I came across this old short story (copied below) that I wrote as an assignment for a writing class that Ross got me as a gift. It’s kinda cheesy, but I like it. I’m pretty cheesy at heart.
It also reminds of my parents. And my kids.
Love notes were my moms idea. One of my favorite memories was watching her hide yellow Post-its inscribed with sweet little messages all over the house before we left for Japan for the summer to visit her family. Dad had to stay behind for work and she wanted him to find reminders that he was loved when he was looking in the fridge or choosing a tie. She put notes by his toothbrush and between plates in the kitchen cabinet and then she tried to think of places where he might not go right away so that he’d still be finding them after a week or two.
I was in elementary school and this idea felt like magic. It made it a little easier to leave. She and I would get “sore throats” from holding back tears when we had to leave Dad behind. Her affection for him was so pronounced around those trips and it made me feel safe. Big needs could be met. Love could cover distance. And sometimes you could keep it in your pocket like a souvenir.
Mom also wrote each of us notes before she had to go into the hospital to get part of her stomach removed when she was diagnosed with cancer. Mine said not to worry and that she’d take me to her favorite Italian place when she could eat again. (She never ate again.) She had a thing about making sure we knew we were loved. She put it in writing and signed it. And it worked. Literally like a charm. I’ve saved everything I could find with her handwriting. Seeing her penmanship makes me feel loved.
So naturally I developed the same preoccupation. I want everyone to feel loved that way. And sometimes I’m annoyingly redundant about planting those seeds.
As a child I would leave notes, too. Often on objects. My mom was both miffed and touched when I scratched I Love My Family into a piece of furniture in her bedroom. And then on her jewelry box. It felt like a prayer. Like insurance. My sister, Miki, must have had a similar preoccupation, but she’d just wave frantically and yell “I love you! I love you!” out the window of the school bus every morning as it pulled away.
When my girls were young, we sat at the kitchen table and wrote compliments on Post-Its. We spent time thinking of short messages that might lift someone’s spirit. We liked imagining how it might feel for the people who read them. My youngest and a couple of her friends would set up a “compliment stand” in front of the house. She had a big jar full of folded yellow notes that said things like You are loved or Your smile is better than lollipops! They’d announce “Free compliments! Come an get a free compliment!” as people walked by. And since we lived by a pre-school, lots of people walked by.
Once day, two men pushing an empty stroller walked by. One of them looked particularly grim. Angry even. I almost stopped my daughter from approaching him, fearful of what he might say or do, but she walked up smiling with that great big jar and offered him a compliment. I held my breath. He stopped and pulled a note out of the jar. He opened it, looked at it briefly and walked away, still holding it in his hand.
I had to run inside for something, but as I came back out, there he was again. He was finishing saying thank you as he began to walk away. He had tears in his eyes.
She said he had told her that he’d gone through a very bad time and had been feeling very low. He said she would never know how much her compliment meant to him.
I wish I knew which one he’d chosen. Clearly it was meant for him.
Love notes are magic. My mom showed me how to use notes to inscribe love on people. She planted perennial seeds in our hearts. I’m so grateful for this.
These days, my dad doesn’t have much of a memory. (Yes, I blame the shots.) He doesn’t remember the notes. He doesn’t remember much. Last month on his birthday he read the card I wrote him and was touched. An hour later he notice the card again, read it again and was moved a second time. He’d already forgotten. But I’m hoping those seeds are taking root. Either way, I’ll keep planting them.
Today, I’m headed out to Long Island to plant some more. I still believe in magic.
Here’s the short story.
The Love Note
You Are Beautiful!
Kerri Welch sat curled up in her favorite stuffed chair at Hava Java, staring at the words printed neatly and neutrally on a small yellow Post-it.
She’d left a copy of The Bohemian Manifesto: A Field Guide to Living on the Edge on the small end table to hold her spot, along with her favorite pink cashmere blend sweater (the air conditioning was always a bit intense, she’d noticed), while she waited in line behind fellow loiterers and caffeine junkies. Settling in with her steaming cup, Kerri had discovered the note that awaited her on page 176, the single page dedicated to bohemian weddings, and she wondered if this was merely coincidence.
