The Wishing Wall

I rubbed my burning eyes as I held the little black notebook and again asked the question that had claimed my sleep and sanity for the past month.

Who wrote this?

“They call it the Wishing Wall,” the pink-faced title company rep had said as he chattered away while I signed the papers that transferred the farmstead to me. “It’s a crumbling mess now. No one even remembers why it got built. A feud two or three generations ago. Probably will cost a pretty penny to hire a bricklayer to restore it, but I guess money’s not a problem for a big lucky lottery winner like you. Got you enough to buy this spread, eh? Personally, I’d knock it down. The wall, I mean. You married by the way? Great place to raise a family. Oh—sorry. I mean—sorry, sorry."

I shot a hard glance at the real estate agent, who winced as the title company guy aggressively concentrated on the last of the paperwork.

Finding the notebook was partly the fault of my new farmstead’s previous owner, who for years hadn’t bothered to tell the high school and college imbeciles from town that they were trespassing whenever they trekked the two miles, usually around midnight, to deposit lucky coins, folded prayers for successful exams, promise bracelets, padlocks and other offerings onto that 4-foot-high, crumbling red brick wall that separated his six acres from the neighboring property.

Six acres in the country was a good, quiet place to let life pass you by for a while. Which was what I needed.

“So I’ve got an eyesore to deal with and fresh junk dropped off every week,” I said. “Nice.”

Finding the book was partly Charlie’s fault.

“Charlie, wait!” I shouted as I ran after him across the field toward the wall, my boots crunching on the frozen ground.

I got there to find Charlie merrily digging away at a hole in the wall’s crumbled base, his tail wagging in time with his excitement. I was doubled over from the run, hands on my knees, sucking in cold Midwestern air filled with the aroma of cow dung and burned leaves. The smells reminded me of where I grew up.

I shook my head, trying to knock out the unwelcome thoughts that were creeping in. As I came to, I noticed Charlie hadn’t let up.

Inside the hole was no squirrel and the promise of rabies shots but an olive messenger bag with shiny buckles and the letters “U S” stenciled onto the front flap.

Great. Some drunken idiot forgot his school bag. ... I ought to chuck it into the pond.

My conscience got the better of me, and as I turned the bag over in search of identification, I heard something tumbling inside. I unclasped the flap and extracted a small, black notebook.

The first page was hardly exciting.

“In case of loss, please return to: ...”

“As a reward: $ ...”

The following lines were as blank as they were weeks ago. The next page began a narrative in precise, formal handwriting.

“The Story of My Life. ...”

It was an autobiography filled with tragedy. Born into poverty. Parents killed in a car crash. A widowed grandfather taking the writer in. More poverty ... it seemed I’d read this story before.

A few pages in, the story got worse. An unspecified, brutal disease. Hospital visits. Then a long hospital stay. People praying. “How long?” being whispered. The grandfather visiting every day. Hospital mates dying. Nausea. Aches. Chills. Cold despair. Long nights lying awake, wondering why.

I set the book aside and looked up to the portrait on my mantel.

I don’t need this, I thought. Not now. It’s too soon.

After 10 more pages of darkness, the story abruptly changed. The disease loosened its grip on the author. Then, without medical explanation, it let go.

More long nights wondering why.

But this time, also wondering what.

Resolution came with the turn of a page.

“I will not waste a moment,” the author wrote. “This is where I start. ...”

And then the autobiography took another dramatic turn.

“I came into an unexpected sum of money that I knew would be enough for me to go to college. I also knew after all these people had helped me that I just had to help other people.”

There followed captivating passages about the Peace Corps: an airplane ride, a village, building a clean water system. Feeling guilty, “like an insincere, wannabe savior,” and being shown appreciation instead.

Then another turn.

Enlistment. Uniforms, boot camp.

Another airplane ride.

“They don’t just hand out Purple Hearts, you know. The doctors said this limp will stay with me. ...”

“Going back to hospital made me realize that I simply had to become a doctor. ...”

Classes. Internships. Hard work. Becoming a living, breathing doctor dedicated to sorting out the rarest of rare diseases. The invention of new techniques that medical journals published detailed articles about.

Another turn. Starting a medical foundation. Sending money back to the village to help fund a new school. A lifetime of adventure still ahead; of that the author was certain.

“I am high on life,” the author declared.

High on life. As I read the author’s lust for life, I began to feel it, too, for the first time in a long while. I found myself cheering at the narrator’s triumphs, crying at setbacks.

The book continued with a bucket list of excitement: a harrowing climb up Mount Everest. Deep sea diving. Amateur astronomy and the discovery of an unusual asteroid—which was subsequently named after the writer.

Ultimately, the writer turned to teaching English, so young people could learn to tell their own stories.

The lack of details in this rich notebook was maddening. No names, not even of the asteroid. No life events described other than the biggest accomplishments. It was as though The Story of My Life wasn’t an autobiography so much as a CV, and one short on details.

