Hidden In The Pages

Books have always been precious to Mr Walker. No matter what kind they were. How big or small, how thick or thin, each of them could hold a whole world within them and not let anyone know. You could fill them up with absolutely anything. A thought. A story. A list. A life. You could stick pictures in where words failed. Those secrets would remain hidden unless you chose to open them and let them guide you through the stories.

And so he did acquire a lot of them through his seventy-five years. Eighty-four to be exact, in the seventy square feet room that he liked to call the library, and another hundred others unaccounted for in the rest of the house. Some days he would pick one at random to read through, and some days he’d read more than one. They could make him feel happy or sad. Sometimes so happy that he would feel that he could fly and other times he’d end up crying himself to sleep. It all depended on which he had picked. But although he might have read some of them a few times over, each time when he chose a book, it would always be at random. Without even the slightest bias, because each and every one of them was equally precious.

But today was not a day for them. Today he held a movie ticket and a grocery list in his pocket and left the house hoping to take a nice evening walk along the lake to see whether it was frozen. And seven hours later he stood across the road from his house staring up at the flames.

Another five hours later, one of the firefighters explained to him that it had all started with a short circuit and that all the books and papers around fed it. Since all the windows were closed and curtained no one noticed it until the hot air burst through one of them. By the time the firefighters arrived, there wasn’t anything that could have been saved.

‘Of course, all the windows would be closed and curtained. He was not stupid enough to leave them open so that a thief could slip in.’ But Mr Walker did not share these thoughts with the man. Instead, he turned around and walked away.

He strode to the nearest stationery store he could find and bought two of their thickest notebooks and a pack of pens. He sat on the bench near the lake which had indeed been frozen like every other Christmas. He didn’t know where to start but he had to start somewhere. He didn’t have much time left. So he took the note out of his wallet as he knew that it would always be the best starting point. Because each day he’d start with the same note.

“Hello, my love.

You might not remember me but I’m your wife, Isabella. You have amnesia. Each day you’ll wake up with no memories of who you are or what your life has been. But each day you’ll go on with your life. With our notebooks to keep track of it. Although it’s always easy to end it all, you’ll go on. Because no matter what, you’ll always be you. Even if you don’t remember me or even remember yourself, you’ll always be my Theodore. I’ll always love you just the same and you’ll always love me just the same.

Love,

Your Bell”

And so he wrote. He wrote about everything that he could remember. He wrote about how he had started the day with Bell’s note. How she wasn’t there beside him when he woke up. How he didn’t know why he called her Bell instead of Bella like anyone else would. How he loved the sound of Bell on his lips rather than Bella or Isabella. How he couldn’t remember anything about her other than the photo of her in his wallet. How he believes that it would have been love at first sight for him because he couldn’t have possibly resisted falling in love with her smile. How he had a photo of a baby in his wallet as well and how he remembered seeing the photo of a teenage boy and Bell around the house. How there were recipe books in the kitchen with pages marked so that he could make his favourite ones. How he’d never know what they were now. How Bell had filled eighteen notebooks on how his life had been so that he could read them when he desired to know. How he regretted that today was not one of those days when he got curious. How he hated his past self for buying the movie ticket and keeping it in the planner. How he hated himself for going to the movie without even knowing why he wanted to see it in the first place. How he had twenty-three notebooks filled with dairy entries of how each day of his life went by. Twenty-three planners to plan out the years so that he wouldn’t forget. Twenty-three notebooks filled with his thoughts. Twenty-three for each year he couldn’t remember.

He wrote and he wrote. Although at times he couldn’t see through the tear-filled eyes, he kept on writing. Because she wanted him to. He couldn’t remember her but he loved her just the same.

He wrote until in the blink of an eye he found himself mid-way through a sentence without any memory of why he was sitting beside a frozen lake with tears running down his cheeks.

It was six months later when he moved back into his house. Everything was new and empty. He stepped into the 70 square feet library that once it had been, that once had contained notebooks filled with stories of a life. His life. He placed the three books that he had filled with whatever he could gather from the neighbours and so-called acquaintances in the town. He had decided to move on without any regrets of the loss. He wouldn’t mourn his memories that Bell had left for him.

But although he was determined to make himself believe that her note and her photo was all that he needed, he knew deep inside that each day he’d look towards the front door in hopes of a man rushing in worried because he hadn’t heard from his father. To a son who might never come and he’d never know why.