When She Comes

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“What?” my mother looked at me, eyes wide, and then turned back to the lawyer. 

The lawyer reached down to a small cabinet near his desk. He pulled out his keys, unlocked a  drawer, and pulled it open. He produced a small, black notebook. My mother moved to the edge of her seat. 

“Your father has left Annabelle with $20,000 and this notebook.” He turned and moved the  book in my direction. My mother’s hand moved forward, but the lawyer pulled the book away. “I have been specifically instructed to hand this over to Annabelle,” said the lawyer. My mother scoffed,  slumping back in her chair. 

My grandfather never went anywhere without this notebook. When I was little, I would often see  him scribbling notes while watching us grandchildren play. I always thought it to be a personal journal. My mother thought it was something more. I would often hear her discussing the matter late at night with my father. 

I carefully placed my hand beneath the notebook, allowing it to slip from the lawyer’s hands to  my own. The leather was cool to the touch. It was heavier than I expected and felt more like a thick metal. A golden elastic band held the book closed. It felt like fine silk as I ran my finger across it. At a glance, this could have been a brand new notebook, but as I inspected  further I could see slight wrinkles in the pages.

“Well? Open it up,” my mother urged. I felt all eyes on me as I pulled the elastic away and  opened the book. “What does it say?”  

I looked up at her. “It’s blank.” My mother snatched the book away and began ripping through the pages. I watched in horror, fearing she would tear one of them. 

“Blank?” she spat. 

“It’s as it was received,” the lawyer assured them. He turned back to me. “If you choose not to  accept the notebook, it will be destroyed.” 

“I’ll accept it,” I answered quickly. I reached toward my mom. She refused to look at me as she  reluctantly moved the notebook toward my hand. I attempted to pull it away, but her hand  seemed glued to the cover. I could feel the lawyer’s eyes lingering. I saw her look at the lawyer. Finally, she released it. She had been acting so strange since my grandfather’s passing. 

“Please make your current addresses known to me as soon as possible. I’ll be sending out checks  to each of you.” My mother stood first, prompting everyone else to stand and begin shuffling out  of the room. I could feel my mother’s eyes locked on the notebook as I passed through the door in front of her. As we walked down the hall I glanced back every few seconds. I was afraid she would pounce and steal the notebook away. I’d never felt this way with her before. 

As we left the building, I turned to say goodbye. Her expression had changed. She was now smiling. Her smile always brought comfort when I was little. She pulled me into a hug.

“Thank you for coming,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek. A valet pulled her car around and she looked back at me before stepping in. “Let me know what you find in that notebook!” she called out. She smiled one last time and disappeared into the driver’s seat. I watched her car pull into traffic and head toward our family home. I tried to shake off the absurdity of what I’d just experienced.  

I hugged my coat as I walked to the bus stop. A light flurry had started and the wind was suggesting that a heavier storm may be moving in. As I approached the stop, I heard the screeching of the bus. I hurried on, shaking off the cold, and made my way to a familiar seat in the back. Once seated, I pulled out my grandfather’s notebook. 

Part of me thought that for some reason, being away from my mother would suddenly reveal words. However, as I turned each page, I realized that was not the case. I tried convincing myself my grandfather had bought me a similar notebook to his own, but after every page, I saw a new flaw that suggested otherwise. The edges of each page had turned a faded yellow. On one page,  there was some water damage. I could almost make out a small letter. 

“Twelfth Street!” I stood up instinctively while still looking down. I hurried out and kept my eyes glued to this mysterious letter.  

Suddenly, I was falling through the air. I reached out and tried to grab onto one of the metal rails. My hand caught the sharp metal edge of the door. I felt it slice through my skin. I was able to catch myself enough not to crash into the sidewalk, but I could feel eyes on the bus staring at me.  

“Are you okay?” someone asked. 

“I’m fine,” I replied, refusing to look up. I collected my grandfather’s notebook and hurried away  while hiding my face in my coat. My apartment building was just around the corner. I couldn’t turn the corner fast enough. When I was finally out of sight, I heard the bus screech away. I jumped up the stairs quickly and punched in my code at the door. The second the door buzzed, I swung it open and hustled to the elevator. Once the elevator door closed, I was finally able to breathe again. My hand throbbed in pain. I looked down and saw blood dripping from the spine of the notebook onto the floor.  

Once on my floor, I hurried into the apartment. It was a small studio. The kitchen was located in the front with a small table sitting a few feet from the entrance. The apartment had a stale odor. I turned on the kitchen light and threw the book on the table. I hurried to the bathroom. The first aid kit my father had given me was tucked under the sink. I cleaned the wound and placed a bandage over my palm.  

