She closed the book, placed it on the table and finally decided to walk through the door.
It had taken Allison all night to open the book. She had been sitting on her parent’s couch for hours, shipwrecked, avoiding that next step. But she finally stood up to retrieve her bag, pulled the book out, and flipped to the center, to one of the illustrated pages. This book had been on her parent’s bookshelf for years, why did Paul have it? And as she fanned the pages, flipping from back to the front, a piece of paper fell from between the pages to the floor.
Paul had pleaded with her earlier that day, “Just take a look at it.” She ignored the book, and to change the subject she held the Styrofoam cup of water up and asked if he wanted a sip. This frustrated him. He took his cold hand in hers and said, “I mean it.” His intensity, sharp as a spear, startled her. “Of course,” she said squeezing his hand. She felt embarrassed that her voice was bubbling over with impatience but she kept her face still. She thought she should smile but couldn’t. When the nurse plodded into the room to change his fluid bags, Allison said a quiet prayer of thanks.
While Allison and her mother waited for news in the in that windowless room, she walked in nervous circles. Her mother occasionally snagged her hand to reel her back into a seat as if she was a toy that kept rolling out of reach. She had the book in her bag, wedged next to her on the chair. It was a hardcover with a faded red paper cover, one that had been dinged and worn, a spine that had been cracked open many times. Allison flipped through it avoiding the front pages where Paul would’ve surely left an inscription. He would’ve written something like, “To my little sis,” and without any Kleenex she would’ve had to wipe her tears with the cuff of her sweater. She closed it again, and tucked it back in her bag for later.
Allison’s mother stood up when she saw the doctor. He put his hand on her arm, but when he spoke his words came out muffled and thick. She thought about the games she and her brother played in their pool, hearing “Marco Polo” shouted from above the chlorinated water. Her mother started to cry.
Allison bent over to pick up the piece of paper, a page from a wide-ruled wire bound notebook. It smelled musty like their old basement, and it was thin as a postcard. Allison looked it over front and back and then unfolded it. Inside was a map, drawn by a child’s hand. She followed the streets, thin parallel and intersecting ribbons, and realized it was their old neighborhood. Paul had drawn the houses as hollow boxes, the empty field that they had played in, and the path they would take down the lake. A large X was drawn in the middle of the field, the center which he had drawn their whole childhood world around. “Go find it” was written under the drawing as a caption. Allison turned the paper over. Nothing else. She picked up the book, fanned the pages looking for more clues but that was it. “Go find it”? She shook her head. Then she set the book down on the coffee table, took her bag and slipped out the door.
