#29 The Journal - An Iris

Finding an empty car wasn't difficult but still I found myself gravitating toward the end of the train. I sat in the middle row close to the window. I'd only ever ridden into the city from the station closest to the B&B, and knew the trip to be a few hours. The town of Augusta, where Unit #16 sat, however, was several hours in the opposite direction. It would be late at night before I arrived in the City.

I must've fallen asleep because when I awoke the grey clouds had given way to night and I watched the moon float above me from the smudged window. Only a crescent was illuminated, the rest encased in shadow.

Mo Soileireacht stayed tucked underneath my shirt as I hadn't moved from my slumped position since I'd sat down. It was easier that way, for my body to stay stationary while my mind roamed, skipping over the holes I'd dug up within the last twenty four hours. I wondered when I'd have the material to be able to fill them in. I held the doubt it would go smoothly, they would be shallow or uneven with large chunks of rocks protruding.

It seemed odd I was counting on a stranger to fill in the gaps left by my mother's absence. Monroe, an elite businessman – and possibly dangerous – was my connection to a woman who would only manifest in my mind as an out of focus photograph.

Gingerly I untucked the serene painting from my cotton shirt. Getting caught in the rain had done me some good as a few of the more visible stains became muted from their generous soaking.

As I took in Mo Soileireacht for the second time that day my mind wandered to Lyle. Had she been angry with me for lying to her? If not I was sure she would be now. But I couldn't shake the memory of how gentle her eyes had turned as she gauged my alarm. Did she care for more than the money?

A day ago I would have said yes, hell a day ago I would have wagered she was interested in me romantically. But now, things had changed - and that was putting it lightly. She might care for me in the way that any normal being cares for an acquaintance - which is why she helped me escape from the trigger happy Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. That alone doesn't indicate any romantic feelings or a deeper connection.

It was an act, at the art gallery, the bonfire, from the moment I'd met her that night. There were no real ties to me or reason she wouldn't have double crossed me. My irrational trust I felt toward her last night was just that - irrational. The adrenaline talking, I felt in debt to her because she'd saved me. Well now that those pesky chemicals were gone I needed to think clearly.

The fact of the matter is she is a thief whose end game was a big check. Better I left her before she did the same to me.

Exhaling I tried to convince the rest of my body, yet when I reached out to push away the feeling of regret in my gut I couldn't wash it all away. Pieces of my guilt clung to my skin that pelting rain couldn't clean.

Maybe I could go back to her - after I'd figured everything out. I would tell her everything and explain why I had to leave. It wasn't her  per say it was fear, an intense shock that someone else had the capacity to share what I kept hidden. It was a worry that someone else would get to the truth before me.

I turned Mo Soileireacht over as I thought and my gaze back to the crescent moon. If I were able to find her again how would that conversation go?

"Hi remember me? Sorry I left you by climbing out of a bathroom window but I really needed to find out some stuff about my mom and couldn't risk you screwing it up."

I rolled my eyes, I'd have to work on that.

As I thought of a less asshole-ish way to reconnect with Lyle my fingers traced the outline of Mo Soileireacht's frame. At some point my one sided conversation was interrupted as my forefinger ran over a small rip in the paintings backing.

Puzzled, I looked down at the thin brown material that stretched tightly across the back of the frame. The rip was no bigger than a tack but through it I could make out a bright red color. I ran my finger over the rip once more peeling the paper back another centimeter. More red came into view. My brow scrunched in confusion and I brought my feet to rest on the cushion so that I was seated in a crunched position. Resting Mo Soileireacht on my thighs a few inches from my face I timidly ripped at the paper centimeter by centimeter until a corner was exposed.

My hands were shaking as I ran my fingers over the red fabric. It was a soft cloth and from the corner I'd exposed I could tell it was thick. Half an inch of space stood between the cloth and the edge of the frame where I could fit my finger.

Paper.

Sheets and sheets of roughly cut paper sat below the cloth.

Without another thought, I peeled back the rest of the backing that stood as a flimsy barrier between me and the first surprise I'd received from Unit #16 in a long time.

My breath caught in my throat and for a moment, I couldn't breathe as I removed the item from the frame, gently cradling it in my hands. A cloth bound journal, no more than one inch in thickness, the words 'Mo Soileireacht' embroidered in gold thread on the front.

Without thinking I opened it to a random page. Dense ink smudges that constituted neat cursive writing covered the pages and I shrieked dropping the book to the floor and recoiling in my seat.

I'd recognize the penmanship anywhere, they were the same grand loops and slanted lettering that I'd first seen on my eighteenth birthday in Unit #16.

It was my mother's writing.

Inadvertently I'd thrown the painting to the seat next to me and I checked it to make sure I hadn't hallucinated. Sure enough the backing was open and a few loose strands of red fiber clung to the coarse wood on the inside of the frame. The journal had been hidden behind the peaceful painting.

Immediately I fell to the floor peering under the seats to find where I'd dropped the book. I located it under the seat across the aisle and I swore as my bony knees slid across the metal divider.

I held it tightly to my chest and breathed a lasting sigh of relief. It hadn't been a dream, this was real – maybe a bit too much. I sat cross legged in the middle of the thinly carpeted aisle and stared dumbly at the journal. For that's what it was - a journal - a collection of thoughts that my mother had penned with her very own hand.

I was exhilarated, this is what I'd been waiting for my entire life - a glimpse into hers. Then why was I so hesitant to open it?

Who knew what I would find, and maybe that's what scared me. Even more than never knowing was the fear that I'd find out something awful. That she'd left me not out of love, or circumstance, or even tragedy, but because she didn't care. That was what I was afraid of most, realizing that the not knowing was better than the knowing.

I have no idea how long I sat in the middle of the empty train car working up the courage to open her journal.

Seeing her signature scrawled across the top of the first page ignited my hope that I'd buried for so long. My ride to Unit #16 planted the seed but now, from under a thick layer of mud and clay my hope sprouted. A seemingly insignificant bud poking out from an otherwise barren field.

Whenever I began a book I always had the urge to flip to the back and read the last page. It was something I did out of not only curiosity but comfort. I wanted to know how the story would end, how to prepare myself if something bad were to happen along the plotline.

However, this time I could hardly turn the first few pages until I read and reread the cursive hand several times over. I didn't want to miss a detail and I sure as hell didn't want it to end.

I felt bonded in a different and more intense way than I'd ever experienced while painting or drawing. Painting was surely a language of its own, but one that she was so much more apt at articulating. If art were a formal language my mother would be an English PhD and I was a third grader still struggling with words more than three syllabus. But here reading her words we were on a level playing field.

Her world was spelled out – literally – her elegant writing like an extension of her painting style which I knew so well. I could feel her joy in one sentence where her words flowed freely into each other, just like I could feel the intensity of the wind in her firm strokes that covered her artworks.

I wasn't just reading, I was interpreting and feeling. It was a multi-dimensional experience that is impossible to describe and only continued to become more enthralling.

The steady chug of the train rhythmically rocked my body as I sat on the floor of the aisle completely engrossed in my mother's words. I stayed there late into the night and when the train made its scheduled stop at the city I knew what I had to do.

-

What do y'all think is in Charlotte's journal?

Vote & Comment if you like ! xo