Part 3: The Notebook

I arrived in town the afternoon before the wedding. The roads looked smaller than I remembered, but I did not take the route past the bus station. My hotel was near the garden, and June had chosen a café within walking distance.

She came with Sam and a cloth bag. We hugged outside before entering. Sam asked whether I wanted the table near the window or the one farther from the door. I chose the window, where I could see the street without sitting directly beside it.

The notebook was worn at the corners. Our mother's name appeared inside the cover, followed by a date from the year before she died. Some pages contained recipes; others listed books she wanted to read, appointments, and notes about people she cared for.

June turned to a page marked with a ribbon. Our mother had written about a rainy afternoon when we built a town from cardboard boxes. I remembered the boxes but not the rain. June remembered the rain but not the name I had given the cardboard library.

“We don't have to agree on every detail,” she said.

“No. We were different ages.”

A few pages later, I found a note about a broken violin at the school where our mother volunteered. She had written that I wanted to learn how it worked. I had forgotten she knew that. Years later, when I began repairing instruments, I assumed the interest had appeared on its own.

Sam showed me photographs of the cake tests. The first had collapsed in the center. The second stood proudly on a plate with a crack across the top. June said the crack made room for more cream.

We talked about the wedding schedule. Priya had confirmed the seating and the quiet room. June said our father had asked whether I would be there. She told him yes and repeated that he was not to approach me.

“How did he react?” I asked.

“He said he understood. He also said he hoped you might change your mind.”

I felt my shoulders tighten.

“I told him hope doesn't change the plan,” she added.

That evening I walked back to the hotel. I passed a music shop with a trumpet in the window and stopped to inspect the repair on its valve. A man came out and asked whether I played. I said I repaired instruments. We spoke for a few minutes about a supplier who had closed the previous year. The conversation had nothing to do with my family, and I was grateful for that.

At the hotel, June sent another photograph from the notebook. It showed a list of things our mother wanted to do with us: visit the river, make a kite, learn the names of the birds in the garden. Several items had check marks. Others did not.

I wrote back, We can still learn the birds.

She replied with a photograph of a bird outside her window and asked what it was. I had no idea. We agreed to ask Sam, who taught biology and had once corrected both of us about a tree in a park.

Before bed, I placed Priya's card on the desk beside my room key. I did not know how I would feel when I saw my father. I knew where the side entrance was, whom I could call, and that June had given me permission to leave. Those details did not erase the past. They made the next day possible.