Second Place Winner!!!
Her Own Words
By Judith Cullen
The wind and rain made the trees outside her window groan and rumble. There was nowhere Elaine would rather be than right where she was: curled up under her warm, thick comforter. She’d grown up with weather like this, and she loved listening to it buffet and batter as long as she could do so from safely under the covers. The cat had a similar idea, hopping up once Elaine had pulled the comforter up. It had stomped around before becoming a cushion of purring fur, soon lapsing into feline snores.
Familiar as the sounds of the storm were, Elaine was not lulled into sleep. Her mind would not shut down. The wind and rain reflected her own unrest as she tried to close down the thoughts of the day to get some sleep. Instead, she tossed with the branches and leaves accompanied by the sounds of the cat, which let out a low howl of annoyance each time Elaine moved.
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| Source: Wikipedia Commons |
There were two sharp raps on her front door.
“Oh geez! Go away!” Elaine thought, trying to curl up even tighter against the imperative of the knock.
Two more raps on the front door.
The house was dark, didn’t they see that? She thought “There’s no one home!” trying to telepathically transmit the idea to whoever was at her door.
Two more raps.
Elaine’s mind began to wander from her resolve to ignore the sound. What if there was someone in trouble? What if someone’s car had broken down and they needed to use her phone? Worse: what if there had been an accident and someone needed help? The “what if”s started to pile up in her mind until she groaned her surrender and threw the covers back. The cat chose to let Elaine investigate by herself, remaining comfortably in the cave created by the tossed comforter.
Elaine reached for her robe and then, fearing it was not enough in case she had real company, quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater over the t-shirt she slept in.
Two more raps.
Elaine didn’t bother to shout “I’m coming!” but she thought it loudly. She doubted anyone outside could hear her from this far inside the house no matter how loud she called out. Foregoing shoes she rushed into the hall, scrambling down the stairs, and into the foyer below.
There were two more raps just as Elaine was reaching for the chain and dead bolt.
“I’m here!”
She popped the chain loose, and flipped the bolt. The doorknob felt cool and squeaked as she turned it to pull the door open.
No one was there.
She felt the wind blow in her face, and raindrops dotting on her skin. This was impossible. She had just heard the knocking not two seconds ago! Maybe they had given up. Leaning out she looked around to see if she could spot someone retreated from her stoop, but there was no one in sight. If they had just knocked on the door she would have still seen them, even if they had run. There wasn’t that much cover around the front of her house. She had a clear view of her yard, the neighbors on both sides, and the street.
A fluttering caught her attention and she looked down at her feet to see a small envelope caught in the door frame. It was hand addressed “Elaine Harrison.” She must have dropped it when she brought in the mail and the wind had lodged it there. She reached down and grabbed it as the possibility entered her mind that maybe the person had indeed heard her moving in the house, and might have become confused and gone around to the back. Carrying the letter without further thought for it, she closed the door, secured it, and moved through the house to the kitchen and the back door.
There was no one there either: not anyone on the deck, in the back yard, or visible in either of the adjacent yards. True, they could have vaulted over one of the fences, but if they had felt the necessity to do that she doubted whether they really were her problem, or if she really wanted them to be. She shut the door, jumping when the deadbolt flew home with a loud bang.
“Elaine! Get a grip!” she counseled out loud, “No one in either front or back. There was no one in the street - no accident. Whatever it was, it’s not your problem.” She shook her head, laughing uncomfortably and headed for the stairs. That was when she remembered the envelope, still feeling it in her hand. “Odd,” she thought. The envelope did not seem wet or even damp.
She climbed the stairs, turning it over in her hand. Maybe it had dried in the time she had carried it through the house. Nonsense! If she had dropped it earlier it would have been out there for hours. By rights it should be sopping and limp by now.
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| Image by pareeerica |
She walked into her upstairs workroom and clicked on the desk lamp to examine it. There were no water spots on it. The paper was as crisp and fresh as if it had come right out of a fancy stationary box. It looked old-fashioned, antique. Like the sort of notes her Mother had written years and years ago to thank family and friends for gifts or hospitality. The entire envelope was not much bigger than her hand. It had only been sealed at the tip of the flap, so she was able to slip her finger under to open it easily. As she pulled out the slip of paper enclosed, it occurred to her that the envelope hadn’t even been cold when she had taken it from the door frame. It should have been wet and cold. It had been neither.
