The Journal Keepers

By Peter Hassebroek

The frayed lives of an American man, and a young woman from Ukraine, both painfully impacted by the 9/11 attacks, converge in 2002, and do so again, fifteen years later, with the discovery of their personal journals.

The inexplicable abandonment of these private stories poses a mystery to the finder, Ionia, a Canadian vacationing in Greece, who is hoping to overcome a deeply emotional loss of her own. A journal keeper herself, Ionia is hesitant to invade the privacy of Russell and Mishenka, but is unable to resist upon realizing a man often referenced in their entries is the man she just met.

As Ionia delves into words written years earlier, they touch her in an eerily poignant way, echoing old wounds. It prompts her to behave erratically as she integrates these strangers' stories into her own life, both past and present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Hassebroek
• Release date: Oct 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999181529

Peter Hassebroek

I am an independent author from Durham Region, Ontario, Canada. I was born in Amsterdam, Netherlands, and emigrated to Canada before I turned seven. I grew up in St. Catharines, Ontario then moved to Toronto where I enjoyed a successful I.T. career for twenty years before my need for creative achievement compelled me to become a writer.I have written nine books, including six novels, two story collections, and a book of screenplays. I write general fiction and my work could be categorized as Upmarket Fiction.I also offer coaching for aspiring storytellers to take advantage of my unique combined experience in writing and project management, as well as other services such as proofreading and copyediting.

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The Journal Keepers

by

Peter Hassebroek

The Journal Keepers

Published by Upbound Solutions

Copyright © 2019 by Peter Hassebroek

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and to actual locations or organizations, is coincidental.

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN:  978-1-9991815-2-9 (e-Book)

ISBN:  978-1-9991815-1-2 (Paperback)

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www.peterhassebroek.com

Contents

Title and Copyright

IONIA - 2016

RUSSELL - 2002

MEGAN - 2000

CHARISSA - 2017

Acknowledgments

IONIA - 2016

September 11

Always an entry on 9/11. Always the first in the fresh journal I gift myself every birthday—it's not a diary—an annual tradition since that infamous, fateful day I turned twenty-seven, the date to launch the beginning of the end of the world. Of course, the apocalypse I intended to document never unfolded in any sense the events of that day in 2001 augured. For me, it's been more of a plodding deterioration over those fifteen years, the fall of the twin towers more a rude awakening than instigator. Which is pathetically evident in how my journals pile up in my memory box, year after year, each with more and more blank pages. A biennial gift might be more economical.

This year 9/11 is a Sunday. I look forward to spending it alone, shutting off my cell, unplugging my landline, and ignoring the Internet altogether. Evading trite and repetitive observations of being born on a day of infamy. Damn it, now I'm doing it. What I meant was, I was born on a day that nearly three decades later would become a day of infamy.

I came first. There is no irony.

Fifteen years it's been. While I wasn't there and never met or knew anyone directly affected, I can pinpoint that day in 2001 as a changing point in my life. The inciting incident is what they call it in film scripts. Today's Ionia is so different from pre-9/11 Ionia, the chaste Ionia, just starting to get her career going with a lovely husband she'd never cheat on. What would Greg make of me today, him being so staid and conservative? Unless he's changed too. Who can be sure how anyone changes in a decade and a half? He could be more tolerant, less likely to consider me a slut as he would have back then. Maybe he might even grant me my preferred euphemism: independent.

So what makes me torment myself and think about Greg each time I meet a guy, bring him home, and ship him off first thing in the morning? It doesn't happen often, seven or eight times a year, tops. Some years, just once or twice: it is not an addiction. Maybe it's an attempt to tap into my archived conscience to find a way to convince myself I'm not as cold as this kid says, even if he is right. Ah, the young'uns. So disposable.

Lincoln, that's his name, forgot for a moment. Nice kid but an archaic name for someone who's only twenty-four. Too earnest, as if trying to live up to his presidential namesake. I can't call him Linc like the character from The Mod Squad, for instance. He really needs a girl his own age to share the humourlessness I find so prevalent in millennials. A hallmark even.

My predilection for millennial boys is not just a simple midlife crisis. There are few men over forty at clubs or anywhere who aren't embarrassingly desperate. I truly cannot stomach the idea of dating anyone older than me, especially if I can still appeal to a Lincoln. He's good looking—almost as much as Julian, which is frightening—and I suspect his interest in me is sincere, not, as I fear, and as has happened a couple of times, due to an Oedipal obsession. Lord knows, I'm certainly no mother figure.

It was sweet how Lincoln wiped away his tight dreads and said, in all seriousness, how he scorns thin women and prefers ones who are pretty and curvaceous. Saying he's a vegetarian when it comes to eating food, but in romance, meaning sex, he desires a nice slab of meat. Enough, stop it, already. But then he had the audacity to pull the sheets to have a look, oblivious to how self-conscious I am of my flabby stomach. Then he said it:

—So Rubenesque, I could paint you.

