Day 27 - The Green Notebook

Saturday morning, the treatment tote was still on the dining table.

Exactly where Elliot had left it.

He noticed it before he noticed anything else.

Not because it looked dramatic.

It didn’t.

Brown canvas.

Leather handles.

One corner slightly collapsed inward.

A faint water stain near the bottom.

Ordinary.

That was almost worse.

He made coffee.

Toast.

Stood at the counter longer than necessary.

Then finally sat across from the bag.

For several minutes, he did nothing.

A month ago, he would have opened it the second he found it.

Maybe even in the garage.

Standing beneath fluorescent lights with dust on his hands.

Now he understood that finding something and being ready for it were not the same thing.

Megan had written that herself.

do not write this until ready

He wondered whether readiness was something you knew in advance.

Probably not.

He reached for the zipper.

Opened the bag.

The first thing he found was lip balm.

Of course.

Two tubes.

One empty.

One nearly new.

Then hand lotion.

A paperback novel with a receipt marking page 137.

Megan had written on the receipt:

not sure I like anyone in this book

Elliot smiled.

He turned the book over.

He had no memory of her reading it.

That happened more often now.

Discovering evidence of things Megan had done while he was nearby but not paying attention.

Not negligence.

Just life.

No one knew they were supposed to memorize everything.

Beneath the book:

A phone charger.

A packet of crackers expired in 2021.

A pen from the cancer center.

A folded cardigan.

Gray.

Not the sweater Tammy had been asking about.

Another one.

Elliot lifted it.

The fabric still held no scent.

That stage had passed months ago.

At first, everything had smelled like Megan.

Then almost nothing did.

He folded it again and put it beside the tote.

Inside one pocket, he found appointment cards.

A parking receipt.

A pharmacy receipt.

A business card for a nutritionist.

The accumulation of staying alive.

He set each item aside.

Not cataloging.

Just moving through them.

Then his hand touched something hard at the bottom.

He knew before he pulled it out.

Dark green.

Small.

Elastic band around the cover.

Elliot stopped.

The notebook sat halfway out of the tote.

Exactly as Lisa had described it.

Exactly as Tammy remembered.

He finished pulling it free.

The cover was worn along the edges.

No title.

No label.

A small indentation where the elastic had pressed into it for years.

He held it with both hands.

Nothing happened.

No surge of certainty.

No sense of Megan in the room.

Just paper.

Cardboard.

Elastic.

Something she had carried.

That was enough.

He opened the front cover.

Megan had written her name.

Only her first.

Megan

Underneath:

If found, please return. I’m emotionally attached to my nonsense.

Elliot laughed.

“Of course.”

The first pages were medical.

Questions for doctors.

Medication names.

Symptoms.

Dates.

A list headed:

Things I will forget the second we walk into the room

Below it:

Ask about neuropathy

Mouth sores??

Can I take ibuprofen

Why am I so tired if I am literally doing nothing

Elliot says ask about sleep

I say Elliot should mind his business

ask anyway

Elliot smiled.

He remembered that appointment.

Not the list.

The argument about sleep.

Yes.

He turned the page.

More treatment notes.

Then a grocery list.

Then:

possible title: The House Without Weather

He didn't recognize it.

Next page:

A paragraph of dialogue.

No names.

Then another treatment note.

Then:

train

Elliot’s hand stopped.

He looked at the word.

Small.

Top right corner.

Nothing beneath it except a page number.

He turned.

A few lines.

Not Caboose.

Notes.

What if they recognize each other but don't know why?

Another page.

she says there you are before she knows him

Elliot closed his eyes.

Morning Car.

Years before the final draft.

Or the seed of it.

The notebook was not organized chronologically.

Of course it wasn't.

He continued.

A medication schedule.

Two pages of scene fragments.

A recipe Tammy had apparently given her.

A note:

Lisa is wrong about chapter 11 but do not tell her yet

He smiled.

Then another page.

A heading.

CABOOSE

Elliot stopped.

There it was.

Not an index.

Not a note referring somewhere else.

The word itself.

Centered.

Underlined once.

Below it:

May 2019

His chest tightened.

He stared at the date.

Then looked away.

Out the window.

At the yard.

Morning sunlight.

A bird hopping along the fence.

The world behaving normally.

He looked back.

CABOOSE

He did not turn the page.

