Lost and Found - Chapters 4 through 6
Lost and Found - Chapters 4 through 6
Chapter 4
She walked to the room with the carved desk, but this time the door was locked. For a few minutes, she stood looking at the door, as if glaring it down would force it to open. As she turned to go back to her room, she could have sworn that her shadow was trying to push the door. She rubbed her eyes and her shadow was back with her, as it should be.
In her apartment, on the floor, she saw one black petal had fallen and underneath it was a yellow piece of paper. She picked it up.
“Billy still calls me Ellie. Nobody else does anymore.”
She took out the other yellow pages from her notebook. The handwriting didn’t match.
She flipped the paper over. The same handwriting as on the front, but the handwriting was more shaky:
“Billy brought me peaches. He always knows what I like.”
The notes and the petal were stashed away in her notebook, to be added with the music story. “They sound like lovely notes.”
Again with the scratching sounds. “I’m going to set up a mouse trap. It’s me versus Mickey Mouse!” Her sister would have laughed so hard she’d cry.
Just as she reached the desk, the side drawer opened. Two sheets of paper were in it. And a pen. Black ink.
One page was empty. One page was a crayon drawing. The drawing was of a little girl, holding a butterfly, a black butterfly. On the back in a child’s writing it said, “Mommy says forgetting hurts less. She’s right. I feel better now.”
She thought the other page was empty, but at the very top, she saw the words, “Share a fear and I will keep it for you.”
Carefully placing both pages on the desk, she went to the window, opened it as much as it would. “What do I fear? Being alone. Being forgotten. But I’m not ready.. to think of that.”
She had been given a glimpse into other people’s lives on those yellow aging pages. She felt the need and desire to share too. Maybe one day someone would read her story and it would help them.
After staring at the page with the question, she picked up the pen. The room was unusually quiet. Even the old pipes had stopped their rattling.
She looked at the question again and laughed nervously. “Fine,” she whispered. The pen touched paper. She did not write about her sister. Not yet. Instead, she looked around the room and her gaze fell on the black rose in the vase. “The vase, yes, that’s it.” she muttered to herself.
“It was a beautiful blue porcelain vase that sat on the mantel of my childhood home. Mom loved it. I don’t remember why it was so special to her. I vaguely remember something about it being a gift from her grandmother. It was an accident. I remember knocking it over while chasing my sister through the living room. The crash!”
Her writing was interrupted by the flutter of black wings. She brushed the butterfly away. The butterfly returned immediately. This time it settled directly on the line she last wrote. Its wings opened and closed in slow, deliberate beats. “Shoo butterfly, the window is open. Fly free!” She carefully brushed it away and the butterfly lifted into the air again.
She continued with her story, “The sharp silence afterward. Oh, my mother’s face. I still see it. She wasn’t angry. She was.....” Wings darted between the paper and pen. “Are you a butterfly or just a pesky mosquito? I don’t want to hurt you.” The butterfly landed on the pen.
Picking up the pen with care, she walked it to the window, shook it slightly. The butterfly was outside and looked to come back in, but she closed the window in time. When she turned around, a movement caught her eye. Across the mauve wall, her shadow was leaning forward. Writing at the desk, where she had been a few minutes before.
A gasp came out and the shadow disappeared. For a few minutes she stood frozen. It was after midnight. She was imagining things again. She needed to sleep and to forget about the weirdness of today. But first she finished her note quickly, before she lost her courage, “She was... heartbroken. I fear she has never forgiven me.” Somewhere inside the desk, something clicked. One line appeared beneath her words: “Kept.”
Her emotions were high. Between the butterfly, the emotional truth that she wrote and the shadows, anger surged forward. With an annoyed huff, she tossed the pen and paper back into the drawer and slammed it shut. In bed, she picked up her notebook, feeling the need to draw.. to draw the vase whole again.
Chapter 5
The next morning, she woke up feeling much better. Thoughts were calm even though her mind was a little cloudy, not enough sleep she guessed. She picked up her notebook and looked at the drawing of a vase. She remembered the desire to draw it. But something was missing, then she saw her shadow in the reflection of the mirror. It was standing next to the wall, drawing something.
