The Pages of Her Life Read online

  “I would too.” Marque frowned as she poured a liberal dose of caramel into a cup. “But we don’t have a lost-and-found. I guess we used to, but so much stuff piled up. Plus, Mike and Janice don’t want to be responsible ’cause of some weird thing where they got sued a while back. So now we hang on to things till the end of the day, then have to toss ’em. So if the guy doesn’t come back by the end of the day . . .”

  Allison stared at the journal and spoke more to it than Marque. “The journal ends up in the dump.”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  Allison shuffled back to her table and glanced at her watch. The shop closed in thirty-five minutes. Which meant she would stay till closing and hope the man showed up to recover the journal. And if he didn’t? She’d describe him to Marque and ask her to keep an eye out. No way would she let this journal end up in the trash.

  At six ten, Marque said, “Sorry, Allison, I have to kick you out. We gotta clean.”

  “I’ve never understood why you guys close so early. You’re a coffee and wine bar.”

  Marquee laughed. “You’ll have to take that one up with Mike and Janice.”

  She stood on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop till six thirty. No man in wire-rimmed glasses and a Western Washington University sweatshirt came by looking for his lost journal. Time to head for home.

  As she turned her car down the street where she lived, Allison glanced over at the journal that sat on her passenger seat.

  “How am I going to get you back to your rightful owner?”

  After she pulled into her driveway and stopped, she picked it up and undid the leather cord that bound it shut.

  “Easy. I’m going to open you up and find a name and address.” Who put their name and address in a journal? She didn’t. But maybe Western Washington Sweatshirt Guy did. Allison opened the journal, looked at the top of the first page, and laughed. Right there, in dark blue pen at the top of the page, in a man’s large handwriting, was a name and an address.

  ALISTER MORRISON

  43417 WHITETAIL LANE

  PRESTON, WA 98888

  No phone number. No email. But the address was enough. Preston was close. After she had dinner and caught up with her mom, she’d google Alister’s address and see where he lived. She’d write him a note and tell him she had the journal. Maybe just drive by his place. Under his name and address was what looked like a poem, in different handwriting.

  Who we are, and truly are,

  A matter of perception.

  Choose the truth and find yourself,

  Step through the veiled deception.

  Know it from the inside out,

  Not from the outside in.

  Though fear and trepidation wait,

  It’s time that you begin.

  Allison frowned. Wow. Quite the introduction to Alister if he’d written it, and quite the inscription if it had been written for him. She went to put the journal into her satchel, but curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to the next page, then the next, then the next. All of them were blank.

  She riffled through the next ten, twenty, thirty pages. No writing on any of them. The rest of the pages as well. It made little sense. Why would Alister tell Richard that the journal had been part of changing his life when there was nothing in it? Sure, the poem was intriguing, but while it raised questions, she couldn’t see where it gave any answers. And hadn’t he said he’d written in it?

  After a quick dinner with her mom and a long conversation about how they shouldn’t worry about Allison’s partnership being delayed, she unpacked her satchel and set her things on the kitchen counter. As she did, her mom sipped on her chamomile tea and wandered over.

  “Did you get yourself a new journal? Where did you find it?”

  “I didn’t find it, more like it found me. By mistake.” Allison laughed. “It’s not mine. It belongs to a guy from the coffee shop, and he—”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.” Allison handed her mom the journal. “The owner’s address is in the front, so I’ll try to find him online or mail him a letter. Probably just mail him a letter. Go old school.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I agree. I’m going to ask the guy where he got it. I’d love to have one like it.”

  Her mom ran her fingers over the journal. “The leather is so soft. And the tree, my, it’s lovely.”

  “Like you.” Allison leaned down and kissed her mom on the cheek. “I’m going to take a shower, Mom. Be back downstairs in a bit.”

  “Take your time, honey.”

  After a long shower, during which Allison nudged the water hotter than usual, she toweled off, slipped into an old pair of sweats, a T-shirt, and her Running Is Cheaper Than Therapy sweatshirt and headed downstairs to chat with her mom. Allison found her sitting on the couch watching An Affair to Remember. The journal sat next to her.

  Mom looked up as Allison slid into the overstuffed chair next to the couch.

  “How’s the movie?”

  Her mom looked at her furtively. “I peeked inside the journal. At all the pages.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Now I don’t feel so guilty.” Allison giggled. “I peeked too.”

  “I think you should keep the journal.”

  “I can’t keep it, Mom. It’s not mine. It’s Alister’s. And I’m going to get it back to him.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I told you. I’ll send him a note.” Allison held up her cell phone. “Or I’ll plug the address into my phone and just drive to his house and drop it off.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Allison frowned as a tiny laugh escaped her lips. “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Mom, really, are you all right? Like I just said, I’ll write a note using the address Alister put in the front of the journal, or I’ll drive over there. Yes, I’m assuming that’s his address. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  A crack of a confused smile appeared on her mom’s face as she handed the journal to Allison and spoke in a whisper. “What address?”

