Alana discovers the mystery of Messenger and begins to uncover more.
“You know that message you’ve been waiting for your whole life, as long as you can remember? You’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine you’ve ever read. On billboards. In other’s faces. I bring that message.” --Messenger
Can one message change a life? A city? The world?
MESSENGER is the story of a mysterious old woman who delivers life-changing messages to seemingly random people all over New York City and Alana, a young journalist determined to uncover Messenger’s story. In the surprise ending, Alana discovers the true meaning of their journey together.
Dear Reader/Listener:
The seeds of MESSENGER began in 2013, when, during a time of great need, I begged for a message, for the answer to an overwhelming problem. Now, in 2020, with all the challenges we face together, MESSENGER’s time has come.
I hope you’ll enjoy entering Messenger’s world each week, when you’ll find a new episode of MESSENGER to listen to and/or to read the complete transcript here. May you find comfort, hope, perspective, motivation and inspiration, and may you receive the message you need most.
Blessings,
Liz Keller Whitehurst
Credits/Contacts
Find Us Online
Questions to Ponder
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Episode 1 Complete Text 📖
(Click here to access the PDF)
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MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK:
Call me Messenger. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be anxious or worried. Everything’s gonna be okay. You want to know, know, know. Want me to write it all down. Well, I like to write. Ooooh, I love this notebook! Lots of clean, blank pages. They smell so good. You think you’re pinning me down, Honey, but you’re in for a surprise. Everybody is. Oh, well. If it’ll make you happy. Here goes.
You want to understand what’s going on here—what I’ve been trying to do? You know how in books or stories writers will use lots of symbols instead of saying what they really mean? Something stands for something else? Well, this won’t be like that. I’m going to tell you what’s what. Now don’t expect too much. This is just a smidgen of it. Look, you can’t figure it all out, no matter how hard you try. Let’s just say the swerve’s a hint—a wink—a little nudge along the right path.
This is how it’s done: You wait and wait. You won’t know it’s coming. You wake up one morning. It’s sunny or it’s cloudy. You get up early or snooze for a while. Doesn’t matter. It’ll seem like any other day. What I mean is, you will have no idea anything’s about to happen to you. That, just around the corner, on your way to work or to the store, the message will come. You’ll realize everything that’s happened in your life—whether you ate Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops every morning for five years as a child, whether you like blue, whether you’re right or left-handed—every single thing you’ve ever done or thought or experienced will come into play.
You might feel happy or elated or afraid or terrified or cry or laugh or scream. Doesn’t matter. It’s like having a baby. Ready or not . . . here it comes. And it’s yours now—forever. So, if you’re smart, tuned in or whatever you want to call it, you’ll watch for it all the time. You know the end of the story, even if you don’t know the particulars. Or the big “W”—when.
No matter how much you wish for it, or want to get it over with, depending on your temperament, doesn’t matter. Until the time is right, no amount of fretting or sweating will make it come. So, don’t begin that game at all. Your message will arrive when it’s good and ready.
Okay—let’s put it another way. You know that message everybody’s been waiting for their whole life, as long as they can remember? They’ve looked for it in the mail, e-mail, text, letter, in every book or magazine they’ve ever read. On billboards. In others’ faces.
Well, I bring that message. That’s my job. It’s up to me. That’s why I came. It comes through me for you. When you least expect it, when you give up and stop looking, that’s when you’ll get it. It’ll explain everything, answer those questions that wake you up in the night in a cold sweat, turning, longing, watching the hours tick by. So, here you go.
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
THIS IS WHAT STARTED IT ALL
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:
Transcript of video MARTY posted about his encounter with Messenger.
Lots of people have replied to the photo I posted of the mystery woman who gave me a message. They want to hear my story. Okay, so here goes.
