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My father was a businessman.
Actually he was a collector, but he never liked to call what he did collecting. As part of his job, he would travel to some unknown destination for weeks on end.
During these times, I came to notice that my mother wasn't quite herself. When I was young, I'd sometimes slip out of bed and creep downstairs. The first few times I did this, my mom would see me and carry me back to bed. Eventually, I figured out that I could hide and observe my mom, something that comforted me for some reason.
From the bottom of the stairs, I would hide and sneak glances into the living room where my mom was. The TV would be on, usually muted so I could sleep — oops — and she would be on the couch. However, my mom wouldn't be watching. Curling up, she usually grasped a pillow like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Her cheeks would usually be wet from tears. After watching her for ten minutes or so, I'd eventually make my way back to bed.
When my father would come home, though, she would fill with elation and they would embrace. Holding each other so tight that I sometimes expected them to never let go. When he let go, my father's attention would eventually turn to me. With a big smile, he'd hug me with a similar intensity. He always so ecstatic to see us. What would happen next is the reason I refer to him as a collector.
He'd set me down — shivers running up my spine as my feet met chilly stone-tiled floor — and place his leather briefcase on the hall table; I remember it being engraved with his initials, FTF; Frederick Thomas Falconer, a name we shared. There were two locks on the suitcase and four-number combinations were required for each, followed by the use of two separate keys.
The locks would click as they relinquished their hold on the lid which he would then carefully lift. Always awaiting him at the top of the case was his gift for me: a book.
Actually, there were two books. One was for me and one was for him. His books were typically large and bound in brown or black leather; he would take these into his bedroom and I'd never see them again. I didn't care about those books.
The books for me were not your everyday books; they were in and of themselves works of art. Carefully bound, some would be wrapped in cloth, some in vinyl. And occasionally a leather one would make an appearance.
The colors would vary, but each was spectacular in nature. There were radiant reds, beautiful blues, gorgeous greens, and pulchritudinous purples. Each time my father would delicately remove it with two hands and bequeath it to me. And every time, I would receive the same set of instructions followed by a question.
"Freddy, this book is being placed under your care; it is your responsibility to watch over it. Do you accept this duty?" He always asked that with such formality; it was like a game.
"Yes!" I'd excitedly yell in return.
The first few times I received these gifts, I'd tuck the volume under my arm and sprint to the couch to open it. One day, though, I dropped it in the rush. The book was fine, but my father walked over to me and picked it up with a stern face.
"You must treat this book with the utmost care; nothing shall ever happen to it. Do you understand?" His eyes would stared into mine with a calm gravity behind them. My eyes looking down, I slowly nodded my head. He handed me the book, and I firmly held it with both hands. Slowly, I escorted the book to the coffee table. After that day, I would always handle the books this way.
Softly, I would place the book down and open the cover. I was met with a series of creaks that signified a book untravelled. The lengths were different with every book: some 20 pages long and others 100.
Opening the books for the first time, I would turn the pages — mostly made from parchment, occasionally a fabric — with utmost care, tracing each picture with my fingers, getting lost in them without reading.
Illustrations were common in my books, each edition differing in style. Some done only in ink, with long, intricate strokes. Some done with vibrant water-colors. And other done in simple sketches with pencils. No illustrations were the same. One thing was common with every book, though: the theme. All of them concerned fairytales. The myths would come from different cultures — English, Irish, German, Chinese, Russian, etc. — but they all were filled with magic and fantastical creatures.
With every first look at these books, I would avoid reading. That act was reserved for my father.
The original reading of each book was done by him at bedtime. He would take on voices for each new character and creature; hissing for dragons, cackling for witches, using a clumsy bass for the trolls. I'd get lost as my protector led me through those journeys, calming when I would hide under the sheets in fear. He did this until I was twelve years old.
Then he left.
He was on one of his usual trips, a few days in, when my mother received a phone call. Watching TV, I didn't think much of it until my mother's hand covered her mouth and she fell into one of the kitchen chairs in shock. She thanked whoever had called, hung up, and burst into tears. She then informed me that my father wouldn't be returning home and we hugged for hours, the tops of our shirts soaking in each others' tears.
Despite the countless questions, my mother never told me what had happened to my father, and I stopped asking around the time I turned 16. The imagination that he had fostered came up with wild explanations. He was an undercover agent, shot by a spy. He was a superhero who had to go into hiding. He was a time-traveler who got caught in the Middle Ages. But I knew that he'd likely died in a car accident or something boring like that.
The rainbow of books took up an entire case made up of six rows, each three feet long. Every so often, I would pull one out and catch up on my fairytales, but I eventually grew out of that and the books collected dust.
The last time I saw my father was six years ago. Today I turned 18.
I woke up to a wooden box at the foot of my bed, likely placed there by my mother. A perfect cube with each side a foot in length, the box was made of beautiful mahogany, but it was worn with small scratches here and there. A bronze clasp held the box closed. Sidling down to end of the bed, I placed my fingers along its edges.
It perplexed me, but that wasn't going to stop me from opening it. The clasp rattled as I pop it open, and the box squeaked as I lifted the top. Inside was a key and an aged-yellow, folded note. I pulled out the note and opened it; it was a latter.
Dear, son,
I hope the day never comes when you receive this letter, but if you're reading this it obviously has.
If your mother has followed the instructions I gave her the day you were born, then today is your 18th birthday. Happy birthday; I wish I was there to celebrate with you. Today you officially become an adult in more ways than one.
It is time you know why I disappeared from your life. I don't know the exact reasoning, but it likely has to do with my profession. I won't delve into what that is. There is always a chance that this letter is stolen or accidentally read by someone else, which would put you and your mother at risk. I will say this; the books I always brought you were given to you with a specific purpose.
At the local library, on the top floor, there is a bookcase at the back. This part of the library is rarely ever visited. Take the key inside of this box and go there. Pull the book entitled "An Essential History." What you need to do next should be self-explanatory.
Your life is about to change entirely, son. Just do me a favor and don't tell your mother about this.
I love you,
Dad
P.S. Remember your name.