The Noel Diary Read online

  Rachel gasped. “That’s her. That’s my mother . . .”

  I handed her the picture.

  “Oh my . . .” Her eyes welled up. She covered her mouth with her hand. Then she began to cry.

  I let her cry for a moment, then put my arm around her. “Are you okay?”

  “I can’t believe I’m finally seeing her. I look like her.” She held the picture in front of her face like it was a mirror. She looked stunned.

  “You have the same facial features.”

  She wiped more tears away. “I can’t believe this.” Then she leaned her face into my shoulder and just broke down crying. I put my arms around her, gently rubbing my hand over her back to comfort her. She kept saying over and over, “She’s real. She’s real.”

  I shuffled back to the second picture. “I wonder if that’s your father.”

  She took the picture from me and just stared at it. Then she turned it over. Scrawled on the back in the same handwriting as the diary was one word:

  Peter

  I held up the photo and looked at Rachel. “There’s a resemblance,” I said.

  More tears welled up in her eyes. When she could speak, she said, “I have to see her. I have so many questions.”

  I took a deep breath. “Now I know why you looked so familiar to me the first time I met you. Your mother is the girl in my dreams.”

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  The woman in my dreams existed. In a way, Rachel and I were having the same experience: both of us had wondered for most of our lives about the same woman, then suddenly there she was, captured on film. It was surreal—like seeing a picture of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.

  I started to read Noel’s diary out loud.

  June 18, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  The home I have been sent to belongs to a family named the Churchers. It’s small but comfortable. They’re nice. The man, Scott, is a social worker, which is why I was sent here. He’s kind. The woman, Ruth, is polite to me but quiet. I don’t know if she really wants me in the house. They have two young boys: a very active eight-year-old named Charles, and a sweet little four-year-old named Jacob. His middle name is Christian. Christian Churcher. I think that’s kind of cute. He’s adorable and immediately took to me. I think we will be good friends. Still no word from Peter. Where is he?

  Noel

  I looked over at Rachel, who sat rapt, clearly eager to hear more. I turned the page.

  June 25, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  Peter is gone. I called my friend Diane. She saw him with another girl. Rebecca. I feel like the victim of a hit-and-run. How could he do this? He said he loved me. Of course he did. He wanted me.

  I just finished the first trimester of my pregnancy. Time is moving very slowly. I have very strange cravings. The other day I wanted to eat the dust on the windowsill. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Not all is bad. I was in my room crying, and little Jacob walked up to me. He laid his forehead against mine. It’s like he knows I’m hurting. He just stood there. I took him in my arms, and he nestled into me. It’s almost like he came at this time to show me the potential joy of motherhood.

  Noel

  As a writer, I found it surreal to be reading about myself in the third person, like a character in someone else’s story. Yet the truth of what I was reading resonated like a thinly veiled memory.

  There was a knock at the door. I looked out the window and saw a large white truck with a picture of a piano keyboard running the length of its trailer. I handed the journal to Rachel.

  “Looks like the piano movers are here,” I said. I got up and walked over to the door and opened it. A broad Polynesian man stood on the front porch. He wore a black beanie, a hoodie, and leather gloves. His breath froze in the air in front of him. “We’re here for the piano.”

  “It’s right in here. Come in.”

  He stepped inside the room. “That’s a big one,” he said. “Steinway. Nice.” He stepped back out the door and waved at the truck. The truck’s driver pulled forward out into the road, then backed up to the end of the driveway. Then, gathering a little speed, the truck broke through the tall bank of snow into the driveway, stopping about ten feet before the Dumpster. The driver shut down the truck.

  “Grab a snow shovel,” the man on my porch shouted to the driver as he climbed out.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I should have shoveled, but I don’t have one. I don’t live here. We’re just cleaning up.”

  “No worries, man.”

  It took the piano movers about an hour to wrap the piano in cellophane and padding, attach it to a gurney, carry it outside, and load it into their truck. I gave them my home address and the number of my housekeeper, Lilia, to call when they reached the city. Then I called her and arranged for her to prepare a place for the piano in my living room and to meet the movers at the house and let them in.

  After they were gone, I looked back at Rachel. “Ready to go?”

  She hadn’t stopped reading from the journal. “Can I bring this with us?”

  “Of course.”

  She tucked the diary carefully under her arm.

  I turned off the kitchen lights and locked the back door, then turned down the thermostat. As I walked back into the front room, someone knocked at the door. I opened it to see Elyse standing in the cold. She wore a long, red wool coat and boots.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” she said. “I saw the moving truck.”

  “They were just taking the piano. I’m having them deliver it to my home.”

  She stopped and looked at Rachel. “We haven’t met.”

  “I’m Rachel Garner.”

  Elyse extended her hand. “I’m Elyse Foster. I live just two doors east from here, but I think you’ve been to my house.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I remember your mother being beautiful too.”