I’m heading to work, see? It’s a perfectly ordinary day. I know because when I think back, try to put it all together (like when you drop a glass and it breaks, you better find all the pieces, or you’ll step on a slice barefoot in the night), I couldn’t find anything—no warning. No tip-off. No clue. Nothing.
Nothing’s on my mind that day—just tired. Dreading work. All my problems plucking my nerves. Money, my parents’ bad health, my wife’s mad at me again. My hair’s definitely falling out. Every day—more hair in the shower drain. Kid’s failing algebra for the second time, dog keeps peeing in the same places in our tiny patch of lawn. All these dead circles of grass staring up at me. The usual.
I get out of the car and hurry down the street and there she is. This woman. We’d call her a bag-lady back in the day. I don’t really pay attention to her—too much else going on all around—people, noise. Listening to that God-awful bing on my phone telling me I’ve racked up a hundred new e-mails to read when I get to work. So, I’m about to pass her without really seeing her. You know, I try my best not to make eye-contact with these people—give them a little privacy in their shame.
So, I jump when I feel her touch me. I’m shocked and then, like they say—electricity. She hands me something. I feel my hand clutch it. It’s just a dirty piece of paper. Okay, I figure—must be one of those things they give you in exchange for money—flyer, newspaper, whatever. But it isn’t.
At first, I shove it in my overcoat pocket till I get to the next wastebasket. I pull my hand out, ready to drop it in, still not paying attention, until my eyes rest on the words. It’s not a copied, printed thing. It’s handwritten. And for some reason, I start thinking how you don’t see that anymore. Everything’s printed, copied—or not on paper at all. So, it wasn’t the words, at first. I didn’t focus on them. It was the curiosity that a message—no—a note—handwritten—does for you. Your heart leaps somehow. You can’t keep from wondering—Is this it? Is this the one?
So, I finally read it. And when I do—how can I tell you—it’s like time stops—like all those moments in life. When the doctor calls, “It isn’t cancer.” Or the car door slams late in the dark night, when your daughter’s late coming home. Or your wife’s text: “I still love you.” Those moments are really very short but take up a lot of room in a lifetime.
This was one of those. Not long. Not profound. TAKE A CHANCE. FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS. I know it doesn’t sound life-changing or earth-shattering. But listen. Really. It is. I was making some big decisions in my life at that time. After I got the message, everything reconfigured for me. It lightened me up. Reminded me of who I am. It was just what I needed.
So, what do I do? Well, quite naturally, I go back. I want to find her and thank her and ask where all this is coming from. Like, where’s she getting it? Who’s sending it? It’s obviously not from her. I go back to the exact same spot near the wastebasket, in front of the chicken place on 11th.
But she’s gone. Completely. Without a trace. I walk around the block, look everywhere. Nothing. I even go into the chicken place to ask if they’ve seen her. “Ah—yeah. Old? Red cap? We’re always chasing her off,” the young kid, his polyester uniform too big, awful acne, says. Then looks at me like I must be crazy.
Well, I don’t give up easy. I keep walking those streets, determined to find her, to figure out what gives. Finally, way down First Avenue, I catch a glimpse of her red cap. I run towards her, stop and snap a really bad photo through the crowd. When I pull my phone back down, she’s gone. I don’t know if she turned down a street or disappeared into thin air. The photo I got is terrible, but it at least captures something about her.
So, there you go. I think I can say without a doubt, this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll keep my message in my wallet and look at it every day, just like I have since I got it. But I can’t even remember exactly what the woman looked like, even with the terrible photo. Except for her eyes, which were this strange golden color. Doesn’t matter, I guess. My message was for real.
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:
THIS IS IT! Just what I’ve been looking for. My big break! WHAT A STORY!
This Marty is getting a lot of replies from people all over the city who say they received a message from her, too.