Kerri had cancelled her own wedding six weeks before; had walked into this very coffee shop, hiding red-rimmed eyes behind Jackie-O sunglasses, desperately seeking solace. She discovered instead that she could simply disappear; sink into this cozy orange armchair with a book and a warm mug and vanish into the background. Or so she had believed anyway. Now she wondered if someone had surmised her current state of affairs.
Impossible, she chided herself. She shook the thought from her head. Kerri was a stranger here, even to herself now. She had moved here for Luke. Luke had been her life until she surprised him at work one Thursday afternoon and discovered the paralegal hiding under his desk.
So much for her life.
She peeled up the square of paper and examined it closely. The careful block letters were printed in blue ballpoint pen – no loops and flourishes to give the writer away. She peered around to study the faces of other patrons, watching for a blush, a sidelong glance or possibly a smile, but the room only confirmed her obscurity.
Women in tennis skirts laughed and chirped over iced teas. New moms chugged coffee and commiserated as they bounced infants on their knees and rummaged through diaper bags in search of binkies and keys. An elderly man sat reclined and cross-legged in the corner taking leisurely sips of espresso as he read his paper. And then there was the “weird guy” who showed up each day with his drawing pad and his disheveled black hair. Today he scribbled madly, his Charles Manson eyes fixed on the tennis ladies. Kerri looked away and hoped to God it wasn’t him.
As she completed her scan of the room, Kerri’s favorite barista caught her eye. An uncooperative cowlick bounced above his left brow as he hummed along to “My Sharona”. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle. There was something irresistible about the uninhibited. He glanced up as he finished placing a dollop of steamed milk on a cappuccino and flashed her a disarming smile. Kerri looked away, flushed and flustered. He’d caught her staring.
This was crazy. She laughed at herself for even wondering. They’d barely spoken. And what was he, 28 at the most? But still. He had discovered her unusual method of coffee selection, the way she used each opportunity to taste some beautiful part of the world that she longed to see. Today he’d even recommended the Brazil Peabody.
She stuck the note to the arm of her chair and tried to redirect her focus on all things bohemian. She reminded herself that she’d checked the book out of the library nearly a week ago; a failed attempt to revive the woman she once was. The note probably wasn’t even for her. She had caught a glimpse into a luckier life and it was time to return to her own.
But someone had anticipated her skepticism and another message awaited her on page 189.
Yes, you.
This page had no words at all. It was a watercolor illustration of a man standing at an easel painting a nude woman. Oh shit, she thought to herself as she glanced apprehensively at “Crazy Eyes”. He appeared to take no notice of her, but she didn’t trust his oversight. Too many things had not been what they had seemed to her lately.
She clapped the book closed and collected her things. Clearly, she’d been spending too much time here if she had to worry about the possibility of attracting potential serial killers. It was time to take a walk and clear her head.
On her way out, the barista shined that winsome grin as he asked her how she liked Brazil.
“Brazil was delicious.”
“See? I know what you like,” he winked.
Her voice caught in her throat and she could only nod and smile as she waved good-bye. She remembered flirting. And that felt like flirting. Cute coffee guy was back on the suspect list.
Strolling through town, anonymous once more, Kerri smiled to herself. Someone thought she was beautiful. Maybe someone she didn’t even know. It could be a scary guy who drew portraits of strangers or a man, a boy really, who carefully selected coffee just for her. And maybe it didn’t matter. Even if it was the old guy in the corner, someone had noticed something beautiful about her. And whether this person knew it or not, the compliment had come just when she had needed it most.
Since the split, Kerri couldn’t stop creating the story of her demise. In her mind, it had started with the 8 pounds she had put on since she’d moved to Chatham and the pathetic way she’d be there waiting for Luke with a beautifully prepared meal at the end of the day. Of course he strayed. She’d reduced herself to a matronly cling-on before they’d even picked a caterer. Not that she hadn’t tried to create a life of her own: she had initiated conversations after yoga classes, had even joined a book club, but nothing had clicked. So she spent her days alone. She ran out of things to say. And she shrank back into herself until she’d effectively disappeared.