She opened the folded piece of paper and read the words. They were like a slap in the face. There, in her old curvy adolescent writing she read the words “Stay cute and sweet” in ballpoint ink. She knew for certain it was her writing because there was a little heart tucked into the letters. In those days, over thirty years ago, she had taken every opportunity to draw hearts on everything that wasn’t being turned in for a grade. Also on the page, across one corner of the ballpoint writing, almost obliterating the word “and” was one word written in sloppy red ink which slashed the page. The word was violently underlined: “Fake!”
The paper fell from her hand on to the desk. The red ink was the only thing about the note and envelope that showed any relationship to the elements howling outside. The red ink looked slightly runny, giving the impression that the word was bleeding on the page. The red word was not her writing. When she had seen it, read it, she had felt a jolt like the impact of a hand across her face and the sound of the word shouted right at her.
It lay there rocking on the desk, waving at her, screaming the word. She knocked it with a slash of her hand so that it lay face down, and threw the envelope at it. Snapping off the light she slammed the room’s door behind her.
Some sick joke! Thanks a lot! It wasn’t bad enough that she wasn’t finding it easy to sleep tonight as it was. Some helpful bastard had decided it was a prime night for a prank. How the hell had they copied her Junior High script? It didn’t matter. It was stupid and she hoped they were proud of themselves. She swung the bedroom door closed behind her and it banged against the jam, waking the cat. Elaine stripped back to her t-shirt and threw herself on the bed, grabbing for the covers and resuming her restless attempts at repose.
***
If Elaine had been correct, and it had been a practical joke, that should have been the end of it. Middle aged woman annoyed – mission accomplished. End of story. But that was not the end of it.
Two days later she walked into her workroom, put her bag down next to her desk, and dropped the mail on top of it. She had avoided the room since the night of the storm, but there was work she needed to do from home tonight. She had totally forgotten about the note. She glanced across the desk as she began sorting the mail, separating the important things from those that would go straight to the recycling bin at her feet.
Except it wasn’t there, the note from the other night. There was a note there, but it was not the same note. Or was it? It was the same envelope, same old-fashioned looking paper, and the same familiar curvy handwriting “Elaine Harrison.” This envelope, however, was sealed. As it sat there on the desk, it was almost shouting at her already. Elaine didn’t want to know what it said. She pushed it to one side and went back to her mail.
Wait a minute! If it was sealed and a new note, how the hell did it get there? Could it have simply been the same note as before, and she just didn’t remember putting the note back in the envelope? It looked awfully neat and untouched teetering there on the edge of the desk. There was only one way to find out if it was the same note. She reached for it, tore open the flap, and ripped the note from inside.
Elaine threw the envelope and note in the direction of the recycling bin and put her face in her hands. Who would do this? How had they gotten in her house? She was shaking as she got up and ran downstairs to use the kitchen phone. For reasons she could not even explain to herself, she didn’t want to call the police from the same room where the note was.
***
She felt foolish once the police left. She could just imagine what they were saying to each other as the patrol car pulled away from the curb: just another hormonal woman “of a certain age.” She hated that. She was an intelligent, accomplished woman who had worked hard all her life. She had not lost all her reason just because she had said “hello” and “goodbye” to the age of 50. The cops seem to have neglected the importance of someone breaking into her house in order to place the second note.
“Yes ma’am, we understand your concern.”
“No ma’am, we can find no evidence of forced entry.”
“Ma’am, unless you have some reasonable idea as to who would do this, and what they want from you, there is not much we can do.”
“We’ll file a report ma’am, please sign here.”
“Good night ma’am. Don’t forget to lock the door behind us.”
“I’m menopausal you idiot, not demented!” She didn’t say it, but she thought it. They had managed to make her concerns seem trivial, placating her into irrelevance.
She checked the all the doors and windows twice, before going upstairs with a large glass of wine and the full intention to take her time in a hot bathtub full of bubbles. Work could wait.
