PROLOGUE
When I was young, my father taught me something that has given me considerable insight into humanity: As you walk through life, he said, don’t be surprised to find that there are fewer people seeking truth than those seeking confirmation of what they already believe.
My father was right. I’m amazed at the mental gymnastics we go through to protect our beliefs—even when they’re our own worst enemy. Sometimes it seems the shakier the belief, the tighter our grip.
I’m not judging humanity as much as I’m judging myself, as that perfectly described me when this story took place. This is a story about the lies I nurtured and what happened when they were exposed to truth. You could say this is the story of my awakening.
I was born with the last name of Book. Maybe that’s why I became a writer. I know that sounds like a joke but it’s not. Research has proven that your name influences what you’ll do in life. For instance, there’s a statistically improbable number of men named Dennis who become dentists. And people with the last name Cook are 20 percent more likely to pursue a career in the culinary arts. It’s true; look it up.
It’s certainly true in my experience. My father, Robert Book, owned a bookstore. And here I am, writing a book.
My full name is Noel Book, which sounds like either the name of a holiday-themed bookstore or the publisher of Christmas tales, which, ironically, isn’t far from the truth. When this story began, I was working in New York as an editor for one of the Big Five publishers. I’ve worked on more than my fair share of holiday books.
Actually, the surname Book has nothing to do with literature. It’s of Scottish origin and refers to a region in Scotland called Boak, which, regrettably, means “to belch” or “to nearly throw up.” It’s not exactly the kind of name that strikes fear in the hearts of your enemies. Growing up I was teased for my last name. I’m just grateful no one ever found out its true meaning. I had few enough friends as it was.
Adding to my overall ostracization by my peers was the fact that my vocabulary was advanced for my age. My father was to blame for that. He spoke like a dictionary. He didn’t do it to impress, the way some people do; it was just the way he talked. It was as if he had a license to use more words than most. Sometimes it sounded like a different language. One time he told a man off and the guy thanked him. My father liked words and he was smart, which, I guess, rubbed off on me.
When I was eight years old he would quiz me on the Reader’s Digest Word Power section. I just thought it was something all parents did with their kids. The result was that I spoke like my teachers, which, of course, the other kids teased me about. In middle school a boy called me Thesaurus Rex—a name that both hurt and stuck. It was the same year my mother was killed in a car accident, the first falling domino that set off the entire awful chain of events that became my life.
That was the same year I stopped dancing. It was also the year that the fissure opened between me and my father. There’s no doubt the two were connected. My father loved to watch me dance, and I had stopped loving my father.
For almost two decades I nurtured the distance between my father and me. Then, in one holiday season that changed. It was the time that the letters arrived.
If you choose to read my story, I ask just one mercy. I’m not proud of who I was back then. Please don’t judge me too harshly or too quickly. I’ve already done that for you. And my sins carry their own punishment. Thankfully, there are still a few people out there who aren’t afraid of truth. And there are still a few people who know how to love—even someone as unlovable as me.
CHAPTER one
I can stand about anything for a week if I have a good enough book.
—Noel Book
“Is Salt Lake City home for you?”
I looked over at the smiling, silver-haired woman sitting inches from me in the middle seat of our row. On her lap were two knitting needles impaling the rectangular mass of what looked like a blanket. She had smiled at me as we boarded the plane at JFK, but she had sat knitting so quietly throughout the flight I’d forgotten she was even there. Or maybe I’d just been too preoccupied winding my way through the labyrinth of my thoughts. At any rate, her question vexed me. I wasn’t sure where home was anymore. I wasn’t even sure if I knew what the word meant.
“I was born there,” I said softly. “But I haven’t been back for sixteen years.”
“Goodness, that’s a long time to be away. What brings you back now?”
“I’m going to see my father.”
Her smile broadened. “I’ve always loved a homecoming. After all that time, you must be so excited to see him.”
“He’s dying,” I said.
Her expression fell. “I’m sorry, dear. God bless you.”
“Thank you.” I looked back out the window at the snow-covered world below. The crystalline blanket reflected the light of the winter moon in a dull cobalt blue. The Wasatch Range was taller than I remembered, rising in a jagged ridge running in a near-perfect line north to south of the valley like a great snow wall. The buildings below looked small and flat and well-spaced, nothing like New York, where every street was a slot canyon and every building a mountain.
Home. Homeward bound. One of my colleagues at the publishing house called me a hobo, which she said was a contraction of “homeward bound.” Of course, I looked it up. Maybe. Or it might be a contraction of “homeless boy,” or even a derivative of Hoboken, New Jersey. It’s another one of those words that slipped into the back row of our cultural lexicon without a ticket.
My anxiety rose with each passing minute. I hadn’t even taken the book I’d brought with me out of my carry-on, which pretty much shows the state I was in. After all this time, I had no idea what I would say to my father. Actually, I was more concerned about what he would say to me. Maybe it would be a weeklong shame festival with a dying man. Why was I doing this? I think if I could have turned the plane around I probably would.
The previous holiday, a colleague told me she was going home for Thanksgiving for the first time in five years. She had hopes for reconciliation with her mother. Her anticipated homecoming lasted less than an hour. She likened the experience to an emotional ambush. Seven hours later she was back in New York eating a Banquet turkey potpie for Thanksgiving. The difference between her experience and mine is that I had no such expectations. My father was dying. The most I could hope for was to put the past in a box and bury it. Literally as well as figuratively.
When my father was first diagnosed with cancer, the doctor had given him six months to live, which he hadn’t told me until the last two weeks when, I guess, he finally accepted that he was engaged in a losing battle. That’s when he asked to see me one last time. There are things that need to be said. Those words scared me most of all.
He had invited me to stay at his house, my childhood home, adding that my room was exactly the same as I’d left it almost two decades ago. I had resisted the invitation, it was my MO, but he was anticipating my rejection. “Noel,” he said softly. “It’s our last chance.”
What could I say to that? Frankly, I didn’t need the expense of a hotel. New York is expensive and book editors aren’t exactly overpaid. He had also offered to pay for my flight and the use of his car, which he obviously wouldn’t be using while I was there. From the sound of things, probably never again.