I returned to the table to see what the damage was on the notebook. I cleaned the blood off the  cover. A large “D.J.” was written in gold on the bottom of the spine. I turned it over. My heart began pounding. The pages were drenched in blood. I dropped into a chair near the table, defeated. Hesitantly, I pulled open the book. 

In an instant, all my earlier excitement returned. On the page, as if written in blood resistant ink, was a  mixture of symbols, numbers, and letters. I turned the pages over and sure enough, the writing  continued. Somehow, my grandfather had written in some invisible ink only made visible by my  injury. I continued to look over the pages and my excitement seemed to be in vain. Every page consisted of what could only be described as gibberish. As I neared the end of the book, I nearly threw it in frustration. Then, I saw it. 

Dear Annabelle, 

It was strange seeing those words after sifting through so much gibberish. To my delight, the  final pages were coherent.  

Dear Annebelle, 

I hope you’ve discovered this message. It was a very interesting experiment: liquid-resistant ink  on paper that could be submerged in water and survive, although it may take a darker liquid to clearly distinguish the writings. As my only living heir, I hoped you’d have the brains to figure out this little puzzle. 

I suppose this next bit will come as a shock, so take a seat. When you were born, we lost your mother to complications at birth. I couldn’t handle the thought of you growing up and blaming yourself for your mother’s death. So, I made a mother for you. 

I could feel my palms shaking. He made a mother? I turned the page and hoped for further explanation, but the message was cut off and followed only by two short words. 

Trouble, Page 67-I 

Below was the key I needed to decipher the other parts of the book. I found the page and paragraph my grandfather had indexed. I turned back and forth, breaking down each symbol and  converting it into a phrase or word. After a few hours, I had deciphered a little note. 

Subject ONE: She has become aware that humans expire. She seems to be waiting for it. I fear she may try to accelerate the process. 

Knock! 

I jumped up and nearly fell to the ground. I looked up at the clock. Two thirty in the morning. Who could be knocking at this hour? I closed the notebook. 

“Who’s there?” 

“Annabelle, it’s your mother.” I looked down at the notebook. 

“One minute,” I said as I sat frozen at the door. Was my mother subject one? Suddenly, I was thinking of all the places I could grab a weapon if I needed one. I shook the thought off as soon as it came. I had known this woman my whole life. I grabbed the doorknob comforted knowing I did have a gun hidden beneath my sink. With a deep breath, I unlocked the hatch and pulled the door open. She rushed forward and pushed past me.

“Do you know how terrifying your building is at this time of night?” she began. 

“Yes,” I answered. 

She raised her eyebrow. I saw her eyes glance down at the notebook. She stared for a second and then looked back at me. I pushed the door shut and refused to break eye contact. 

“What happened?” she demanded. She took a few determined steps before grasping my injured hand.

“I just cut it coming off the bus,” I said.

“M-hmm,” She replied, her eye’s drifting back to the notebook. I tried pulling my hand away. Her grip tightened. 

“Mom.”

“Did you find anything in the notebook?” she asked, as though she hadn’t heard me.  

“No,” I lied. My mother looked up at me. Her eyes were like a black hole waiting to swallow me into an abyss. Her grip tightened, her thumb moving directly onto the wound. I winced, pulling away more aggressively.

“Nothing at all?” she pushed, ignoring my pain. 

“No,” I said as her grip tightened even more. I dropped to my knees, hoping to alleviate the pain. 

“I’m sorry, Annabelle,” she said as her fingers wrapped around my hand and squeezed. I felt my bones crack under the pressure. With almost no effort at all, she threw me across the kitchen. I smashed into the sink and felt my ribs crack. The room was spinning.  

My mother picked up the notebook and began to stroll casually closer. She stopped and turned  toward the knives. I used this  opportunity to slip my uninjured hand under the sink and search for a weapon.  

“You should blame your grandfather for this,” she said as she pulled out one of the knives and  looked over it. My hand found its target. I gripped the gun. “I can’t have anyone controlling me anymore.” She plunged the knife into my leg. I screamed as I desperately searched for the safety on my weapon.

“It wasn’t meant to end like this,” she continued as she yanked the blade out. She lifted the weapon over my chest. “I can’t have you controlling me.” Just as she prepared to stab, I pulled the gun out. All I remember was the thundering of the gunshot and my mother’s body crashing next  to me. I felt a warm liquid surround me. Shaking, I moved away, expecting the stench of blood, but all I could smell was grease. I looked at my mother. Wires hung from her injury and small sparks of electricity were still emitting. My grandfather had made my mother.