Yet the notebook in its neat handwriting was crammed full of an adventurous life, till it reached an abrupt conclusion:

“Life is big. Life is beautiful. And even though I’ve lived a lifetime, my life is just begun.”

Internet searches had proved fruitless no matter how much I triangulated, correlated and obsessed the notebook’s scant clues.

Posting lost and found ads on the Internet, the local paper and the university hadn’t helped, either.

Backpack, olive, military-style. Please describe contents to verify ownership. ...

(“Describe the contents? It’s full of money. How much? Umm ... A lot.” “It contains ... my stash, you know?” “It’s got a turtle in it.”).

My sleepless nights became fitful days. I pored over the book, searching for hidden codes, for some hint of the author’s identity. A blacklight revealed nothing. There were no watermarks, no pages that pried apart to reveal hidden notes.

And why discard an unpublished autobiography like that? Was it stolen? A chill ran through me. I imagined a burglar doing violence to the author, stealing his life’s work and tossing the evidence into a hole in a crumbling brick wall two miles out of town.

Aroooooo!

Charlie’s whining shocked me awake. I looked up from the easy chair where I’d fallen asleep with the book to find him staring at me questioningly. I rubbed my eyes, nodded, and stumbled into the kitchen.

“Sorry, old boy,” I said.

The kitchen was a mess. I was a mess. I hadn’t eaten more than the odd bit of granola in weeks. I was drinking out of the same glass I’d used three days ago. Thank goodness Charlie had a dog door.

I grabbed a bag of dog food and dropped kibble into the bowl. With Charlie happy again, I shuffled back to my chair and picked up the notebook.

“Think,” I said. “Think.”

I flipped from front to back, wondering what had escaped me. I turned for the umpteenth time to the first page.

“In case of loss, please return to: ...”

“As a reward: $ ...”

The coffee shop’s clock read 4:20, and my phone’s clock read 4:22.

Late. Or having second thoughts. Not believing what I’d promised on the phone.

Then the door chimes jingled. In stepped an old man, a girl in tow.

The man was dressed in a corduroy jacket that must have been nice once. His face was weather-beaten. Yet his eyes were keen and alive with intelligence. His body was strong except for a slight limp, and the cane he used did a fair job hiding that. The girl with him was pale and slight, thinner than she should be for her age, which I guessed was about 10. She wore similar clothes—that is, well-made and well-worn. She had a knit cap over her head and had a shy air about her, accentuated by a tentative walk that almost matched the man’s.

I rose from the chair.

“You must have been the person on the phone,” I said. “May I get you something to drink?”

The girl’s eyes lit up and drifted to the counter, where a prominent display of double hot chocolate lay in wait. The man gave her a kind but firm look, and she went back to being shy.

“No, thank you,” he said with a voice full of gravel and self-assurance. “And I must apologize for being late. The bus was uncharacteristically behind schedule.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said, as we sat down around the table. “And I should apologize, too. I read your entire autobiography, and, well ... I just had to meet you. Sir, may I shake your hand?”

“I suppose,” he said. “You’re talking awfully formally, you know.”

The girl giggled and her face lit up again.

“Granpa likes that. He used to be an English teacher,” she said in a quiet voice.

The man’s expression softened to a wistful gaze.

“I thought the reward’s amount was something a fool would pledge, or a lottery winner, or both. And who ever heard of posting a reward for accepting the return of something lost? Too good to ignore. But don’t worry; we won’t hold you to it. We should be rewarding you.”

My face felt warm. “I don’t mean to put on airs, but I actually did win the lottery, sir. And maybe I am a fool, but $20,000 is the right amount. Your story moved me. It moved me right out of a funk I’d been in for a long time, and I thought maybe sharing the wealth was the right thing to do.”

I fumbled in my pocket for the check I’d brought.

“Uh, what name should I make the reward out to?”

The man laughed.

“I think a jury would let you off on insanity if you changed your mind. But if you insist, you may make out the check to Nancy Dorrit,” he said, turning to the girl. “And it’s going straight into your college fund, Miss.”

“Nancy Dor— I’m sorry, what?”

“You wanted the name of the owner and author, I assume,” he said. “That’s her. Nancy Dorrit. D-o-r-r-i-t.”

“Yes, but—” I started. Then I stopped and looked at the slight girl in front of me, whose eyes had drifted back to the counter.

“She has quite an imagination,” the man said. “And a sunny disposition, considering everything she went through last year. We’re lucky she’s here.”

The girl looked thoughtful as I wordlessly handed the reward check to the man.

“Granpa,” she said. “I guess the wishing thing really worked this time.”

“Maybe it did,” he said.

I saw them off. They skipped the bus stop and headed straight for the nearby bank. I lingered inside the shop a while.

The sun was going down. Almost closing time. But I had enough time to do a quick search on my phone for a bricklayer. One who does restorations.