Sometimes a pen is just a pen. And sometimes it isn’t. Freud notwithstanding, Jake knew there was something odd about this pen. It was a lovely pen — an antique he had inherited from his grandfather. It had to have been special to him, though Jake had never seen it before.
The first time the pen had gone missing, Jake had been frantic. It was all he had to remember the old man by. It had been a week after he died. Jake searched everywhere for it, to no avail. He had all but given up when, three days later, it reappeared, along with a leather-bound notebook filled with unlined, cream colored pages.
Both pen and notebook sat on Jake’s study desk. They hadn’t been there when he had gone to sleep last night. Jake lived alone in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment. A chill ran up his spine as he shifted from his bed to his desk chair. Someone had been in his home while he slept. His fingers hesitated as he reached out to touch first the pen, then the notebook. They were solid. He opened the book and leafed through the thick, hand-bound pages.
Only the first page had been written on. Jake immediately recognized his grandfather’s flowing script. Whoever had left this for him had obviously known the old man. He eagerly began to read.
Jake, I hope this finds you well. I’m sorry I had to leave, but it must have been my time. I still can’t believe I’m a grandfather! You must be very special to me, for the pen to have chosen you. I’ve never understood just how it works, but I woke this morning to a note from you. I know it’s confusing, but you haven’t written it yet. You will soon.
This diary only works when one of the correspondents has died. Don’t panic! I’m not dead as I write this. I’m twenty-six, your age. I know this because the diary age matches us. As I correspond with you, I also write to my Aunt Alice, who bequeathed pen and diary to me. I wish you could have known her. She was a grand old lady, and, now that I’m writing back and forth with her younger self, I’m learning so much about our family history.
Jake stared, transfixed, at the words. It was definitely his grandfather’s writing. If someone had forged his handwriting it was a sick joke. But who would have done it? Jake couldn’t picture any of his siblings or either of his parents doing something like this. He read on.
Right about now you’re in shock, thinking this can’t be real. I reacted the same way the first time Alice sent these to me. All I can do is ask you to have a bit of faith. Write back to me. When you sleep tonight the pen and diary will travel. I will answer you and when you wake up tomorrow they’ll be waiting for you with my response.
Just a few rules. You can ask me anything about the past, but you can’t tell me anything about the future. The ink won’t take. You can tell me about your life in general terms. Don’t worry too much about what to write. The pen will teach you what you can and can’t say. The words will disappear after they’ve been read. No permanent records.
I guess that’s about it for now. I know I’ll love you very much when I get to know you. For now, I remain,
Your loving grandfather,
Daniel Liddell
Jake couldn’t believe this. Could he? Could this be real? He had read the stories based on his great great aunt. But they had been fantasy. He stared at the pen that lay next to the open diary. All I can do is ask you to have a bit of faith. Jake picked up the pen.
Grandpa, I miss you so much…
Image by Christine Sponchia from Pixabay
This is a story I had a lot of fun writing. I had been thinking about how much I wished I had learned more about my mother’s childhood, and about my grandparents’ lives. Wouldn’t it be neat if we could speak across time to each other?
Being a writer, my mind turned to the fantastic for an answer, and this story was born. The idea to make the protagonist a descendent of the famous Alice Liddel, on whom the books Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass were based, came during the second draft. I love that it opens up new mystery. In the world of this story, were the Alice stories real? I don’t know. What do you think?
What a beautiful story. I can easily believe the stories are real. But what I thought about as I read it was my mom. At 94, my mom is the last of her generation in our family and luckily she is very 'with it' and has a fantastic memory. She's going into Facebook now, on a regular basis, and writing stories about our family and her growing up. Stories about her brothers and sisters so that her nieces and nephews, and I, have that window into the past. We feel very lucky. I am saving them so that I can create a book. I would love a chance, however, to correspond with my Grandma on my dad's side. I am her namesake but she died long before I was born. Oh, how wonderful it would be to find out about early life on the prairie, a homesteader wife with 4 children. And to get to know her. Your stories are always thought provoking, whether speaking to joy or challenges, they draw me to the end. Thank you for allowing me into this world.