Between the Pages

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I could just forget her.

I know, that might sound like a terrible thing, but right now I feel like that would be easier to bear. If she just disappeared from my memory as completely as she disappeared from my life. Like I could close my eyes and then open them again and it would be as if I never knew her.

You see, I buried Leah, my wife of forty-four years, this morning, but she’s still all around me.

It’s the books.

They’re everywhere. Bookcases stand in every room, against the walls or in the corners, every shelf packed with books. They fill boxes and bins, tottering stacks in the closets and the garage. Every flat surface has at least one or two lying where she left them. Even here, from where I sit at the kitchen table, I can see a dozen different books. Hardcovers and paperbacks, fiction and nonfiction, volumes on history and nature, fantasy epics, cerebral mysteries, and pulpy thrillers.

Saying she loved to read is an understatement. I think there are more books around the house than a person could read in ten lifetimes, but she never found a book she didn’t read, and would never allow any of them to be thrown away or donated.

I’m different that way. Never been one for reading. I prefer to get my entertainment in a less… demanding way. With a book, you have to try to see what the writer is trying to get you to see. With a movie or a show, everything is easier to engage with, doesn’t require the mental effort of reading. It’s not that I believe either is better or worse, they just appeal to a different sort of person.

It bothered Leah that I didn’t read more, enough that she tried something creative to get me to pick up a book more often.

I reach for the closest book, an old mystery. Without even glancing at the title, I open it up and fan the pages. A small piece of paper, neatly folded, slips out and falls to the tabletop.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, the first in months.

She hid notes between the pages for me to find.

With trembling fingers, I pick up the note and unfold it.

“I’m not feeling well today. Chemotherapy is difficult. But I’m not sure if it’s harder on me or on Emmit. He’s trying so hard not to let me see how worried he is. Always wearing a smile for me. I wish I could be so brave.”

It’s signed Leah Moore.

I quickly fold the note again and put it back in the book, then drop it on the table. Tears blur my eyes. I don’t want to remember anything about that.

I force myself to my feet, walk into the living room, on legs tingling from too long sitting. More of the same, books on the end tables and coffee table, on the fixed shelves about the sofa and on a half dozen bookcases. I wonder if I can make myself go through them all, just in case there’s a note from her hiding in each and every one.

But I can’t just throw them away without finding out.

I bend over and pick up the nearest book from the coffee table, flip through the pages till I find a piece of paper tucked into the seam.

“I’m reading this while sitting on the sofa, cuddled up against Emmit. He’s watching an action movie, all gunfights and car chases and explosions. Every now and then he asks me if I’m okay or if I need something. More to remind me that he’s there, with me and for me. It’s snowing outside, fat flakes gently sifting down, but inside it’s warm and cozy. A perfect way to spend a few hours. I’m happy. Leah Moore.”

I stand there holding the note for minute, trying to remember that time. Truth be told, we passed a lot of hours like that, doing different things, but together all the same. Like we lived in our own worlds, but shared them with each other at the same time. Somehow, it worked. Gave us contentment.

I want to find more notes and read them. A minute ago, I was wishing I could forget her. Now I crave more memories of our life together. It’s like a balm, healing my wounded soul.

On impulse, I scan the nearest bookcase, looking for a book that hasn’t been picked up in a while. I find one that’s dusty enough to be promising, pry apart the pages to a spot with the slightest gap. Sure enough, there another note in there.

“Today I got the diagnosis. Cancer. Like I thought. When the doctor told us, Emmit and I could only sit there, holding each other’s hands, for the longest time. The prognosis isn’t good. I’m looking at surgeries and treatments for months at least, all in the slim hope that it’ll prolong my life by a meaningful measure. While the doctor droned on, Emmit finally turned and looked at me. He stared into my eyes and squeezed my hand, letting me know that’s he’s still here, and isn’t going anywhere. Suddenly, things didn’t seem quite so bad. Leah Moore.”