She watched the motion of the hand and realized her shadow was drawing the vase in the air. Slowly. Lovingly. Something was off, something was missing and it wasn’t because her shadow was doing weird things. Her brain took note of that and brushed it off. She struggled to remember. Ah, there was a feeling from yesterday. But the guilty feeling was numb. The vague memory no longer caused tears or anxiety. It was like remembering a storm through a window versus standing outside in the rain and thunder.
The notes by other tenants that were left behind made sense and she felt a strong need to share her experiences as well. She opened the desk drawer and found a torn blank piece of paper, not old but wrinkled. She picked up the pen, smoothed the page, and wrote. “I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t think it would help. But it did. I can still see the vase, but it’s whole in my mind. I used to always say that writing things out helped to get it out of your system. It’s true.” She tucked the paper into the side of the drawer, leaving it for the next tenant. It made her feel good. She heard another click, but it came from a different drawer. She opened the smaller side drawer and found several notes.
Her shadow reached the notes first, but that didn’t bother her. Her emotions were mellow. She watched the shadow without trying to let on that she saw it. It’s then she that noticed, after really studying the shadow.. that it was... off somehow.. between the face and shoulder on the left side, as if there was an extra piece or more hair on one side. She didn’t wear her hair to the side, it flowed on both sides of her face in curly waves. She considered, “It’s not my shadow..? A ghost? No, it was a shadow. I should be scared, but I’m not.” She was comfortable, that’s the best way she could describe her accepting mood.
Picking up the notes, she walked down the corridor to throw away a cup in the hallway trash can, she passed by apartment 1B. She noticed movement beneath the door. A shadow crossed the thin strip of light, then another. “I’ll have to remember to greet them, another day.”
She made it to the courtyard, just as the landlord was picking up garden gloves. She stopped him, “Who wrote these notes?” He looked annoyed, “Depends which tenant you ask.”
Her head tilted, it wasn’t a direct answer, “Have you ever written notes?” And he immediately says, “No.” Too fast, much too fast. And harsh. As he walked away, she looked at his shadow on the wall. It had a limp. He walked slow today, but no limp. Mental note for a good mystery book.
She found a shady spot under a tree and sat cross-legged on the ground. The pages were yellowed, much older than the paper she found in the desk to write on. The first note was folded a couple of times, with care, she read,
“The scratching sounds made me think Jasper was in the room. I can still hear his nails on the hallway and when he stopped.. that silly sound... him scratching behind his ears. Big floppy tan ears.” It made her smile. It made her wish she had a dog growing up when she was little. She whispered, “But Anna was allergic to dogs.”
On the back of the note in the same handwriting, she read,
“I’m so stupid! I knew better and it wasn’t the first time. Oh God. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left the door open.” The paper trembled in her hands. Her eyes filled with tears as she reread the words, “It’s my fault.” Oh how that resonated with her. She wiped the tears away hastily and picked up the next note.
“I looked for Jasper all over the house. Then I realized the front door was wide open. I was bringing in groceries. I didn’t think. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Mom always said I was raised in a barn. This time it cost me, my friend. My buddy since I was 14 years old. I’m so sorry, Jasper. We buried you in the backyard under the tree... When I saw the tree in the courtyard here it made me cry. I kept thinking of you. I sat under that tree, wrapped my arms around my legs and cried.”
She cried right along with him. Even though she never had a dog, she knew that animals were family too. She sifted through the pages, looking for the same handwriting. She found one more note that matched...
“The tree doesn’t make me cry any more. I wish I could remember what he looked like though.”
She understood. She felt compassion for his healing but the words hung in the air like the silence that follows a scream.
The other notes were waiting to be read. She decided to read one more, to ease the tension in her shoulders.
“Billy bought me peaches again. My brother knows I love them. He told me that when he was at the market, he picked up four peaches and started juggling them. We laughed at how the manager chased him around the store! Billy knows that I love to eat peaches, because their sweetness takes away the tears. How can you cry when the juice dribbles down your chin?”