I tugged back with surprising strength, to him, and glared. His sad look told me it was time to liberate him. We were done. To his credit, he didn't whine as much as others have and it almost tripped me up when he declared his wish to remain, even if just for the rest of the day. No, if I allowed that then . . . well, then I wouldn't have been able to shop for this lovely new journal.

Spending an hour deciding which to punish with my drudgery for a new solar year is a great way to occupy my birthday. Only my Yorkville store was closed, as they are on Sundays, so I had to try Chapters. At last I found one with a dark cover and a single etched tree rising beyond the edge. The simple elegance of the design seems to complement my inner soul, while also defying the empty complexity of the outer world. Furthermore, keeping that world out with a programmable combination lock. It even comes with not one pen, but two. Twins.

September 12

Rubenesque. That damn adjective keeps inserting itself in my brain. It stopped briefly while checking my phone messages this morning. A few for my birthday but not as many as in past years. Zoe figured out a long time ago it was best to not bother. What best friends are for, in my view. As good a friend as I've ever had. There was one from an unknown number. Lincoln. How did he get my number? Did I give it to him? The message was calm, collected, devoid of stalker red flags. His silky voice made me second-guess shooing him away so hastily. But the moment the message ended, the word Rubenesque echoed.

I deleted the message, confident he will not persist. If he does, and it occasionally happens, my obliging concierge, charmed by my smile, and an annual Christmas card with a hundred dollar bill inside, will look out for me and do so without judgment.

Rubenesque. Damn you, Lincoln.

Then again, maybe that's motivation for me to stop thinking about getting in shape and actually do it. Maybe I will thank the youngster one day.

September 14

Trivial Pursuit nights are getting duller but, for the life of me, I can't think of anything I'd miss more if it were taken from me. Each new season I look forward to the nostalgic rush I get from reuniting with Sophie, Glen, Amir, Angela, June, Callum, Daisy, Tito, Randy, Joy, and whatever other alumni any of those guys reconnected with over the summer. And of course, Zoe, who I now only see on these nights.

Zoe and I still work for the same organization where we all met, around Y2K. The Tontine Twins, Glen calls us now, after he quit a year ago, probably unaware Zoe and I aren't nearly as close as we once were. Being in Procurement, with a spacious cubicle on the eleventh floor, and a promising career path, slots me ahead of Zoe whose advancement is stalled in Accounting on six. Our paths rarely cross at the office and neither of us makes the effort. She didn't even tell me about her last two pregnancies. I had to guess when I noticed her drinking light beers instead of the Shake-Up Slurries she loves, before switching to water.

Pretty quiet in the bar tonight, a handful of tables occupied, and of course the three or four barflies anchored to their barstools for as long as I can recall. The place gets dingier every year, the wall scratches longer and deeper, the reds and greens and blues in the rugs duller, the musty dankness stiflinger, the temptation to look at the ceiling compelling and repelling simultaneously. Yet I don't mind it. To me, Shake-Up is a nostalgic sanctuary. It could be livelier but other than that I hope it never changes.

Did I really just write stiflinger?

That's what must have made me so self-conscious, the lack of noise, exacerbating the dread I felt for Zoe asking me about my weekend, which she tends to do whenever I've spent it with a guy. I never reveal a thing but that only gets her on the topic of spinsterhood and loneliness and the need for me to either find a partner or some excitement in life. As if the two are mutually exclusive. These topics naturally arise while impatiently waiting for a slow thinker like Callum to answer a question everyone but him knows the answer to. If I'm in a bad mood, or Zoe is, the tension can get thick. I don't think by her questions Zoe is after anything more than a vicarious share in a lifestyle she gave up for suburbia. Or perhaps she's looking to validate her life choices. But it can get tedious.

On rare occasions her message gets through and the notion of settling down appeals to me. Until I think of who she married and the thought quickly disappears. Tonight she didn't inquire and seemed distant, or stressed, yet still sexy and frustratingly slim as if looking to meet someone. She'd never admit if she's having marriage troubles. So I never ask.

I did notice Callum sans wedding band. I avoided asking once I noticed him leering at Zoe, when not awkwardly flirty with our waitress. Julie is cool and played along, she's served us a long time. She and I have had good talks over the years. I know her enough to know she has no interest. Callum must have realized it too, about both Julie and Zoe, because by the end of the game his gazes were in my direction. Nice guy, Callum, but not worth breaking my policy of never dating colleagues or ex-colleagues. Never mind that he's almost ten years older than me. In the end, my main issue with him is I know Chelsea, and I've looked after their twins, back in the day, Ted and Dan. I was able to avoid him, thankfully.