But I can’t find her. Even though I walk the streets, hang out where people say they got their messages. She definitely gets around. I can’t find a pattern, neither with who gets a message or where they get it. I stare at the grainy photo Marty took of her. She’s turned three-quarters of the way around, with just her profile visible. Her body looks thick, heavy—but that’s probably because she was wearing loads of clothes. Red stocking hat. Definitely an older woman, but impossible to tell how old. Not much to go on. Who are you?
I messaged Marty after I watched his video. He told me to check out this Starbucks on First Avenue and East Third Street and ask for Ed, the manager. A tall, thin guy, some tattoos. Marty had talked with him about her but hadn’t gotten very far. “I really think this Ed knows more than he’d tell me—like who she is and where to find her. Ask him.”
ALANA LOOKING FOR ANSWERS
Alana headed down First Avenue, glanced into the eyes of dozens of people who hurried by in the opposite direction. A sad old man with baggy skin around his eyes held a sign that read, “Do you have a heart?” He’d drawn a heart below the question mark. People pushed baby strollers, carried skateboards, walked their bikes, then locked them in the racks along the street. She stopped random people, asked if they’d ever seen the mysterious woman.
Alana passed an Ace Hardware store, feet and back-rub shops, a clairvoyant’s. Optimo Cigars, McDonald’s, Karma Bar (where smoking is permitted, the sign announced) and the Three of Cups Sicilian Restaurant. Other restaurants and bars. She smelled greasy Italian food, the earthy, claustrophobic smell of dirty people too crowded together. She cringed at a pile of dog shit. She scanned far down each street for a glimpse, a brushstroke of bright red in the middle of all the iron gray, the low-hanging clouds in the fall sky, the air itself. Cold. The concrete held the cold relentlessly. She’d never get used to New York City’s cold. But there was no red stocking cap to be seen, either up close or on the horizon.
She turned into the Starbucks Marty had told her about and found Ed at the coffee bar. It was the cleanest Starbucks Alana had ever seen. Marty hadn’t mentioned that Ed was part Asian, with thick, jet-black hair.
“Why are you looking for her?” Ed asked, a little aggressively.
“I just want to write a story about her and the messages she’s been giving people. This guy, Marty, posted a photo of her on-line, asking if anybody had seen her. Lots of people replied and a few said they saw her here.” She wished Ed would at least look at her while she talked instead of wiping down the bar. “People wanted to know more about Marty’s message, so he posted this video. He said the message changed his life. I’m just wondering what you know about her.”
Ed shrugged when Alana pressed him for more information. He stared down at the mermaid and the retro anchors tattooed on his forearm. Alana stared at them, too, and noted a spareness to him. Clean-shaven. Not a wrinkle in his black Starbucks logo tee.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he finally said. “She comes in here some, okay? You think she tells me anything? No! Nothing. I’m the last person to judge. I just like her. She helps people. She needs a place to hang. I let her use the bathroom. Plus, I’m the manager. I can give her free coffee if I want to. I don’t need to answer to anybody for it.”
“Okay, fine!” Alana snapped.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what she’s doing—but it’s good work. I do know that. So, okay. That’s all I can tell you.”
Alana picked at her already raw cuticles, trolled her brain for questions Ed might agree to answer. She gave up. She’d already opened the door to leave when Ed suddenly added, “Except you could ask the Flower Lady, on the corner of 6th and Second Ave.”
Alana turned back around and smiled her thanks.
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK: 10 QUESTIONS FOR MESSENGER
Alana created her own blog, reposted Marty’s photo, and asked: HAVE YOU SEEN HER? She immediately received these posts.
POST: BRENDA
Where should I start? I just want you to know up front that it makes me very uncomfortable to talk about anything like this. It’s like—well—sex or money—or religion! Those topics you’ll do anything to avoid? But this one’s worse. Okay. Shut up, Brenda. Just tell it.
I was leaving my apartment last April. There was a springtime smell in the air, even though it was cold, of course. I was just walking down the street, not paying attention, wishing I didn’t have to go to work. A million thoughts drummed through my head, as always. I saw a tree beside the fence had tiny green buds on it. A shoe lay in the street on its side—a red, high-topped sneaker. Those were the only details I took in as I went on my usual path to work.