  Allison took the journal from her mom. It felt heavier. She held it for more than a few moments before gently lifting the cover, already sensing what she would find. She stared at the first page for a long time. A page without a name. Without an address. Only a poem that no longer felt intriguing, but ominous.

  twelve

  ALLISON SLID OUT OF BED at six the next morning, pulled on a sky-blue tank top, running shorts, socks, shoes, and a light jacket. Eight miles on the schedule today—after she reached the trailhead, which was 1.7 miles away from her home. No problem. At least physically. Felt like she could do eighteen. But emotionally she was closer to being able to do half a mile. Still, she had to rid her body of the stress of the day before, and the days before that, and try to forget about this weird journal thing for a few hours.

  There had been an address. There was no doubt in her mind, and she was far too young to be losing it. Alister Morrison had been there, written in thick black pen along with an address in Preston. Those words were written at the top. She could still picture it in her mind! But when her mom had handed Allison the journal, the words and numbers simply were not there. Impossible. There had to be a reason. Not invisible ink. Maybe it was another kind of ink she didn’t know about that only appeared with heat. But that made no sense. She hadn’t applied any heat in the car yesterday when she saw the name. And why would it be hidden anyway? What was the point of writing your name and address in a journal if no one could read it?

  She shook the thoughts from her mind and took off down the street. Allison reached the trail at the base of Tiger Mountain and stopped to stare at the clouds. Heavy with rain but no drops falling. Yet. Allison cinched the hood of her jacket a hair tighter and launched herself onto the trail. The dirt was soft from yesterday’s deluge, but manageable. It would probably mean nine-minute miles in
stead of seven, but the workout would be just as grueling. No one was on the trail at this time of the morning. On occasion Allison would meet another runner slaloming through the fir trees this early, breathing the crisp morning air, but rarely till the weather grew warmer.

  Forty-five minutes later she reached the top of the trail where acres of trees had been cleared for radio towers. She slowed and strolled over to the lookout spot on the north side of the mountain, which gave a 240-degree view. To her west: the rolling forested hills of Issaquah and then Bellevue. To the east: Mount Si and North Bend. She already felt far better than she had upon waking that morning. As if on cue, the sun struck through the clouds in a few places, promising her spring—and hope—was coming.

  For the next ten minutes she closed her eyes and didn’t let herself think about her job, her mom, Kayla, the money—nothing except that at this moment she was free of all of it. And then, as if with the flick of a light switch, an image of the journal popped into her mind. With a tiny shake of her head, she opened her eyes. She blinked against the sun, which had taken over at least half of the sky, and sighed.

  What was that? Movement in her peripheral vision to her left. She turned and spotted a man seventy-five or so yards away, gazing west toward the Bellevue skyline. His height, his hair, his frame. All familiar to her. Did she know him?

  She took a dozen steps closer. Was it him? Yes, no question. Richard. The man who’d been with Alister Morrison that day in the coffee shop. Oh my gosh. Answers. She clipped toward him, but after she’d taken only a few steps, he turned slowly away from her, stretched quickly, then started to jog back down the trail.

  “Excuse me!” She picked up her pace.

  He didn’t turn, and his jog turned into a run.

  “Hey!” Allison called louder as she broke into a run of her own. “Hello!”

  The man was already around a corner in the trail, the trees hiding him from sight. By the time Allison rounded the corner, he was gone. No, wait. There he was, at least a hundred yards in front of her. She pushed herself into a full sprint as he disappeared around the next switchback. No doubt she could catch him. She’d slowed since her days on the track in high school and college, but not that much.

  But by the time she reached another straightaway, the man was easily 150 yards out. Allison’s sprint faded to a jog, to a brisk walk, to standing still. No chance of catching him, which surprised her. She was no slouch when it came to running. The guy appeared to be in decent shape, sure, but pushing his midfifties. Probably an ex-athlete competing in masters competitions.

  The sound of her heart pounded in her ears as she leaned forward, hands resting on knees. Hadn’t he heard her? Seemed unlikely, but why would he ignore her if he had?

  When she pushed through her front door an hour later, the smell of muffins filled the kitchen. Allison found her mom curled up on the brown leather chair in the den.

  “Did you have a good run, Al?”

  “I did.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Her mom tilted her head and gave that funny little smile that Allison loved and hated at the same time.

  “How do you know there’s something wrong?”

  “Because—”

  “You’re my mother. I know. You can tell something’s wrong even when my back is turned.”

  “Yes. It’s a superpower most moms have.” Her mom sighed. “But it also comes at the price of worrying about your kids too much.”

  “I don’t always like your superpower.”

  “Too bad.” Her mom wiggled her fingers. “Speak.”

  “Let me get some tea first.”

  “Hurry.”

  Allison turned and rolled her eyes as she walked out of the room.

  “I saw that!”

  Her mom laughed and Allison smiled. Maybe her mom really could see around corners.