  “You remember my mother?”

  “Only a little. She wasn’t here long, and it was a very long time ago.”

  “Come in,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled a little as she walked over to the couch. “I always liked this couch.” She looked at me. “When I saw the moving truck pulling out, I was afraid that you might be leaving today.”

  “Actually, I am.”

  Her face fell. “Are you going back home?”

  “No. I’m driving to Phoenix to see my father.”

  “Oh.” She looked thoughtful. “He’ll be very happy to see you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know he will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he told me that he was very disappointed that you weren’t at the funeral.” She forced a smile. “So do you know what you’re going to say when you meet him?”

  “No idea. I’ve got the drive time to figure that out.” I looked at Rachel. “I know that I plan to ask him how to find Rachel’s mother.”

  “He might know that,” she said, glancing at Rachel.

  “So do you have any advice?” I asked. “For how I should approach my father?”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “With grace.”

  I looked at her quizzically. “You think he deserves it?”

  “If he deserved it, it wouldn’t be grace, now would it?” She looked at me. “It’s easy to see how things should have gone after the fact. He didn’t know how your mother was. She didn’t turn the way she did until several years after he was gone. He never would have allowed it.”

  “You know that?”

  “I knew him. He was very protective of you boys. That’s why he was so broken by Charles’s death.” She sighed. “Well, I better not keep you any longer. Do you plan to come back here before you go home?”

  “Yes. I still have some legal work.”

  “Very good. Then please stop by and let me know how everything goes. I’ll pray that it all goes well and you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you.”
/>   She looked past me to Rachel. “Good luck to you, dear. And Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you too.”

  She turned and walked out the door. I helped Elyse down the stairs, then went back inside where Rachel was sitting on the sofa.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “She’s nice. It’s just weird thinking that she’s seen my mother. It’s like these people who have near-death experiences and come back and say they’ve seen God.”

  “I’m pretty sure that your mother’s not God.”

  “No. But they do have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never seen either of them.”

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  July 2, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  I’m having a little morning sickness. Actually, a lot. I throw up a lot. It’s been three weeks, and I haven’t heard from my parents. I know that I’ve messed up, but why are they not even talking to me? Then again, based on our last conversations, maybe this is a good thing.

  Noel

  I took Rachel’s suitcase from her car and put it in mine, and then we drove separately downtown to the Grand America. We switched cars so I could park hers below in the parking garage. Then I took the elevator up to meet Rachel.

  She was standing in the middle of the spacious lobby next to a massive display of flowers, looking at all the Christmas decorations. A young woman was near the back of the lobby playing “Greensleeves” on a harp. “This is a really nice hotel,” Rachel said. “Do you always stay here?”

  “I haven’t been to Utah since I was a teenager. It didn’t even exist then,” I said.

  “Their Christmas decorations are beautiful.”

  “Down that corridor there are window displays and a massive gingerbread house. Maybe when we get back we can look at the decorations.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “It’s a date,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “Well, not really a date. More like an appointment.”

  “Appointment sounds cold,” she said. “How about an engagement?”

  I grinned. “No, you already have one of those. Let’s stick with date. As in a platonic hookup.”

  “You’re the wordsmith.”

  “Should we get some lunch before we leave or should we just grab something on the way?”

  “Let’s get something on our way,” she said. “We should try to make it before dark.”

  We walked outside and the valet handed me the key to my car. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The I-15 southbound on-ramp was only a few blocks from the hotel. We drove south through the Salt Lake valley into Utah County through Provo, almost a hundred miles before we stopped at the town of Nephi for gas. We hadn’t talked much, as Rachel had been reading from her mother’s diary most of the way, and I didn’t want to interrupt her.

  After filling the car with gas, I went inside the mart and bought a couple of energy shots and beer nuts, then went back to the car. “It’s past two. Let’s get some lunch,” I said. “What sounds good?”

  “I don’t care,” Rachel said. All around the gas station were the typical fast-food joints. Almost adjoining the gas station was an independent restaurant. “What about that place? J. C. Mickelson’s?”

  “Cars in the parking lot,” I said. “Must be good.”

  “It’s got your initials,” she said. “Maybe that’s a good sign.”

  Inside, the restaurant looked as homegrown as it sounded. There were model trains that drove around on a suspended track that ran the perimeter of the restaurant.

  I ordered a French dip sandwich with a baked potato and an Arnold Palmer to drink. Rachel ordered soup and salad with a homemade scone served with honey butter, which started a brief conversation on the true definition of scone. What is called a scone in Utah is really just deep-fried bread dough—what they call elephant ears in the South or fry bread, skillet bread, or sopaipillas in most other places. Whatever you call them, two came with Rachel’s soup and we shared them.