September 22

Lincoln called again. I neglected to screen the call so I had to talk to him. His lovely, cheerful voice made it difficult to cut him off, until he said he found me intriguing.

—Do you? How so?

—I'm not sure, there's some reason.

—I suspect that when you discover that reason, Lincoln, it will blow your whole millennial life apart.

He laughed at that but I could tell he had no clue what I meant. How could he, neither did I. But it sounded neat, sounded like a potential epiphany. That sort of bravado is not me so it's not a surprise it left me vulnerably unable to decline his request to go to a party at his house in East York in about a week. A streetcar ride, a few subway stops, what the hell?

When I hung up I chastised myself for failing to ask how he got my phone number. Guess it doesn't matter.

Zoe and I are on the same project, involving mergers, buyouts, and plenty of PO action. Generally I only consult as needed on projects, for this one they want me dedicated full time. It'll keep me busy, so I've been told. Or warned. I was intrigued by how much emphasis was placed on team members being vigilant in observing the corporate code of conduct. In particular in regard to reporting offers of gifts (let alone accepting any, a big no-no), and ensuring we let nothing about the project slip to outsiders, vendors, or even colleagues not assigned to the project. It could be difficult for Zoe. Her loose lips created issues before, though just personal ones, as far as I know.

Now why did I think to write that? Since I'm on the subject of silly notions, maybe Lincoln found my phone number in some clandestine way. Is he engaging in industrial espionage?

September 26

The big kickoff for the project occurred today with at least three vice presidents—I did doze off at one point—giving a pep talk to demonstrate a unified front to convince us we had executive support. Didn't see Zoe until near the end, but I don't think she saw me. I'll see her Wednesday.

Now that I think of it, there wasn't much substance to the kickoff, let alone a clear vision. Could be trouble.

September 28

Winning at Trivial Pursuit doesn't happen often but tonight it did. Sadly, the only positive aspect of the evening. Zoe was in a strange mood that I fear doesn't bode well for our collaboration on this project, if there is any. I may be wrong but I feel she's keeping something from me, based on her snappiness towards me throughout the evening.

A low point occurred with Callum after the game ended, after people disbanded to either go home or get another drink. Turns out I was mistaken thinking he had been scoping out Zoe and Julie last time. I was the focus of his attention. It became evident when Callum, despite Zoe sitting right next to us, confessed he's been attracted to me for years. He melodramatically waved his wedding band-less finger and asked me out.

—I'm sorry, Callum, I don't date colleagues. Or ex-colleagues.

—That wasn't always the case, Ionia.

I glared at Zoe. Why would she say that? Why bring it up with someone who wasn't there at the time? Her words must have shocked Zoe herself, for she abandoned me to join Sophie and Angela at the bar. She's not a fan of either girl. It left me with a sense of irony I could not crystallize.

—So who was it you dated before at work?

—A long time ago, Callum, you weren't with us yet.

—But still.

—Look, you're a sweet guy and all, but I just can't. Besides, I'm sort of seeing someone. We have a date Friday.

—Well, okay. But if that doesn't work out . . .

I just nodded and left him there to find Zoe. She wasn't at the bar. Angela told me Zoe only stayed to pay her bill and left. Left me pretty heated is what she did.

September 30

Zoe did not show at work yesterday or today. Is she avoiding me or is there something else? All I can think of is her snarky remark, but I can't believe that's the cause of her absence.

There is a funny thing at work. I doubt it could have anything to do with Zoe, but you never know. Turns out my role is not to facilitate purchase orders and vendor appraisals, but to do my utmost to thwart them. That's right. The Procurement caution that's a matter of course is now the rule of law. Only no one is to know this. I don't like it, it could harm the relationships I have built within the company. I feel like a spy, a double agent.

Lincoln called again to confirm I'm going. I remembered to get him to give me his phone number and tell me how he got mine. Simple. I'd left my birth control prescription in the open. Have to admire his industry, though what does it say about a person that goes through such intimate items?

Still, I'm feeling good about his party, and I'm kind of looking forward to it, perhaps because it avoids making me a liar with Callum, or perhaps for other reasons.

October 2

A millennial Jekyll and Hyde, that's the best way to characterize Lincoln. Mature and charming when it's just the two of us, but with his own kind, a piece of shit. Last night was awful, I feel so violated. Not physically. Never a fear of that with this collection of wusses and snowflakes. So glad I'll be dead by the time the youth of today is fully in charge of the world.

