Chapter 46
Having slept reasonably well, Mitch woke up early. He felt decent. Better than he’d expected after yesterday’s emotional outpouring. As per his usual routine, he started a pot of coffee, went for a run, showered, dressed, then went to pour himself a cup of that coffee. But before he did that, he went into his office for some supplies.
He stood in front of the first bookcase that lined the interior wall. On the top shelf, nearly spanning the entire width, was a selection of beautiful leather- and fabric-bound journals. Each one unique in appearance but alike in the fact that not a single word had ever been entered on any of the pages. And that they’d all been gifts from Jeanie.
She’d teased him about never using them, but facing a perfect, unblemished journal was a daunting thing. For most writers, not just himself. What would he write in it? Surely not book notes or ideas that would be crossed out and scribbled through, the pages ending up stained with ink and bad ideas.
Seemed almost sacrilegious to desecrate a pristine journal for that kind of exercise. And he wasn’t a diary keeper.
Until now.
He selected the oldest one, the very first journal in the row and the first one she’d ever given him. Black leather embossed with intertwining Celtic knots and fastened with a hammered silver disc and a thong of braided black leather. It was a fantastic-looking thing. Handmade, if he remembered correctly.
They’d gone to a Renaissance Faire, and she’d found it there, buying it when he’d been off getting them glasses of mead. She’d hidden it away in her bag and kept it until Christmas. She’d been so delighted with her surprise.
Just holding the journal brought back so many happy memories. Did he really want to fill this with all the sad, miserable thoughts in his head?
Not really. He hesitated. Maybe he should pick a different one, but they all came with memories, so which one was a better choice? There wasn’t one. He was just procrastinating. Jeanie would be laughing at him if she could see him.
Journal in hand, he chose a pen from the cup on his desk. They were all the same. Black gel ink. Pilot brand. Medium tip. Reliable. Smooth. Consistent. It was the only kind he used.
He carried both out to the kitchen, filled a large mug with coffee, and went to the deck. It was quiet in the house without Joyce, but she’d be here this afternoon. He hoped she was enjoying her half-day off. He’d never admit this to anyone, but he almost missed her when she wasn’t around.
He stood by the railing, taking in the day. The sun was up, the sky blue, the water sparkling and lively. A boat drifted through the channel, headed to the sea.
A woman on board waved. Mitch stepped back into the shadows so he couldn’t be so easily seen. This was supposed to be a quiet, contemplative moment. He wanted to keep it that way.
He took a seat on the couch, setting his coffee on the table. He stretched his legs out, using the table like an ottoman, and cracked open the journal. The paper was cream-colored and lined with faint blue lines. The clean smell of the leather and paper drifted up. It was beautiful in its flawlessness. Daunting.
But he’d told Harper he was going to do this, and he was a man of his word, as much as was possible.
He jotted the date in the upper left-hand corner. That was a good start. The page was no longer unblemished. That small notation made it seem less intimidating.
He drank a little coffee, trying to come up with an opening line. Then he reminded himself of what Harper had said. This was just for him. No one else was going to see it. Didn’t matter how clever or crafty the words were. He was just supposed to write what he was feeling. To get out whatever was in his head and put it on paper so he could make room for the creative side of him to do its thing.
Inhaling softly, pen poised over the page, he pressed the tip to the paper and wrote.
I miss her. I always miss her. I will always miss her. Every day. Every night. I cannot imagine a time when I won’t feel that way. But I don’t want to stop missing her, because I am terrified that when I stop missing her, I’ll forget her.
The words tore through him as he wrote them down. The honesty of that admission made his eyes well with the stark truth.
He’d never admitted it to himself and yet it had just come out on paper. He was terrified of forgetting Jeanie. It didn’t seem like something that was possible, and yet, the fear was very real. He put pen to paper again.
I never want to forget her face or the way she smelled or the sound of her laughter. The softness of her skin. The way her eyes crinkled when she thought she was being funny. The little hitch in her breath when something worried her. How she rubbed her nose when she was sleepy. Or tucked her feet under my legs when she was cold.
If I lose those things, I will lose her in a way that is more complete than what’s already occurred. Life won’t be worth living if that happens.
How do I prevent that? How do I keep her with me? Are pictures and videos enough? I don’t know. What if my mind fails as I get older and my memories fade? There’s no guarantee of anything. Life is hard. I still don’t know why she was taken from me. Cancer is one of the most terrible things anyone should have to endure but those left behind continue to suffer. No one talks about that much. No one prepared me for it. No one explained that when she died, a part of me would go with her.
He looked up, sniffing hard. He hadn’t expected journalling to be such an emotional undertaking. He imagined Harper had left that part out for a good reason, but now that he was doing it, he understood.
Some of these things he hadn’t even said to Harper. They were things he didn’t want to say out loud for fear that might somehow give them power. Or cause them to happen.
But putting them on paper made him feel better. Like maybe they wouldn’t happen because he’d been bold enough to write them down. If only that were true. But he did feel that way. And maybe some of this was self-fulfilling prophecy?
He drank half his cup before returning to the journal. It took that long to organize his thoughts.
What I want is to get past the pain. I can live with the grief. The sense of loss. But the pain feels debilitating at times. I want…
He lifted his pen. He wasn’t ready to finish that thought on paper. Even writing it down felt wrong. He supposed that was a sign of how much he needed it out of his head.
Inhaling deeply, he returned his pen to the page.
I want to live a normal life again. Wanting that makes me feel like a terrible person. A terrible husband. I don’t think I was, but maybe that’s who I’ve become. Is it so wrong to want to be happy?
I wish I could talk to my son. And have him talk back to me. I miss him, too. But he blames me for all the same things I blame myself for, so I understand the silence.
It would be great to get past that, though. Is that possible? Maybe, but I don’t have a lot of faith things are ever going to change.
He swallowed at the knot in his throat. Being honest with himself was difficult. But at the same time, it was freeing in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
Harper apparently knew what she was doing. No surprise there. Arlington wouldn’t have left his house to a woman who was anything less than a true friend and genuine helper. The man was an impeccable judge of character, although his last wife hadn’t been such a bright bulb. Lisa had been pretty to look at, though, and Mitch wasn’t going to judge the man for wanting to spend his golden years with a beautiful woman.
He closed the journal, unsure if he’d done enough but feeling like he’d written as much as he could for his first attempt. He drank the last of his coffee before heading into the kitchen. He whipped up a simple plate of scrambled eggs and toast and ate it at the table.
Somehow it wasn’t even close to as good as the breakfasts Joyce made for him.
He cleaned up and went into his office with a fresh cup of coffee, his journal, and a pen. He put the cup and pen on his desk, the journal in a desk drawer.
Then he sat and started his workday, bringing up his document. He read through the chapter he was on from the beginning, refreshing the story in his mind. When he reached the end, the next paragraph formed in his head. He put his fingers on the keyboard and began to type.
The words came easily and kept coming. He didn’t want to overthink it. The story was going well. It would need revision and lots of layering, but he was pleased with how it was coming.
Had the journalling helped?
He couldn’t say yes or no just yet, but he wasn’t struggling to get past the feelings that normally pulled him away from his work.
Whatever the reason for that, he already knew he would journal again tomorrow.