She smiled at the tenderness and love. It reminded her of the relationship with her sister. Anna loved peaches. She would eat them over the sink, because she didn’t want the juice to go everywhere.
It was late and her stomach growled. She rose mid-way and stopped. She must have looked like a funny sight, but she couldn’t move, because the shadow was still against the tree. She knew it wasn’t her’s. It was someone with arms wrapped around legs. It rocked gently back and forth. That’s when she saw the dog collar and swallowed the lump in her throat. Quietly, to not disturb it, she walked away.
After a quick snack, she sat in bed and took out another yellowed note:
“He is worried about me crying so much. He knows they are angry tears, the worst kind he said. He tried to cheer me up with the peaches story. I laughed because he expected me to. He knew it was fake laughing and asked why I didn’t remember the peaches story. I told him I was tired, but he didn’t look convinced. He is always worrying..”
And another note made her snort laugh:
“Billy spent an entire summer convinced someone was stealing his socks. He filled notebooks with clues and suspects. At the end of August, Mother found all seventeen missing socks...inside his pillowcase! He was such a scamp!”
Just one more note.. they were addicting, catching these moments.
“Billy once gave me a potato for my birthday. He wrapped it in Mother’s good ribbon and told me Charles was a very distinguished gentleman.
I kept Charles on my dresser until he began growing eyes.
Billy cried harder than I did when Father threw him away.”
Their sibling bond filled her with a sharp pang of sibling nostalgia. Who else would keep a potato on their dresser?
She put the notes she read into her notebook. The rest were placed on the nightstand. She looked forward to reading them. Maybe she’d meet them one day or maybe all that was left were the notes. She wondered, “Can you get to know a stranger through written words instead of conversations?”
She went to the desk, opened a drawer. She wasn’t surprised to find a blank page and a pen waiting for her. It almost made her heart warm, until she saw the words handwritten at the top, “Share about Anna.”
“Uhhh, what?!” She looked around as if she’d find she would find someone there videoing her reaction. “Is this a prank?” She asked the empty room.
She hesitated. Then saw the flutter, the black butterfly was back. How did it get in her room, she wondered. The window was closed. She got up and opened the window, but the butterfly hovered over the desk.
“You think it’s weird too? Well, someone might think it’s weird that I’m talking to a butterfly.” She laughed softly, “That reminds me of Anna.”
She picked up the pen, the butterfly jumped in front of her eyes. “Okay, enough already. You’re a wannabe fly acting this way!”
She wrote between the winged attacks:
Anna named every animal. Every single one. Even animals she saw only once. Even animals at the zoo. One day we saw a stray orange tabby cat. She pointed to it and told me, “That’s George.” I put my hands on my hips and said, “You don’t know that cat!” She sauntered away saying, “George and I have an understanding.” To this day, I laugh and find myself giving a name to stray animals for her.” She smiled and placed the paper in a drawer, hoping it would make someone else laugh too one day.
Chapter 6
The thunderstorm woke her up at 4am. Without the hum of the city, the storm seemed more active, more alive. She thought of Anna and instead of writing the story in her notebook, she walked over to the desk. Lights flickered on and off. The single page of paper was there, like a welcoming friend, waiting for her, along with a pen. It was like having an endless supply of writing inspiration.
“Anna loved to sit on the porch, counting seconds between lightning and thunder. She insisted it was a science. She would close her eyes and say the deep thunder and white noise of rain was soothing. Sometimes she’d rush into the rain and dance, around and around. She was a water spirit, she said. I think she was a bit of a thrill seeker.”
She gently folded the paper and placed it in the drawer. She heard a flutter inside the desk. Not a scratch, but a flutter, like a bird trapped. Then, another click, but nothing more. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but she felt a tinge of disappointment. She picked up the notes on the nightstand, put them in her pocket and left her apartment.
Her shadow, or rather not-her-shadow, did something odd. It raced in front of her and pointed. To Mr. Holloway’s door. She opened the door and waited on the shadow. It followed her in, then drifted to the side wall. It leaned and disappeared into the cabinet halfway. “It would be easier if you could speak.” She muttered. “I’m getting used to this, but I’m not in the mood for a guessing game.”