The note drops from my hand, followed by the book. That wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. I remember that day. Not two years ago. I remember what it felt like. Try to imagine being told that the world is ending. Yeah, just like that.

I don’t bother to pick the book up and put it back. I need something else, something better. My gaze falls on the closet door. I walk over and open it, revealing plastic bins so full of books that the lids don’t close properly, cardboard boxes with the tops bent to force them shut. I rip open the box on top, pull out a hardcover book and flip it open, searching through the pages until I find the note. This one is so old that the paper is yellowed and brittle. Carefully, I unfold it.

“I haven’t had much time for reading lately, or for leaving these notes. Emmit and I are on honeymoon. We’ve spent the last week driving along country back roads, hunting down charming little spots, sleeping in bed and breakfasts, eating in diners and cafes, browsing through small shops. He asked me what I wanted to do when we got married, and when I told him, he jumped in with both feet. We don’t have a schedule or an itinerary; we don’t even know when we’ll stop and return to our normal lives. I love it. And I love him. And I never want this feeling to end. Leah Moore.”

I draw a trembling breath, close my eyes. Try to conjure the memories from so long ago. They’re there, faded and incomplete, like photos from an album that’s falling apart. But I recall the vaguest hint of how I felt, how happy and lucky and in love. If I could go anywhere and any time…

I dig into the box again, eager for more. When I find the next note, however, it’s like the good vibe I was riding hit a brick wall.

“I can’t stop crying. I lost our baby today. I don’t understand why or how. I don’t understand why this happened to us. What did we do to deserve this? I did everything I was supposed to. We tried for so long to conceive, and now this. I want to be a mother so badly. It’s an ache in my heart, a longing that I can’t ignore. But already they’re telling me it won’t work; I’ll never be able to bring a child to term. The only thing bringing me any comfort is Emmit. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer the usual platitudes and reassurances. He doesn’t get angry and rail against fate. He just holds me as I cry. It’s what I need right now. Leah Moore.”

I find myself sitting on the floor without a clear understanding of how I ended up there. This is another one I remember. The look on her face when she told me she thought something was wrong. The hurried drive to the hospital. The small box they gave me, so that I could treat our child’s remains as I saw fit.

Her crying as I held her.

I put the note back in the book, set it back inside the box. For a moment, I think about giving up. Not looking for any more notes. It’s proving more painful than I expected. But I can’t let it end this way. So I push the box out of the way, reaching into a bin in the very back, retrieving a slim paperback. Before I can even open it, another slip of paper falls out. I snatch it up like it’s gold.

“I’m so happy! So, so, so happy! I’ve never been this happy! I met someone! Someone wonderful! Amazing! His name’s Emmit and he’s tall and handsome and quiet and thoughtful and funny and amazing! We met at the bookstore, and he said he was only there because his dad told him he had to get a summer job but we talked for hours and he asked me out! We’re going to a movie tomorrow night and I don’t care which one and I can’t wait. This is the best day of my life! Leah Moore.”

I sit there holding the note. I remember the day we met, more as a feeling, an abstract. Yes, I thought it was the best day of my life, too. But I was wrong, because each day after that got better and better. Even now, with everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t go back and change that day.

Once again, I look around the room. There could be notes in every book in here, a chronicle of the best and worst moments of my wife’s life, of our life together. Little bits of her story, tucked into every book. I guess all our lives are like that. Stories that play out between the pages of each other’s stories. That’s how we’re remembered, as a part of something bigger than ourselves.

Leah wrote these notes and put them in these books so that she wouldn’t be forgotten, even after she was gone.

I no longer want to forget her. I want to remember her forever. And I want to be remembered, too. I’ll do what she did, but I’ll go one step farther. I’ll give the books away, to libraries and thrift stores, anywhere that will take them. Everyone who reads one will find a note, read it, and know a little bit of our story.

I fish in my pockets for a pen and a piece of paper, and I write.

“I buried Leah, my wife of forty-four years, today…”