  She heated a cup of water in the microwave as she pulled a tea bag from the pantry. This conversation called for strawberry-pomegranate herbal tea, because she had few doubts her mom would want to hear every single detail about her encounter—or nonencounter—up on the mountain. At the moment Allison would prefer to give only headlines.

  The microwave dinged. She brought out the cup and placed her tea bag on top and watched it sink into the near boiling water. She drew in the smell of the tea and closed her eyes. Perfect.

  As she settled into the other chair in the den, her mom clapped her knees. “Now tell me.”

  “In the coffee shop, the first time I saw the journal, there was a man there with Alister. A guy named Richard.” Allison paused. “I saw him on the mountain today. At the top. No question it was him. But when I called to him, he ran off.”

  “Ran off?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know he heard you?”

  “I don’t.”

  Her mom rubbed her upper lip. “Then how can you say he ran off when he heard you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I—”

  “Yes, you did. You just said it.”

  Allison took a long sip of her tea. “I’m guessing that’s what happened. It seemed that way.”

  “You’re sure it was the same man who was in the coffee shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Mom, how would I—”

  “I don’t mean that.” Her mom waved her hands as if to excuse the comment. “I mean, what do you think he has to do with the journal?”

  Another long sip. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell you what, sweetie.” Her mom leaned forward in her chair. “Go get your journal. I think it’s a sign, seeing this Richard character.”

  “My journal?”

  “Yes. The new one.”

  “Mom, stop. It’s not mine.”

  “Go get it.”

  Allison squeezed her lips together. “Mom?”

  “And bring it back here.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “I’ll wait right here till you get back.”

  “All right, Mom.”

  Her mom nodded as if giving Allison permission to leave. Allison set her cup on the cherrywood stand next to her chair and rose. She grimaced at her mom and strode from the room. She’d set the journal on the coffee table and it was still there, but not exactly in the spot she’d left it. Her mom had moved it. Looked at it. Not a surprise. The journal was captivating.

  When she came back into the den, her mom’s head was down.

  “Okay, Mom. Now what?”

  “I think you need to start writing in it.”

  “I told you, it’s not my journal.”

  “I know what you told me.” Her mom leaned forward in her chair, and her face turned to stone. “But you should. I feel it deep inside.”

  They locked eyes. The gentle countenance Allison had known all her life had vanished. Her mom’s eyes were full of grit.

  “Open it.”

  “Why?”

  Her mom nodded toward the journal.

  Allison slowly undid the leather cord that wrapped the journal and let it fall to the side. Then she lifted the cover and fixed her eyes on the first page. Once again there was writing at the top. A name. And an address.

  Her name. And her address.

  thirteen

  ALLISON’S HAND WENT NUMB, AND the journal slipped from her hands and thumped onto the carpet next to her feet. She barely noticed. She stared at her mom, words sputtering out of her mouth.

  “What?” She poked her finger in the direction of the journal. “Did you do this, Mom? You shouldn’t have done that. It’s not yours or mine to write in.”

  “I didn’t write in it.”

  She knew it wasn’t her mom’s handwriting, and the air grew thin in face of the fact there was no explanation for how the old name and address had vanished and hers had replaced them.

  “Then . . . who . . . who . . .”

  “Breathe, sweetie.” Her mom rose and limped over to her. �
�It’s okay. Just breathe for me, all right?”

  Allison forced herself to slow her breaths, then eased back into the chair she’d been in before the world had gone crazy.

  “Who wrote in there, Mom, if it wasn’t you? Who did this to me? What is that thing?” She jabbed her finger at the journal again as if it were alive.

  “I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know who wrote in it, but I have a theory.”

  Allison’s mind continued to spin. “I don’t think any theory is going to stop me from freaking out.”

  Her mom gingerly bent down, lifted the journal, and settled onto the corner of the chair next to Allison. She set the journal on her lap as Allison inched away from it.

  “The writing is on the wall.”

  “What?” Allison scooted another inch farther away from her mom. “What do you mean? Are you saying I should have seen this coming?”

  “That’s my theory.” She opened the journal and tapped the writing at the top. “Mene mene tekel upharsin.”

  “Oh, that explains everything. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Daniel chapter 5, in the Old Testament, the story of Belshazzar’s feast. That’s what I think this is. You remember the story, don’t you?”

  “Not really.” Not really? That was a stretch. She didn’t remember it at all. The last time she’d cracked her Bible to the Old Testament was three years ago. Her mom looked at her as if she knew the truth but decided to ignore the white lie. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and half a minute later began to read.

  “King Belshazzar held a great feast for 1,000 of his nobles and drank wine in their presence. Under the influence of the wine, Belshazzar gave orders to bring in the gold and silver vessels that his predecessor Nebuchadnezzar had taken from the temple in Jerusalem, so that the king and his nobles, wives, and concubines could drink from them. So they brought in the gold vessels that had been taken from the temple, the house of God in Jerusalem, and the king and his nobles, wives, and concubines drank from them. They drank the wine and praised their gods made of gold and silver, bronze, iron, wood, and stone.