The Noel Diary by Richard Paul Evans

Author:Richard Paul Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

CHAPTER

Fifteen

The woman in my dreams existed. In a way, Rachel and I were having the same experience: both of us had wondered for most of our lives about the same woman, then suddenly there she was, captured on film. It was surreal—like seeing a picture of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.

I started to read Noel’s diary out loud.

June 18, 1986

Dear Diary,

The home I have been sent to belongs to a family named the Churchers. It’s small but comfortable. They’re nice. The man, Scott, is a social worker, which is why I was sent here. He’s kind. The woman, Ruth, is polite to me but quiet. I don’t know if she really wants me in the house. They have two young boys: a very active eight-year-old named Charles, and a sweet little four-year-old named Jacob. His middle name is Christian. Christian Churcher. I think that’s kind of cute. He’s adorable and immediately took to me. I think we will be good friends. Still no word from Peter. Where is he?

Noel

I looked over at Rachel, who sat rapt, clearly eager to hear more. I turned the page.

June 25, 1986

Dear Diary,

Peter is gone. I called my friend Diane. She saw him with another girl. Rebecca. I feel like the victim of a hit-and-run. How could he do this? He said he loved me. Of course he did. He wanted me.

I just finished the first trimester of my pregnancy. Time is moving very slowly. I have very strange cravings. The other day I wanted to eat the dust on the windowsill. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Not all is bad. I was in my room crying, and little Jacob walked up to me. He laid his forehead against mine. It’s like he knows I’m hurting. He just stood there. I took him in my arms, and he nestled into me. It’s almost like he came at this time to show me the potential joy of motherhood.

Noel

As a writer, I found it surreal to be reading about myself in the third person, like a character in someone else’s story. Yet the truth of what I was reading resonated like a thinly veiled memory.

There was a knock at the door. I looked out the window and saw a large white truck with a picture of a piano keyboard running the length of its trailer. I handed the journal to Rachel.

“Looks like the piano movers are here,” I said. I got up and walked over to the door and opened it. A broad Polynesian man stood on the front porch. He wore a black beanie, a hoodie, and leather gloves. His breath froze in the air in front of him. “We’re here for the piano.”

“It’s right in here. Come in.”

He stepped inside the room. “That’s a big one,” he said. “Steinway. Nice.” He stepped back out the door and waved at the truck. The truck’s driver pulled forward out into the road, then backed up to the end of the driveway. Then, gathering a

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