Day 26 - Where She Put Things

Friday morning, Elliot called Lisa before work.

She answered with, “This sounds ominous.”

“What?”

“You don’t call me at seven forty.”

“I need to ask you something about Megan.”

“That does not reduce the ominousness.”

Elliot pulled into the jobsite parking lot and turned off the engine.

“How did she keep handwritten drafts?”

Lisa was quiet for a second.

“Badly.”

“That is not useful.”

“It is accurate.”

“She had a system.”

“No.”

“She had multiple systems.”

“Also no.”

Elliot sighed.

“I found an index.”

“Okay.”

“It says Caboose was in a notebook.”

Lisa waited.

“And you want to know which notebook.”

“Yes.”

“Elliot, Megan had approximately one notebook for every emotional state.”

“I know.”

“Black ones.”

“Yes.”

“Green ones.”

“Yes.”

“Those little cream ones she bought because she thought they made her look organized.”

“She wasn't.”

“She absolutely wasn't.”

Elliot looked through the windshield.

“Did she keep different notebooks for different projects?”

“She intended to.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

“Then no.”

He smiled despite himself.

Lisa continued.

“She might start a novel in one, write grocery lists in the back, treatment questions in the middle, and dialogue for something completely unrelated upside down on the last page.”

“That sounds right.”

“If Caboose was handwritten, it may not be in anything labeled train.”

“Great.”

“You asked.”

He rubbed one hand over his forehead.

“What about when she was in treatment?”

Lisa became quieter.

“She wrote a lot by hand then.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes screens bothered her. Sometimes she was tired. Sometimes she just liked paper.”

“Did she ever send you pages from treatment?”

“Photos occasionally.”

“From a notebook?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember which one?”

“No.”

He exhaled.

Then Lisa said, “Wait.”

Elliot straightened.

“What?”

“There was a dark green notebook.”

He waited.

“She carried it for a long time. Small. Elastic band.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A year? Maybe more.”

“Did it have anything written on the front?”

“I don't think so.”

“Where did she keep it?”

Lisa laughed softly.

“Elliot.”

“What?”

“I edited Megan for eighteen years. I did not inventory her handbags.”

“Right.”

“But she carried it to appointments.”

That mattered.

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

He stared at the dashboard.

“Thanks.”

“Did you find something important?”

“I don't know yet.”

Lisa let that answer sit.

Then said, “Be careful not to make everything important just because she’s gone.”

Elliot didn’t answer immediately.

He understood what she meant.

A receipt became evidence.

A grocery list became artifact.

A half sentence became prophecy.

Death distorted scale.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“More than I did.”

“Good.”

They hung up.

Marcus was waiting near the trailer when Elliot walked up.

“You look like someone just gave you directions you hate.”

“They did.”

“Personal or professional?”

“Personal.”

“Worse.”

Elliot unlocked the door.

Marcus followed him in.

“I found out Megan kept the missing story in a notebook.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It would be if she didn’t own forty-seven notebooks.”

“Forty-seven?”

“I’m estimating.”

“That feels high.”

“You didn't know Megan.”

“Fair.”

Marcus poured coffee.

“So what now?”

“I look.”

“Everywhere?”

“Yes.”

Marcus nodded.

“That sounds like you.”

Elliot set down his keys.

He knew Marcus meant it casually.

Still, the phrase lingered.

That sounds like you.

A month ago, Elliot would have taken that as a compliment.

Maybe he still did.

Just differently.

At lunch, he called Tammy.

She answered immediately.

“Friday phone call. Growth.”

“I have another Megan question.”

“Of course you do.”

“Did she carry a dark green notebook during treatment?”

Tammy didn’t answer.

Then:

“Yes.”

Elliot sat forward.

“You remember it?”

“Maybe.”

“What does maybe mean?”

“It means she had a million notebooks.”

“Lisa remembers a dark green one with an elastic band.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

Then Tammy said, “The treatment notebook.”

Elliot’s pulse changed.

“What treatment notebook?”

“The little green one.”

“What was in it?”

“How would I know?”

“You called it the treatment notebook.”

“Because she brought it to treatment.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know.”

“Where is it?”

Tammy sighed.

“I don't know.”

Elliot closed his eyes.

“Can you think?”

“I am thinking.”

He waited.

“She had that tote.”

“What tote?”

“The canvas one.”

“What canvas one?”

“The ugly brownish one you hated.”

“I need more information.”

“She took it to appointments. Water bottle. Snacks. Sweater. Chargers. The notebook.”

Elliot remembered it.

Immediately.

A heavy canvas tote with leather handles.

Not ugly.

Functional.

Megan had called it her “waiting room survival kit.”

He had forgotten it completely.

“Where did it go?”

“After treatment?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know.”

“Did she still use it?”

“Sometimes.”

“For what?”

“Stuff.”

“Tammy.”

“What do you want me to say? She carried stuff.”

He almost laughed.

Then the memory sharpened.

The tote hanging from the coat hook by the laundry room.

Later on the chair near the bedroom.

Then—

Nothing.

He couldn’t place it after that.

Tammy said, “You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“She might have put it away when she stopped taking it to every appointment.”

“Where would she put it?”

“You lived with her.”

“That hasn't helped.”

“Closet?”

“I checked.”

“Guest room?”

“Checked.”

“Garage?”

“Megan did not store writing in the garage.”