When she went back into the workroom hours later she felt better, but the word “Liar!” jumped out at her the minute she walked in the door. The policeman had left the note sitting on the desk. She picked the note and envelope up with two fingers, as if it were infected, and tossed them in the direction of the recycling bin again. She was so determined to put the whole incident out of her mind that she didn’t see them miss the bin and float into her open bag, nestling down among the papers and files.
***
The next day Elaine came sailing into her office at an upscale local design firm. She flung her bag on her drafting table and plopped down at her desk to check email and phone messages.
Elaine’s specialty was rehabilitating derelict buildings into fresh new spaces for retail and business. She loved her work. She enjoyed learning about the long histories of the buildings she worked on, doing extensive research, and finding ways to meld the building’s past with the present in her designs. She liked to think that she celebrated what the building once was, with what the building could be. It was very satisfying work, bringing something to life that was seemingly dead.
She was just finishing checking her computer and the phone, taking a big gulp of her now warm morning coffee when she noticed a familiar bit of antique paper lurking in her bag across the room.
“I thought I tossed that out.”
She got up slowly, walking to the bag. There it was: a small, crisp, sealed envelope addressed to her in her own hand. Elaine took it and felt the dread run through her, even though she hadn’t opened it. She walked back to her desk, feeling unsettled and sat down. She broke the seal, pulled the paper out, cringing as she opened it and sucked in a sharp breath. The ballpoint ink scrolled the words “You are the sister I never had.” This time the red words screamed across the middle of the block of cool blue ink: “Phony!”
There was tap at her office door, and Elaine jumped, stuffing the envelope and note into her jacket pocket. She pasted a nervous smile on her face, “Yes?”
“Is everything all right, Elaine?”
“Yes, yes I am fine. What can I do for you?”
She pushed the dread and fear forcibly out of her mind, willing her attention on work, for the moment forgetting the note still pulsing in her pocket.
***
When Elaine got home that night she felt exhausted. It had taken a lot of energy to stay focused during the day, and not let her thoughts stray to the note. It was almost a perceptible weight in her pocket. She hadn’t had time to deal with it. She didn’t let herself have the time.
She collapsed into a chair in the living room and heard the paper crackle. She wanted to ignore it, but she knew she couldn’t. She pulled the envelope out, half hoping that it and the note would be exactly as they were when she’d stuffed them in there hours ago. She knew better, though. Sure enough, the envelope was crisp and sealed, despite her hearing it crinkle in her pocket. It should have been at least a little rumpled. It was not. She drew in a breath and broke the seal again.
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| Image by cynicalview |
“I will always be there for you,” declared the ballpoint ink. This time, there were three red words hemorrhaging across the page: “Where? Where? Where?” The question marks looked like had had been carved with a knife and each word was underlined, the final one three times.
Elaine did not drop the note, but held it tight in her shaking hand. The note wanted to know. Elaine wanted to know. What did these all have in common, these messages? Of course, the paper and envelope were the same. In fact they seemed to stay the same, regenerating with each new message. It seemed that once she had let the note into the house it stayed with her where ever she went. It was trying to tell her something. What?
She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair while the note still shook in her hand. She got up and went into the kitchen for a scrap of paper and a pen, and wrote down the words from the notes in two columns. Somehow the red words seemed to scream less on the copied page, but were still unsettling. She focused on the ballpoint words instead:
“Stay cute and sweet”
“Friends Forever!”
“You are the sister I never had.”
“I will always be there for you.”
Then the thought came to her. These were yearbook words! It was the sort of thing you scribbled in the margins and on top of photographs in the frenzy of the end of the year dedications. She put the papers on the coffee table and walked over to the shelves that surrounded her modest entertainment center. She always unpacked them, where had she put them? Ah! There they were peeking out from behind the end of the sofa on the bottom shelf. She pushed the sofa enough to pull out the yearbook from her senior year in High School. “Might as well start somewhere,” she thought. She poured herself a big mug of soothing green tea in the kitchen, and came back resolutely to the coffee table and made herself comfortable on the couch.
She stuffed the note back in its envelope hoping that would quiet the red words while she searched through the book. She folded the scratch paper list in half so she could see just the ballpoint ink words, and placed it where she could easily reference them. She began flipping through the pages of thirty year old photographs and memories, methodically reading each inscription looking for the words that matched.