I checked my phone and when I looked up, I saw this big, homeless woman all squashed into this doorway wearing lots of coats and a red hat. Her stuff was everywhere. She stuck out her arm and handed me a paper circle, which I could clearly see was the bottom peeled off an old, stained coffee cup.
“This is yours,” she said.
Why would I ever take anything from a person like that? A reflex, I guess. Anyway, I took it and walked on. I headed on across the street, the whole time my head was screaming, “You idiot. It’s dirty!” Another part wondered, “Can you get bedbugs from coffee cups?” Probably. I held it between my thumb and forefinger like something nasty—which it was.
I was about to drop it into the nearest trashcan—I won’t litter—when I saw writing on the other side. It was like my eyeballs couldn’t tear themselves away. The words were written in a hand I was just fascinated to look at. It was not printed, it was handwritten, each letter like a drawing or art. I just couldn’t resist. I had to read what it said. I know that makes absolutely no sense. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was just a few words. YOU’RE CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.
I turned and ran back towards the woman as fast as I could go in heels, my coat, my purse flying out in different directions. But, when I got back, she was gone. The stoop was empty. I whipped my head up the street, scanned all the shoulders, the backs of heads, searched for that red cap of hers. Then down the other way. My heart was beating so fast it scared me. A sweat covered my whole body. I stared at the circle in my hand.
I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I felt more, in every way. Up to now, the good news always seemed to be for someone else, while I watched, made myself smile. Empty-handed. But, all that changed because of my message. Forever.
POST: TERRI
Oh, I don’t know how it started. I guess I just vaguely noticed her—you know, like a tree or bench. Even here in the city, you can see the exact same people every day, like landmarks among so many strangers. The lady with the fat Chihuahuas resting on a bench in front of the playground. The cops on the other side of the street, going in and out of the precinct. The blonde gay guy who works in the Italian restaurant on the corner, who comes out by the back door for a smoke. His black shirt makes his face look so pale in the harsh light. Nobody says hello to a stranger here like we do back home, even if you see them every day.
And she was part of it, too. I just noticed her slowly, realized I saw her almost every day—at the Rite Aid down from my apartment building. She had so much stuff gathered around her I wonder how she managed it all. Did somebody carry it for her? Who? How do you find a friend like that here? Nobody seems to have time for friends. Yes—for dinner or drinks. But somebody to ask a favor of? Or who would go out of their way to help you? I haven’t found any.
One day I happened to walk down her side of the street on my way home. I thought she was sleeping because her head was bowed, her chin on her chest. When I got to her bench, she raised up her head and locked eyes with me, as if on cue. She reached out her dirty hand, chipped red fingernail polish, held an even dirtier piece of paper. “Take it,” was all she said.
I did. Why, I don’t know. It was one of those situations where you don’t think. You just do it.
The paper felt warm, as if she’d been holding it in her hand a long time before I showed up. Then I walked away as fast as I could. I mean, who knew what she might do? She gave off a good vibe, but I’ve learned you’ve got to be very careful with these people. Not make eye-contact or smile, even if they do. It opened a door you want to keep closed. Her brashness, her connecting with me like that—it scared me. Guess everybody takes the paper notices people hand out for restaurants, clubs, shows or knock-off handbags, just to get the people out of your face. But this woman was different.
I meant to throw the paper in the next trashcan I came to without looking at it. I itched to fish my hand sanitizer out of my purse. But I was in a hurry. I was late. I glanced down at the paper before dropping it in my pocket. The words took shape and sent a jolt through me. IT WASN’T YOUR FAULT. I stared at them and then back at her. But she was gone.
