suffered a stroke.

Luna paused for Emmett to process the undoing of his memories, the recalibration of everything he believed to be true.

“Martin has left everything to you. Although not much. He never intended for us to meet. He didn’t want to confuse you. He just wanted you to be happy. That’s why I left it for you to find.”

Emmett reached down to his pocket, feeling the money he had nearly forgotten about.

“Tomorrow, you might not remember me. I’m sorry for that. But if you ever have any questions, you’ll see the address written in the black notebook.” Luna smiled.

Emmett prepared to leave and thanked Luna. He stepped out into the street and remember the list he had to pick up at the store. “Oats, apples, creamer, the paper. Oats, apples, creamer, the paper."