After a half an hour she found them. Of course! Why hadn’t she remembered? Rebecca Jonas had been her best friend all through High School. They had spent practically every weekday of the summer before their senior year together while their parents were at work, and most of the weekends. They were so close that, when yearbook time came, they had written exactly the same dedications in each others yearbooks. Elaine smiled remembering how they had laughed at their own private little joke.
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| Image by Christopher S. Penn |
She put the yearbook down and raced upstairs to her workroom, booting up her computer and beginning her search. Rebecca was the key to all this. She looked through periodicals, listings on professional sites. Good gracious, there were a whole lot of women named Rebecca Jonas in the world! The two of them had pledged to stay in touch and had done so through college, though they had gone to schools on opposite sides of the country. They had even gone out together a few times after college. Slowly, unintentionally they had grown apart. It had been years, well over a decade since Elaine had heard anything about her once best friend. She had no idea what had become of Rebecca.
She narrowed her search, trying to find local listings of someone about her age. Then she found what she was looking for. Rebecca was dead. She had died six years ago that very month. Elaine sat back in her chair and brought a fist to her mouth, her vision misting over with tears. She’d had no idea. She hadn’t known. “Oh my God.”
She walked soberly back downstairs and opened a closet door, pulling out boxes and searching for some other piece of her past. In a box with some old college text books she found the scrapbook that she and Rebecca had made that incredible summer when they had been inseparable. She brought it back to the coffee table and began looking through it, and the yearbook, with a whole new set of eyes. Rebecca’s sunny face was everywhere, laughing, sharing secret looks, being ridiculously goofy. They had gone swimming, read Jane Austen novels together, sorted college catalogues, watched daytime television, eaten tons of junk food, and prophesied about who they would be with at dances during their all-important senior year. Elaine relived every moment of that summer, and every important event of their senior year. The ache in her heart grew with each memory, knowing that there was no way Rebecca could share these sweet reminiscences with her ever again.
***
When she finally went to bed, sometime after three in the morning, she just stared blankly at the ceiling until the sun came up. At eight she called her office to let them know she was staying at home. She didn’t have any crucial appointments or deadlines, and she had plenty of time off coming.
Ten a.m. found her in the stiff cold air, opening her umbrella as the rain started to fall. She had gotten the name of the cemetery from the listing she had found, and the desk clerk had given her directions how to find the grave. The actual physical cemetery was a little more intimidating than the graphics on the desk clerk’s computer. Elaine finally found her though.
Rebecca Jonas
Born August 14, 1962
Died October 5, 2006
There was no other inscription. Elaine recognized the headstone. There was a group of ladies at one of the big local churches who had started a charity to help people who died without means to have a proper burial. They held bazaars, bake sales, and auctions all to provide monuments and obituary listings for people who passed and had no relatives, or whose relatives could not afford it. What had happened to Rebecca’s family? She had been an only child, but she’d had parents.
It was raining steadily as Elaine knelt down and put her hand on the grave. “Oh my God, Rebecca. What on earth happened to you?” She put her head down and wept, the rain mocking her tears, her hand still on Rebecca’s grave. The sorrow and guilt pelted down on her with every raindrop. She felt it constrict in her chest: she should have known.
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| Image by Stuck in Customs |
After a long time Elaine rose, wiping at her wet face ineffectually with her rain dampened sleeve. She sniffed, and felt into her pocket for the note. She had brought it with her. It had remained unsealed since last night, and she had kept it with her. The last message was still there. “Where? Where? Where?”
Elaine looked at the grave, addressing it softly again. “I am so sorry, Rebecca. I should have been there for you.”
***
She didn’t sleep well again that night. She would doze off and words and images would flash in her mind like lightning in a thunderstorm.
“Fake”
“Liar”
“Phony”
“Where?”
Images of Rebecca from the yearbook and from the scrapbook but all distorted; Rebecca’s charity headstones at the cemetery, the rain pouring down it like tears. Rebecca was still trying to get Elaine’s attention. She was still not satisfied.
Elaine woke up bleary and wilted. It was Saturday, but she knew she had to find the resolution to all this. There was work to be done. Rebecca’s ghost wanted something and had chosen Elaine to make it happen.