That said, she opened the cabinet door and searched. There were pillowcases. She moved them aside and didn’t find anything. She looked lower in the cabinet and found an old towel. “If I see a roach, I’m going to scream.” No roach, but she found a picture, there was a crease across one corner, as if someone had held it many times. The edges were yellowed. “Is it the bride again?” she wondered.
It was a teen girl sitting on a porch railing. She was wearing a light-colored summer dress and sensible shoes. There was a boy beside her. He was wearing rolled sleeves and a slightly rumpled shirt. He was holding up a peach with an exaggerated grin. He looked as if the peach was an Olympic medal. The girl was laughing so hard she was looking away from the camera, but still could see her face. Her braid hung over one shoulder.
The photographer captured a moment of joy, pure and simple. She looked back at the girl.. the braid... on one side... the shadow that looked lopsided on one side.. It was the braid. The braid! This is her shadow, her not-my-shadow. She was almost certain of it.
She turned the photo over. It read:
Billy insisted the peach was the prize.
Mother disagreed
Billy.. this was Billy and Ellie! She held the picture to her heart and smiled. This time she would keep the photograph. She felt like it was a gift. Now she knew she wasn’t crazy. Finally. Proof. She felt oddly relieved.
Before leaving Mr. Holloway’s apartment, she couldn’t resist looking through the window again. This time, she saw a figure at the edge of the courtyard. It’s her shadow, no, she corrected herself, it’s Ellie’s shadow. The shadow of the braided girl ran across the courtyard. Ran faster than any normal person should. She ran toward the front entrance, following the brick wall, turned a corner and disappeared.
She didn’t think, her feet followed Ellie’s shadow path. She opened the door and followed the brick wall. Nothing was there, except for a single black butterfly resting on the sidewalk.
Her pace slowed on the return walk. She went back to her apartment and took out one of the notes and the picture. She recognized Ellie’s handwriting on a note she had yet to read.
“Billy could spill milk across the entire table and Mother would laugh.
I forgot my homework one time and she told me I was careless.
Mother corrected everything. Billy called it helping.
I called it being seen only for my mistakes.”
She went back to the desk, pen and paper were ready for her, like an offering.
On the top it read, “Share another story about Anna.”
A black butterfly hovered next to her hand. She said, “No, I’m writing about my mother instead.” As she started writing, the butterfly drifted off and rested on the black rose.
“I remember coming home from school. That day we had an art class and the teacher raved about my drawing. I was smiling ear to ear and eager to share my drawing with mom. I was proud of it. Mom stared at it for a long time and finally said, “The perspective is off.” I was nine. I remember forcing the smile to stay, as if her words were appreciated. But her words cut sharper than a knife to my young heart. I didn’t want to draw any more. I don’t remember what I drew. I think I blocked it from my memory.” Folded and put away in a drawer, she said out loud, “I understand, Ellie.”
The click was much slower this time, but she heard it. The other side of the desk opened with only one letter. It was from Ellie. “We have to quit meeting this way,” she laughed.
She took the note and sat on the bed. With a deep breath, she opened the aged paper.
“I didn’t want to write about this. I might even hate myself for doing this, but Billy is worried. He sees how much I cry. Big fat angry tears. He said writing it might help. But I really don’t want to admit this. I said she hated me, but maybe I hated her too. Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites, right? Right? But she did and oh did she let me know. I was a burden. I was never good enough, never smart enough, never pretty enough. And Billy, well, he was the apple of her eye. The sun rose with him. I went to confront her at the hospital... but... this will sound horrible... she had died .. and I was furious! She died before I could speak my mind. Everyone spoke of forgiveness as if it arrived with the funeral flowers. It didn’t. The worst part was realizing I could no longer tell her she had hurt me... the second worst part was realizing she could no longer tell me she was sorry. I can’t believe I wrote this. I’m ashamed and still angry..and sad. I hope nobody reads this.”
She folded the note carefully.
“Too late,” she whispered.
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