But now, finally, someone had seen her and found something worthwhile.
As she walked, Kerri noticed her painted toenails framed by her favorite strappy sandals. She liked her slim ankles. Her ankles and her clavicles had always come through for her. They were proof of her daintiness, 8 pounds be damned. It was time to stop staring down at her feet. She straightened her spine and held her head up a little higher, the serene line of her mouth curling almost imperceptibly.
A middle-aged man huffed a smiling hello as he jogged past her on Orchard Street. A pair of women, engaged deep in curbside, dog-walking conversation, stopped to compliment the embroidered green silk blouse that she’d worn dozens of times before. Kerri began to glow. Something warm and vaguely familiar surged through her. It felt something like…her. Kerri Welch before she was Luke’s girlfriend. When people smiled at her. Or at least when she noticed them.
Something had returned to her. Kerri felt her spark again. Electric. Magnetic, even. She did an about face and headed back to the coffee shop. There was a bounce in her step now and she felt almost giddy. A passing driver tapped his horn and gave her an enthusiastic catcall out his window as he went by. I’ve still got it, she told to herself. I am beautiful.
The door jingled as she followed the aromas of Brazil, Guatemala, Hawaii and Tanzania to the counter where her suspect wiped a pitcher dry. His face brightened as she approached. “Back for more?”
Kerri took in a quick breath and strengthened her resolve. “You’re the friendliest person I’ve met here so far and I could use a friend,” she began, watching his face for signs of horrified panic. But there was only the softening of his expression. She continued, “I was wondering if you could join me for lunch one day? Or maybe catch a movie?”
She could see he was taken aback. His jaw had slackened, his eyebrows raised. It was clear to her now. It hadn’t been him. He was just a friendly guy making the best of his days at the local coffee house. Kerri’s face began to feel hot. She lowered her eyes, afraid to look.
“Sure, Kerri. That would be great!”
Her head snapped up. He knew her name. “Really?”
“Definitely,” he grinned. “I would have asked first, but you always seem so, I don’t know, preoccupied.”
She nodded. “I guess I have been kind of absent,” she conceded. “But I’m back now.”
“Good. So, how about Friday?”
She scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. “Friday, then.”
Outside the store, she pumped her fist triumphantly. Her unhappy ending had just changed course and rerouted her into endless possibility. So little had changed and yet she felt entirely different.
She headed next to the library. She no longer needed The Bohemian Manifesto to remind her of who she was. She’d trade it in for some good beach reading.
As Kerri approached the counter and slid her book through the return slot, she noticed a young boy sitting beside the librarian, working diligently on whatever job he had before him. He looked to be about 10 years old, but with the soul of someone much older and wiser. It was unusual to see a boy his age so engaged in his work.
Kerri watched as he placed a book on top of a small stack to his left and reached for another from a formidable pile on his right. She released a quick gasp as she watched him let the book fall open and placed a yellow Post-it on the page.
The librarian looked up at her. “Are you ok?”
Kerri nodded, still watching this very old, very young boy. “What is he doing?”
The librarian followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s David. He’s my library angel.”
“Excuse me?”
“My library angel,” she repeated, “He leaves notes for our readers to lift their
spirits.”
“That’s very sweet,” she acknowledged, letting go of her foolish fantasy.
“Yes, he really is. He and his grandmother used to leave notes for the folks in her nursing home and they really loved finding them. After she passed, he asked if he could do it here.”
Kerri smiled to herself as the woman picked up the book she’d just returned. “You are beautiful,” the woman recited. “I remember when he wrote this one.”
Kerri’s lip began to tremble. She blinked back tears, surprised to find how the words, spoken aloud, moved her. It had been a long time since she’d heard them.
“Yes. You.” she asserted, placing a hand over Kerri’s. “Angels don’t make mistakes.”
Beautiful story, thank you.
Great post.