She took a hot shower, made a big pot of coffee, and brought it and the note with her into her work room. The paper was starting to show some wear, but the words were the same. She had no idea what she was looking for, but there was still something about this to be resolved. She booted up her computer and rubbed her hands together, putting her research hat on, and began looking for clues.
She discovered that both Rebecca’s parents had predeceased her. They had both been gone by the time the millennium changed. So Rebecca had been alone. Elaine felt the guilt and agony of the gravesite all over again, but she transformed it into a firm resolve to discover what “where” meant.
It turned out to be incredibly simple. She found the obituary listing again, the one she now realized had been paid for by the charity. There was no reference to family except one at the very end, so slight it was easy to miss it: “Survived by Belinda Jonas, infant.” Elaine kept searching and discovered the date of birth of one Belinda Jonas right there in the local hospital on October 5, 2006. There was no father referenced. Rebecca had died somehow of complications from childbirth. It did not take a detective to ferret that out. She had a daughter and she had lived long enough to name her.
That summer so long ago, there had been a heroine on their favorite soap opera named “Belinda.” The character had come from the country to live with her more affluent relations in the swanky suburban world of the show. She was good, kind, bright, and always positive with an uncanny talent for walking unknowing into utter catastrophes. Elaine and Rebecca had rooted for her through any number of improbable plot twists and turns. No matter what had happened, the character always retained her innocent good nature.
Rebecca had named her daughter after that character.
***
It was over eleven months, hundreds of phone calls, emails, and dozens of meetings and official inquiries later. Elaine sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair looking into the wide, earnest eyes of a seven year old girl. She had her mother’s eyes and the same quirky turn at the corner of her mouth. Elaine knew that little quirk was perfect for laughter, but she got the impression that “Lindy”, as she was called, did not smiled much. The woman at the foster home had seemed kind enough. She had several children in care, but she did not seem to be the usual horror story foster mother you read about. The woman had warned her that Lindy was a bit behind and had a difficult time in school. She wasn’t socializing the way the other children were, and she kept to herself much of the time.
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| Image by mrhayata |
Elaine kept her voice low and calm. “Lindy, I won’t pretend that this will be easy. But if you would agree to, I would like for you to come live with me.” She had made several visits, trying carefully to get to know the little girl who was her friend’s daughter.
“Are there other kids where you live?”
Elaine smiled, “I am afraid not, but there is a cat. Her name is ‘Miss Kitty.’”
The child made a scrunched up face.
Elaine chuckled gently, “I know, it is not the most original name in the world, but she seems happy with it.”
“Is she a mean kitty?”
“Not at all. Miss Kitty loves people.” Elaine reached out carefully to place her hand reassuringly on Lindy’s. “I am sure she is going to like you.”
“Really?” Lindy looked hopeful, as if being liked by a cat was the best thing that could ever happen to her. Elaine’s heart went out to the little girl whose expectations for joy could be so simple.
“Really. Now what do you say? Would you like to give me and Miss Kitty a try?” There was a trial period she knew, mandated by law, before she could officially file adoption papers. But this was going to work. She knew in her soul this was going to work. Elaine was now absolutely certain that the “where” had not been about where she should have been when her friend needed her, though that guilt still remained with her. The “where” was about Lindy, and making a real home for her friend’s only child.
Two days later they walked out of the foster home, Lindy’s small hand held tightly in Elaine’s. It was a year to the day from the first arrival of the note on her doorstep. As Elaine strapped her into the car, the child asked, “You knew my Mommy?”
“Yes I did. Many years ago your Mommy and I were best friends.”
The child looked up, saying plainly, “I don’t remember her at all.”
Elaine reached out and caressed her small cheek, “You will know her now. I will make sure of it. I promise.”
As she walked around to the driver’s side, Elaine realized there were blanks she could never fill in for Lindy. What had happened that had brought Elaine to a pregnancy in her mid-forties, giving birth alone in a hospital with no one there to support her? Where was Lindy’s father? She realized these where questions she might, or might not, be able to find the answers to. For the moment, she knew her prime responsibility was to see to the health and happiness if this one little girl.
***
Miss Kitty was at her charming best from the moment Lindy entered the house, following her around, rubbing up against her legs whenever possible, looking up at her adoringly. The adoration was clearly mutual.
