I thought no more about keeping my promise to Paul until years later, early one wicked winter’s morning in northeast Scotland when driving snow rattled my windows.
I was struggling in this cold country, missing Paw-Paw. Putting another log on the fire, I took out an empty notebook. I began writing the story he told me many times about the day his father beat him almost to death. Pages filled quickly. In my sitting room, I felt his presence, he was with me, Paw-Paw and I were together.
Hours later, when the storm had passed, the telephone rang.
“Paul died today. Try and be brave.” My mother sobbed.
When I finally decided to honor my promise, I was in my late seventies, living six months of the year in a lovely house in northern Scotland, surrounded by woods with endless paths for walks. The rest of the year, my husband and I live in a small village in Provence, France, with views out onto a garden with white roses and a large, reaching willow tree, a perfect atmosphere for reflecting.
I began my task with determination and purpose, counting on my passion from childhood for literature. I found inspiration in the deep reflections and recollections of my thirty years of psychoanalysis. Most of all, I recalled, in my daily practice of meditation, the sharp memories I have of Paul, not to mention the part of me he formed.
The computer became both my savior and foe. I was a novice who only wrote and read emails. I wrote by hand. Transcribing the text, fluffing up my eighty-year-old brain. I counted on Apple and Google, memorizing an entirely new language, losing pages of text, shooting my blood pressure up to stroke levels. “Don’t forget to SAVE. Don’t forget to SAVE,” bounced off the walls of my sleepless nights.
I knew all along I was not Paul and not Black, and yes, it would have been better if he had written his own story. My family, others, all of them White people, shook their heads. “Can’t do that.”
After one of my many sleepless nights, I decided to go where the story belonged. I fell into the arms of Michelle Chester, a Black woman and owner of an editing firm in Dallas, with her sympathetic voice and uplifting message. “I have someone for you, Jane.”
Elaine, with her sharp eyes and love for this story, began to polish and direct. I realized this novel was more for Black people than anyone else. Elaine has become my rock and my co-author and my friend. She brings our story to you with love and deep devotion.
We are writing the sequel, which keeps Paul right here beside me.
At eighty-six now, I have a fitness coach. I ride my bike every day, meditate for hours, do Yoga, Qi Gong, and walk daily, not to mention healthy eating. Perhaps I can stretch in a year or two more.
“Strut your stuff, Babe.”
“I hear you, Paw-Paw.”
He is still shaping me. I love to get dressed up more than anything in the world. My closet is full of every color of the rainbow, quirky jackets, tight jeans, and long flowing skirts. Like him, I spend hours putting my outfits together, and even more time looking for new ones. Where do I get it from? The apple never falls far from the tree.