THE FLOWER LADY
Alana turned onto 6th Street and looked all the way up to Second Avenue. Okay, there she is! Today’s my lucky day. She headed down the street. After Ed’s one measly tip, Alana had looked for the Flower Lady there every day for three days straight. Walking down 6th on this cold, clear morning, she’d caught sight of smidgens of pink, red and white down the street, through all the people ahead of her. When Alana approached, she was surprised to see the lady in a wheelchair, surrounded by big white paint buckets filled with carnations.
Alana waited in the short line of her customers. An old guy with a full white beard who could have doubled for Santa Claus. Two middle-aged ladies grasping their designer bags across their middles like babies. A guy who rode up on his scooter, with plastic bags wrapped over both hands.
“Hello,” Alana said, when she finally reached the front of the line.
“What can I do for you?” The Flower Lady had a rich, deep, woman’s voice, despite being smaller than a 10-year-old. Alana felt her cheeks burn. She realized she’d expected her voice to be high-pitched. The lady’s upper body was small yet normally proportioned, but her legs were so short they stuck straight out from the seat.
“I think you can help me. Ed told me you might know this woman who goes around the city giving messages to people.”
The Flower Lady squinted and inspected Alana more closely.
“Yeah. I know her. Why?”
“Well, I’m trying to find her. I want to write a story about . . .” Alana paused. About what? She couldn’t say yet, only that she had to write it. “All the good she’s doing for people.” Alana heard this pour out of her mouth unplanned. “I made this blog after I talked with Marty, this guy who got a message from her, asking anybody who’d received a message to post. I’ve already had some responses, but nobody knows where she is. Apparently, after she delivers the messages, she disappears into thin air. Crazy, right?” Alana laughed but the Flower Lady didn’t. “Could you tell me where she lives or how I could find her?”
Alana watched the Flower Lady’s face shut down. She stared straight ahead. “I haven’t seen her today.”
She’s not a very good liar, Alana thought. “Okay. But can you tell me where she might be?”
“Not really. She comes and goes.”
“I know.” Did she ever. “Well, thanks anyway. If you happen to see her, could you tell her I’m trying to find her?” Alana pulled her notebook out of her drab-green backpack and jotted her name and cell number on a sheet of paper. She tore it out and handed it to the Flower Lady.
The Flower Lady looked Alana in the eye. “You sure it’s just a story? You’re not with the cops or one of those do-gooders or nothing, right?”
“No! I mean—yeah. Yes! Just a story.”
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” the Flower Lady said into her bucket of red carnations. “Sometimes you can find her over on Fifth. Those benches along the school’s parking lot fence. Check there.”
Alana’s heart lifted. “Thanks. Great! Oh, and I’d like three flowers.”
“What color?”
“Red. I like red. Marty told me the woman always wears a red stocking cap.”
The Flower Lady nodded and gave Alana a pinched smile. She plucked three droopy red carnations out of the plastic bucket and tied them with raffia. Alana watched in admiration as she maneuvered this whole process while seated in the wheelchair. She wondered if she could walk at all. It didn’t look like it. Who helped her? Alana wondered. How did she get the flowers out here in the first place?
“One dollar each, that makes three dollars, please.”
Alana dug down into her jean pocket, fished out some ones and handed them over. She longed to ask a million more questions, but it was obvious that this little tip and the flowers were all she would get today. At least it was something. She took her flowers from The Flower Lady’s outstretched hand and noticed the outer edges of the petals had turned a light brown.
Alana headed back down the street. For some reason, the smell of all those flowers in one space had reminded her of the one and only flower arrangement at her mom’s funeral. It was huge and overflowed with pink and white flowers, lots of those spiky ones. She was sure Mrs. Snyder, the mom of her best friend growing up, who always gave Alana rides places since Alana’s mom had to work, had paid at least 150 bucks for it. The flowers were all in a big, flat-bottomed basket you were supposed to put it in the cemetery after the funeral. Not even a storm or heavy wind could blow it over.