“You say that like she had principles.”

“She did about moisture.”

Tammy laughed.

Then grew quiet.

“Elliot?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tear the house apart.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound like you’re about to.”

“I’m looking for something.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But if it’s there, it’s there.”

He waited.

Tammy continued.

“You don't have to earn finding it.”

That stopped him.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Okay.”

Maybe he wasn't.

Maybe he was.

There were still parts of grief where effort felt transactional.

Search hard enough.

Remember correctly enough.

Love accurately enough.

Get something back.

He looked down at the legal pad.

“Okay.”

“Call me if you find it.”

“I will.”

That evening, he searched the house differently.

Not fast.

Not systematically enough to become an operation.

He started in the guest room.

Top shelf of the closet.

Nothing.

A storage box beneath the bed.

Tax documents.

Christmas wrapping paper.

A broken picture frame.

Then the hall closet.

Scarves.

A winter coat Megan had not worn in years.

An umbrella with one bent spoke.

Elliot took it out.

Stared at it.

Put it back.

Bedroom.

Lower closet shelf.

Two old handbags.

A shoe box full of photographs.

No canvas tote.

He opened a dresser drawer and found six hospital wristbands tied together with a rubber band.

He did not remember Megan saving them.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Read the dates.

Different years.

Different appointments.

Nothing meaningful written on them.

No message.

No clue.

Just plastic evidence that she had been somewhere.

He put them back.

In another drawer, he found one of her scarves wrapped around three pens and a hotel soap.

“Why?”

No answer.

He smiled.

Kept looking.

By eight thirty, the search had become less about Caboose than inventorying the things grief had allowed to remain invisible.

A tote bag from a bookstore.

A single earring.

A charger neither of them could possibly need.

A folder of recipes Megan never cooked.

An unopened packet of flower seeds.

A birthday card she had purchased for Tammy but apparently never mailed.

Elliot opened it.

Blank inside.

He closed it again.

That hurt more than expected.

Not because it contained a final message.

Because it didn’t.

Megan had intended to write something.

Then hadn't.

Maybe forgot.

Maybe got tired.

Maybe the date passed.

Ordinary unfinished life.

He put the card aside to give Tammy.

Not as a message from Megan.

Just because it had been meant for her.

That distinction felt important.

In the office, he found another unfinished manuscript.

Forty-one pages.

No ending.

A note on top:

probably not this

He almost laughed.

Another folder contained a list of possible book titles.

Most terrible.

One:

THE THINGS WE DON'T FINISH

Elliot stared at it.

“No.”

He shut the folder.

Sometimes coincidence was just coincidence.

Megan would have enjoyed that one anyway.

At nine fifteen, he sat on the floor beside the office closet.

The search had yielded nothing useful.

He looked at the room.

For the first time since starting, frustration came.

Not grief.

Actual irritation.

“You could label things.”

He said it toward the desk.

Then immediately imagined Megan’s answer:

You could develop hobbies.

He smiled.

The frustration softened.

His phone buzzed.

Tammy.

Any luck?

He typed:

Found 14 things I wasn’t looking for.

Her reply:

That is the most Megan outcome possible.

Then:

Did you check wherever you put the treatment stuff when you cleared out the bedroom?

Elliot stopped.

Treatment stuff.

Not Megan's office.

Not her closet.

His mind moved backward.

After she died, people had come.

Tammy.

Lisa once.

Neighbors.

Food appeared.

Flowers.

Medical equipment had to be returned.

There were supplies everywhere.

Gloves.

Medication organizers.

Dressings.

Paperwork.

The tote.

He remembered picking up the canvas bag from beside the bed.

Putting something inside it.

Then carrying it—

Where?

He stood.

Laundry room?

No.

Garage?

Maybe.

Not stored there as writing.

Stored there as medical stuff.

That was different.

He went downstairs.

Opened the door to the garage.

Boxes lined one wall.

Most labeled.

Because Elliot had packed them.

MEDICAL

There.

He stared at the word.

For several seconds he did not move.

The box sat beneath another labeled DONATE.

He had packed it in January.

Probably within days of the funeral.

A period of time he remembered mostly as tasks.

People had praised him then.

So organized.

So strong.

He hated those words now.

He moved the top box.

Opened MEDICAL.

Inside:

A blood pressure cuff.

Unused masks.

A heating pad.

Two unopened boxes of gauze.

Medication information sheets.

A plastic organizer.

A water bottle.

And beneath them—

canvas.

Brown.

Leather handles.

Elliot’s hand stopped.

The treatment tote.

He lifted it from the box.

It was heavier than expected.

For a moment, he simply held it.

He remembered carrying it into waiting rooms.

Megan complaining that he packed too much water.

Megan digging through it for lip balm.

The two of them sitting beneath fluorescent lights while televisions played home-renovation shows no one watched.

He set the tote on the workbench.

The zipper was closed.

He put one hand on it.

Then stopped.

Not fear exactly.

Recognition.

This was no longer a box he had packed after Megan died.

It was something she had used while alive.

Those were different things.

He checked the time.

9:47.

He thought of Tammy:

You don't have to earn finding it.

Elliot removed his hand.

He was tired.

The bag would still exist tomorrow.

That, too, was something he was learning.

Not every unopened thing was an emergency.

He carried the tote into the house.

Set it on the dining table.

And left it zipped.

For tonight.