Not yet.

He carried the notebook upstairs.

Megan’s office was brighter than usual.

Saturday light through the window.

He set the notebook on the desk.

Then sat in the chair opposite Megan’s.

That surprised him.

For weeks, he had been using her chair.

Today he wanted the other one.

The one he used to sit in while she worked.

Sometimes reading email on his phone.

Sometimes waiting for her to finish a paragraph before they left for dinner.

Sometimes asking, “How long?”

And Megan answering, “Five minutes,” which meant anywhere between three and forty-seven.

He sat there now.

The green notebook across from him.

He imagined Megan in the chair.

Not sick.

Not dying.

Just writing.

He could almost reconstruct the posture.

One leg tucked under.

Pencil in her mouth when thinking.

Glasses pushed onto her head even though she would later spend ten minutes looking for them.

He looked at the notebook.

She had begun Caboose eleven days after diagnosis.

That part he knew.

But she had carried this notebook afterward.

To appointments.

Treatment.

Waiting rooms.

It contained notes from later years.

Which meant Caboose had traveled with her.

That mattered.

It had not been a single terrified idea written once and abandoned in a drawer.

At least not physically.

She kept the notebook.

Carried it.

Added other things around it.

Maybe returned to the pages.

Maybe didn’t.

He could find out.

All he had to do was turn one page.

He reached for it.

Stopped.

At noon, Tammy called.

He answered from Megan’s office.

“Well?”

“You knew I found it?”

“You texted me a picture of the bag last night.”

“I did.”

“Have you opened it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The notebook was inside.”

Tammy went quiet.

“The green one?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it in there?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“You read it?”

“No.”

This silence was different.

Then Tammy said, “Okay.”

Elliot waited for more.

None came.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know.”

“Read it when you want to.”

He looked at the notebook.

“That sounds annoyingly healthy.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He smiled.

Then said, “It has treatment notes.”

“Yeah.”

“Grocery lists.”

“Also sounds right.”

“She wrote that you gave her a recipe.”

“Oh God.”

“What?”

“Was it enchiladas?”

“I don't know.”

“If it was enchiladas, ignore everything she wrote. I forgot cumin the first time I gave it to her and she never let me live it down.”

Elliot laughed.

They talked for another few minutes.

Then Tammy asked quietly:

“Are you okay?”

He considered the question.

“Yes.”

Not reflexively.

Not because he wanted to end the conversation.

He actually was.

Scared, maybe.

But okay.

“Yeah,” he said again. “I think so.”

“Good.”

Before hanging up, Tammy said:

“You don't have to make today the day.”

Elliot looked at the notebook.

“I know.”

And he did.

That was new.

The rest of Saturday passed around the notebook.

Elliot mowed part of the yard.

Stopped halfway because the grass was wet.

Did not regard this as personal failure.

He went to the grocery store.

Bought coffee.

Bananas.

Dish soap.

Wine.

He stopped with the items in his cart.

Megan’s old receipt.

The same ridiculous combination.

He almost took a photograph.

Then didn’t.

Not everything had to become an artifact either.

At home, he ate dinner.

Watched half a movie.

Did not absorb it.

At nine, he went upstairs again.

The notebook remained where he had left it.

He sat in Megan’s chair this time.

Turned to the title page.

CABOOSE

May 2019

His fingers rested at the corner.

He could read it now.

He wanted to.

That surprised him.

But something about the wanting felt urgent.

And Elliot had begun learning not to trust urgency simply because it was strong.

Tomorrow was Sunday.

Sunday had become a day for these stories without him choosing it.

He smiled at that.

Megan would have called it ritual.

He would have called it scheduling.

Same thing, perhaps, depending on who was annoyed.

He closed the notebook.

Set it carefully beneath the desk lamp.

Tomorrow.

Not because he was afraid.

Because he wanted to give the pages his full attention.

That was different.

At the door, he looked back.

The dark green notebook sat alone in the circle of lamplight.

Eleven days after hearing the word cancer, Megan had begun Caboose.

Then she had kept living.

For years.

She had written.

She had laughed.

She had bought groceries.

She had complained about Lisa.

She had carried this notebook into waiting rooms.

And somewhere inside it, she had put her hand on a final door.

Elliot turned off the light.

Tomorrow, he would find out whether she opened it.