Mrs. Snyder hadn’t known that Alana’s mom had decided to be cremated, the cheapest and most practical option, and prepaid for it at the funeral home. She’d had plenty of time to plan. Her ashes would be scattered in her family’s area of the cemetery near her parents’ and grandparents’ graves, so the plot reserved for her could go to Alana when she died. Alana could still see her mom, writhing on her death bed, barking, wheezing and gasping for breath to get these last orders out. She made Alana promise she’d follow the plans, that this was how things would go.
Alana wondered what her mother would say about this new trajectory she found herself on. No, she knew. Mom would call it a “wild goose chase.” Thanks to her mother’s money, every single penny hard-earned from a lifetime of nasty nursing duties, then squirreled away and left to Alana when she’d died, Alana was living every writer’s dream. She’d been given a cushion to take the leap, quit her boring, soul-sucking day job and set out to find THE story that would launch her career. She’d been looking for it for months now, but nothing had come. She’d questioned herself, could she even do it? Meanwhile, money poured out of her account each month like water, no matter how hard Alana tried to save. But she had just enough, she hoped, to make it. To follow any and all leads. To do whatever she had to do to find the mysterious woman. This story had her name all over it.
MARTY’S WARNING
After she bugged him every day, sometimes several times a day, Marty, the guy who’d posted the photo and video, finally agreed to meet at Ed’s coffee shop during his lunch break. Marty was middle-aged, bald, wire-framed glasses. He wore a cardigan under a leather jacket and a stocking cap pulled down low over his ears. There was nothing remarkable about him. He could be anybody. Alana relaxed in her seat after talking with him for a few minutes. Marty seemed about as normal as you could get.
“I’ve got some questions,” Alana began. They talked about his experience and then Alana said, “I have to admit something. I don’t really get why your message was so important to you. I mean, ‘Take a chance. Follow your dreams.’?”
Marty shook his head and looked at Alana with kind eyes. “Hard to explain. Sound corny?”
She shrugged. “Sort of.”
“Listen, it was timing. Incredible timing. You see, I’d about given up. No more energy, no drive. Felt like everything I’d done with my life was wasted. I was out of time with nothing to show for it. So, at the time, I was considering a big break. I mean, a break from everything I’d done or known. Starting over. And then, through no effort on my part, this message comes out of the blue.” He shrugged and shook his head. “She was just—there. She gave me this. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received. From that moment, my path has been clear. My brother and I went out on our own and started our own electrical contracting business. Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say, ‘easy.’ I’ve had to work my can off. But somehow, it was okay. I’m not afraid of hard work—no sir. Never have been. It was just the message and the timing together gave me the courage. And the fact that I was—chosen. Is that the right word? Worthy to receive? I don’t know. I don’t understand it all either.”
Alana jotted down timing in the notes she took. “I get it. Listen, I really want to write about her, the messages she’s giving people and everything, but I’m having trouble finding her,” Alana told him. She glanced over at Ed. “He’s not much help.”
Marty nodded and sipped the coffee Alana had bought him. “She’s hard to find. I never did. Nope. Never saw her again.”
“I noticed you took the photo and video down.”
“Yeah.” He looked away.
“But why? You were getting so many replies. That’s what encouraged me to try and find her myself.”
“Exactly. That’s why I took it all down. I had second thoughts. You know how things can get out of hand, spin out of control before you know it? Nobody’s fault. Just the way it goes.”
“I guess, but this is such a great story!” Alana argued. “Something positive. Doesn’t everybody need good news for a change?”
“I get what you’re saying. I just decided to let her be. Leave her alone. That’s why I wasn’t too crazy to talk with you.” He smiled. “But you wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Alana laughed. “Ah, yeah. I’m pretty stubborn. I just have a strong feeling I need to follow up on this.”
“You’ll have to decide for yourself. I’m not telling you what to do. Guess you could keep following the leads. Post something yourself.”
“I already have,” she told him.
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