  It was a quarter past three before we were on the road again. Our route took us south on I-15 until about twelve miles past Beaver (where a billboard advertised the best-tasting water in America), east on I-20 through Bear Valley to I-89, then south down past the turnoffs for Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park, through Kanab, then east and across the border into Page, Arizona, where we stopped for gas. It was past eight o’clock, so we got some dinner. Actually, it was seven o’clock since we had gained an hour crossing the border.

  We stopped at a small Mexican restaurant before continuing south on 89 through the Navajo Indian Reservation to Flagstaff.

  Even though Flagstaff was only a little more than two hours outside of Phoenix, I decided that it was still too far to drive. It was already past one. Rachel had been asleep for several hours, and the kick from the energy shots I’d downed had faded.

  I stopped at the first hotel I came to—a Holiday Inn. Rachel woke as I parked underneath the hotel’s lighted front entrance. She looked cute, her hair slightly mussed and her eyes heavy with sleep.

  “Are we here?” Her voice was scratchy. Morning voice.

  “We’re in Flagstaff,” I said. “I’m too tired to drive.”

  I opened my door. “Just stay here. I’ll make sure they have rooms.” I got out of the car and walked inside. The front desk was abandoned and I had to ring a bell for service. Almost immediately a weary-looking clerk walked out to greet me. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like I had woken him. “May I help you?”

  “Do you have two rooms available?”

  “Sure. King or queen?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s quiet.”

  “It’s quiet.”

  I gave him my credit card and ID, and he produced two plastic keys for me.

  “Thank you.” I walked out and got back in the car. “They have rooms.” I parked the car and got our two suitcases from the backseat. Rachel was practically sleepwalking. Actually, she was acting drunk.

  “Come on.” I led her to the elevator that we took to the second floor. Our first room was just two down from the elevator: 211. I set down the luggage and opened the door, turning on the lights. “Here you go. Get some rest.”

  “Where are you staying?” she asked groggily.

  “I’m just next door.”

  “We could have shared a room,” she said, almost slurring her words. “Saved money.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I led her inside the room. There were two queen beds. I helped her over to the far bed, then knelt down and took off her shoes.

  She smiled. “You’re really nice. Have I told you you’re really nice?”

  “You just did,” I said. I pulled down the sheets on her bed. “There you go.”

  “I wish you could stay.”

  I grinned. “It’s a good thing you don’t drink,” I said. “Good night.” I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She wrapped her arms around me. “Thank you.” She kissed my cheek, then lingered, her arms still around me.

  “C’mon, sweetie,” I said. “It’s time for bed.” I put my hands on her arms and lightly pushed back. “Now go back to sleep.”

  She giggled. “I need to brush my teeth.”

  “Your suitcase is right here. I’m just next door. Call me when you wake in the morning. Good night.”

  “Good night, handsome.”

  “Good night.” As I stepped out of her room, I hoped that she wouldn’t remember anything she’d said. From what I knew of her I was certain she’d be embarrassed and feel guilty. I went into my own room, took off my shoes, and fell back onto the bed. I fell asleep with my clothes on, on top of the covers.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  July 9, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  My body is changing. I have what they call the pregnancy mask, though it really just looks like I need to wash
my face. The skin is also darkening around my nipples and belly button. Mrs. Churcher is keeping me very busy helping her clean the house and watch the boys. Fortunately it’s not a big house, and I like the boys. Charles is very bright. He asks me questions about my pregnancy, some not appropriate. I don’t tell his mother. Mrs. Churcher leaves the house a lot with her friends. Mr. Churcher is very kind. I’m anxious around men right now. I’ve been abandoned by all the men in my life. I feel like Fantine in Les Misérables. But I must admit that Mr. Churcher is nicer to me than the women in my life.

  Noel

  DECEMBER 17

  I had a bizarre dream again. One I remembered and woke hoping wasn’t real. Or a harbinger of things to come. It was of my dream girl again, only this time every time I reached out to her, my father stood in front of her, blocking my view of her. She was reaching out to me.

  I woke the next morning to the sun streaming into my room. It took me a moment to realize where I was. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and yawned, then stood and walked over to the window. Even though we were in Arizona, there was still snow on the ground. Flagstaff is one of the only large cities in Arizona that has four seasons.

  I knew this about Flagstaff as I had once done research on the city. One of my characters was driving Route 66. The famous road passes directly through Flagstaff, which not only averages a hundred inches of snow a year but is also the highest point on the route.

  I looked over at the clock. It was almost nine. I wasn’t surprised that I’d slept so late. I had gotten up the day before at five a.m. and not gone to bed until one forty a.m. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Laurie. I sat up in bed and answered.

  “Are you home?”

  “No. I’m in Arizona.”

  Long pause. “What are you doing in Arizona?”

  “Warming up.”