I got there to find Lincoln by himself, setting up his iPod to play some agreeable rap music. We exchanged an awkward greeting, half-kiss, half hug, before he offered me a fruity craft beer with a pretentious label. That was a sign. Several minutes of quiet conversation passed before the door opened like a dam to let in a bunch of guys, all in casual sweats or ripped jeans, one in shorts. Most sported millennial beards of varying lushness, and a pair of twins—at least they looked like twins—had their hair tied up in silly man buns. They reminded me how a desire for individuality often results in a different sort of uniformity.

I felt overdressed in my wool skirt and lavender blouse. At least Lincoln's jeans looked new and tear-free, giving me a faint hope he and I would exit to escape to a bar. They all seemed younger than Lincoln, certainly less mature, sipping on radlers or fruity coolers, staring at smart phones, comparing strategies for what I assumed was a communal video game. Until Lincoln merged in smoothly like a skilled motorist on a highway ramp, confirming it was indeed a video game. It still surprises me now how much it disappointed me to see that.

Clearly it was a mistake going.

Lincoln saw my distress and, I have to say, did break from his game to do his best to include me. But I was ignored by the rest, treated as a curious oddity. Except for two guys telling me they had formed a rock band called Pocket of Snot, before blowing their noses into their shirt pockets in a choreographed way. The shirts may be from Winners, they aren't.

What was I doing there? I kept thinking, while pondering a way to exit politely, or at least inconspicuously. I finished my beer, went to the kitchen to dump the empty, when some guy took it from me and handed me a fresh one, already open. By the time I wiped away the overflowing froth, ready to sardonically thank him, he was at the front door greeting six or seven young girls. All thin and all cute, but not exceptionally beautiful. The added female presence was welcome to me. I began thinking it might be anthropologically interesting to watch the millennial species interact. That, along with my hating to waste beer, even a light beer, prompted me to give it another go. Sadly, all attempts to converse with most of the girls proved fruitless.

There was one I saw constantly staring at me with recognition, not as an unwanted outsider. I can stare down the best but her gaze disturbed me. I kept the girl in my peripheral vision but glanced away one time. I looked back and she was approaching, wearing a faint smile. Then the front door burst open and a big lout entered, one giant hand palming a six-pack of beer cans, the other thumping at his shirtless chest like a WWE performer. He shrugged off his sneakers, exchanged several fist bumps and bro hugs—I think they called him Duke—before it became quiet with another Drake tune the only sound. The girl who had been approaching me froze, possibly retreating. This Duke set down the beers, looked around, then pointed at me.

—Hey Linc, this your MILF?

—Shut up, Lucas.

I stepped up to the newcomer, then turned to my host. My arms were probably crossed, and I'm sure I was wearing a cruel smile the way Zoe taught me a long time ago.

—Lincoln, tell me, what's a MILF?

—It's a . . .

—Come on. Say it. This guy thinks you know what it is. And if you don't, then be a man and admit it.

—Ionia, I'm sorry. Lucas didn't mean anything by it.

—Then tell me what it is.

—Forget her, Linc, she's no MILF, she's too fat.

For some reason, that remark stings sharper now, recording it, than it did at the time, which stung sharper than it should have, considering the source. Now that it's tainted my thoughts again, it's a mental welt that itches.

It might behove me to reduce my wine intake and increase my fitness in taking advantage of my condo gym. I pay plenty for it in fees. In spite of that remark, I actually have lost a few pounds recently, making this the opportune time to start. With luck, my trusty metabolism will kick in like it used to.

October 4

First workout at the gym, kept it light, stopped when some old man came in to ride an exercise bike. He didn't look at me yet it felt creepy and prompted me to cut my routine short before I even drew a bead of sweat. What is my problem?

October 5

After chastising myself for my silly reaction to the old man in the gym yesterday, I got back at it with Kettle Bells, followed up with a good 25km on the bike. Only to negate it with pizza and a half bottle of Cabernet-Merlot.

Then, stomach stuffed, head buzzed but coherent, I made a pact with myself to commit to an exercise regimen and a diet. Also to minimize relapses and neutralize my self-nagging, and hold off measuring progress for as long as I can. Is that too much to ask?

October 11

I feel as if I'm in a transition state, shifting between a millennial mindset and a nostalgic one, each the source of and cure for the frustrations of the other.

For instance, the ill effect of my experience at Lincoln's house is abated by anticipating Trivial Pursuit night. Until I realize it's a mere nostalgic indulgence. Same people, same old stories, told the same old way. A biweekly whining about a world gradually but noticeably deteriorating during a handover to a generation that values feelings and ideals over facts and experience.

By the end of the night, I'm in a dark mood, until I stop my own bellyaching to consider the millennial perspective. They aren't out to do this to us, this isn't personal, they're just acting under influences created by my generation. I suspect that makes me seek out the Lincolns of the world. Until they disappoint me too