They had pizza and sodas for dinner. Sitting at Elaine’s big dining room table, she watched the child take her pizza slice and fold it in half. Her heart almost skipped a beat, and her Root Beer can came down on the table with a fizzy bang, spilling on the table top. Rebecca had always eaten pizza that way. Elaine had teased her endlessly about her “pizza sandwiches”, but she had adamantly refused to change. It was only one of the many little ways that Elaine saw more and more of the mother in the daughter.
“Are you okay?” the child asked, noticing the bits of spilled soda.
“I’m fine, just clumsy.” Elaine wiped the spill up with her napkin. She’d have to be more careful about such recognitions.
After dinner they sat together on the couch with the cat curled up against Lindy, and Elaine slowly began to share the scrap book. They took their time, Elaine slowly telling the story of every photograph they admired, every keepsake and clipping. She let Lindy ask all the questions she wanted, and by bedtime there was still a lot of scrapbook left to explore.
Lindy had been excited about her own room, but reluctant to sleep there alone on her first night.
“Can’t I sleep with you?”
Elaine paused for a second, thinking that as a new parent she would need to learn to be strong and disciplined. But this was not the night for such things. That would have to wait. She was sure she would make plenty of mistakes, but tonight was not one of them. Lindy had been through a lot, and she now had a home and someone she could call her very own for the first time in her life. Elaine’s heart did not posses the will to deny her.
As they lay in Elaine’s big bed, under the comforter with Miss Kitty curled up at Lindy’s feet, Elaine was awake for a long time contentedly listening to the child’s breathing as she slept. The wind was blowing again, just like it had that first night a year ago. Elaine realized she had one thing left undone, one very important thing.
She slipped out from under the covers, and Lindy stirred. “Stay here, sweetie. You say here with Miss Kitty. I’ll be right back.” She kissed Lindy’s fore head and smoothed her hair out of her face. She gave Miss Kitty a knowing look that meant “stay.” The cat just yawned at her and curled back up.
Elaine padded into her workroom and took the note out from where she had hidden it, not wanting Lindy to accidently see it. More than that, Elaine did not want to have to explain it. Not yet, at least. For the last year Elaine had carried the note with her everywhere she went. It became a talisman in her search to find Lindy and bring her home. The paper was soft and worn now. The red words, once so angry across the page, were faded. They bruised the paper pink, and were almost impossible to read.
Elaine pulled out her best ink pen and turned the paper over to the blank side. She wrote in a clear, strong hand, “All my love, always” and signed her name. As an after thought she smiled and made a little adolescent heart out of the dot over the “i” in her name. She folded the note, and slid it into the envelope, gluing the envelope shut. She ran a line through her own name, and wrote below it “Rebecca Jonas.” Elaine had been haunted by her own words, written so long ago. She let it stay there on desk for a few moments, thinking about the journey of these words: a moment of shared laughter that had taken such an unexpected, incredible turn so many years later. She smoothed the envelope thoughtfully, picked it up and went downstairs.
She opened the front door, flinched against the swirling October wind. She slid the note into the door frame exactly where it had first appeared. She made sure it was securely stuck, then closed the door and returned to bed.
***
In the morning, the weather had changed. It was clear and crisp outside. Elaine had slept more soundly than she had in well over a year. She felt refreshed, happily enjoying the sight of the peacefully sleeping child at her side.
She got up and went downstairs, puttering in the kitchen enough that Miss Kitty soon arrived, demanding her morning bowl of food. Elaine had started the coffee pot when she remembered the note. She hoped her words of last night had ended Rebecca’s unrest, but did she dare look? It didn’t really matter if she dared or not, she’d have to open the front door someday. It might as well be now.
She walked into the front hall, morning light streaming through the window high in the front door. She popped the chain loose, and flipped the bolt. The doorknob felt warm in her hand. It still squeaked. She opened the door on to the bright morning, her eyes immediately going to the door frame.
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| Image by shoothead |
The note was gone. Below where she had placed it, on the stoop was a single white flower petal about the size of Elaine’s palm. It was perfect: without flaw. Elaine picked it up, closed the door behind her, and walked into the living room where the book still lay on the coffee table, hers and Rebecca’s scrapbook. She tucked the petal inside, running a loving hand over the cover before returning upstairs to wake Lindy.
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