The Gift of the Twin Houses Page 2

  “Mr. Thompson, this is a beautiful home. How come you don’t have a bigger sign to attract people off the road?”

  “No need for that. Calls attention to the fact that it’s vacant.”

  “Oh, didn’t think of that. You’re right; it’s pretty isolated.”

  “How did you find it?” he asked.

  “I veered off the road. The dirt road looked appealing.”

  “The daring kind, are you?”

  “No, just the opposite. Except for today.”

  “Well then, what do you think?”

  Conrad Thompson was not the only one surprised by my answer. “I’d like to buy it.”

  Chapter 2

  The Attic

  I purchased the house without entering the attic, even though I knew it was the very reason I wanted this house. Well, truth be told, I didn’t really “know.” I sensed it. Aware of the attic’s call, I refused to consciously accept its pull.

  Unfamiliar emotions permeated my senses and propelled me into unknown territories—not only physical but spiritual, psychological, and even metaphysical. Unsettling all around.

  Up until now I’d been in complete control of my life, every detail planned, with full knowledge of the ups and downs and an awareness of all the angles before decisions were made. I’d never experienced the sensation of giving in to a mere inclination. It had been forbidden. But now, given in to it I had, and any misgivings dissipated when the purchase of the house fell into place without any glitches.

  “It makes perfect sense, Sarah. It’s meant to be,” I kept repeating to myself.

  I’d already thought of using the gains from the investments of my inheritance and annuity by converting them into real property, in order to diminish any losses due to the decline in the economy. “This quaint house in the Cascades is the perfect investment,” I rationalized.

  What I didn’t anticipate was my subsequent decision to get rid of my duplex in Pasadena so I could move to the new house and live amid the majesty of the Cascades. But when I put my condo on the market, and it sold yielding a small profit in spite of the declining home prices nationwide, I concluded once again that it was meant to be.

  A few months earlier, I’d retired, having fulfilled my lifelong dream of being a teacher. I still remember my excitement as a little girl when I’d line up my stuffed animals and dolls to teach them everything I knew. To my delight, they learned it all to perfection. That same feeling of exhilaration, of knowing I could make a difference in someone’s life through my teaching, motivated me through most of my career. But in the end, I’d become disillusioned after repeated rejections, or apathy, toward my ideas or my methods for new, innovative approaches to education. So I gave up trying and, like so many others, succumbed to the status quo. What a pity.

  I don’t remember at what point I lost my intellectual and professional innocence, let alone when the choice to conform stifled my life as a whole. But it became evident when I retired. Only then did I experience a real sense of freedom. No more pretending. I could be myself.

  Just one problem—I didn’t know who I was.

  After so many years of pretending, I’d lost my true self. Hiding my oddity since early childhood had laid the groundwork for easy concealment. I’d become someone else at an early age, so as I grew up and had to go by the book, I followed the same pattern. Eventually, I turned myself into someone who wouldn’t attract attention or appear on anybody’s radar.

  Now, a new beginning and a fresh opportunity awaited me in the Cascades, and the time had come to reclaim the real me.

  “Only how or where do I begin?” I didn’t have the answer, only the urge to proceed, so I did.

  The events that followed the move to my new home occurred at a point in my life when the search for my true self took prominence; otherwise, the practical Sarah, the one who’d lived within the status quo, would never have accepted them. The impulse to buy an isolated house far from my trusted old home in Pasadena turned out to be a clear demonstration of my readiness to be bold. I’d stepped out of the norm and allowed uncharacteristic behavior to creep in. Somewhere deep inside, I sensed that this secluded house might show me the way. No doubt it was bizarre to give such credence to the effect a house could have on a person.

  “So what? What do I have to lose anyway? Why not be adventurous and trust my instincts? What’s the risk of letting my spiritual antenna fly free? No one will get hurt.. .well, no one but me. I certainly can handle that. What could possibly happen? That someone somewhere would think me abnormal? Sinister? OK, that’s a frightening prospect, but isn’t hiding from myself worse?”

  So here I was, early November, all settled in, ready to embrace my new life in the middle of nowhere, unknown to everyone, lonelier than ever before, and talking to myself.

  “Well, Sarah, is complete isolation what you want? What’s in store for you? Why have you secluded yourself in this solitary house?”

  And as usual, only the insistent call from the attic responded.

  For a while I tried to ignore its summons, that sense of foreboding yanking me away. Years of practice at being someone other than myself and of containing my extrasensory capacities prevented me from giving into the sensation that the attic actually beckoned me.

  But it refused to give up. It persisted.

  In the end, my curiosity, coupled with the inescapable reappearance of this uninvited ability of mine, made it impossible to resist. After living in the house for little more than a week, I answered the attic’s call and hesitantly entered.

  At first glance it didn’t impress me or frighten me.

  “You’re just a typical attic full of junk. Conrad should haul this stuff away.”

  A soulful draft of wind seeped in. The attic moaned.

  “OK, OK.. .no hauling away.”

  With a creak and crack the attic called my attention to one corner of the room where I discovered the long-forgotten trunks with their small boxes, each one holding the photographs that needed me.

  “Or is it I who needs them?”

  I expected the attic to respond, but of course it didn’t, and reality set in. “C’mon, Sarah, get a grip. Get on with it.” So, during this first visit, I only peeked in, tiptoed through the room, whispered to myself so as not to disturb its contents, moved nothing, and just looked.

  After I’d left, it became clear that such a visit wasn’t enough. The attic continued to tempt me, invite me to partake in its stories, but I resisted.

  Then, late one afternoon, I felt a difference. My stomach tightened, my heart beat a little too fast, and the clamminess in my hands spoke of fear.

  “A premonition,” I whispered, “The old abandoned photographs summon me.

  It’s hard to accept that a person can, in truth, hear inanimate objects “speak,” especially for a trained skeptic like me. But they did.

  “Sarah,” my father’s voice resonated in my mind, “discard all intuition. Always question everything that comes your way until you can prove its validity with known practical explanations or applications. We don’t want you or others to get hurt again. We must try to control those things you feel. It’s best for you not to trust those sensations. If they come up, reject them and question them until you find a logical explanation for what they’re telling you. What would be best is for you to bury them and not feel them at all.”

  My mother’s advice would of course follow. “Please, carino, you must control your abilities. They’re unique to you, and others won’t understand. You need to keep them within and behave like all of us. It’s best to always seek logical details for what you do or think, just as we do. Find something tangible, scientific, or demonstrable. Never give in to your instincts.”

  These mental playbacks invariably concluded with my Nana’s gentle coaxing. “Your parents mean well, ma cherie. Skepticism will serve you well.” As I matured, these adopted character traits became second nature. Yet, the day I returned to the attic for my second visit, I made no effort to
seek concrete justifications for its pull. Impulse had brought me here, and now it propelled me forward. Impulse.. .a peculiar emotion deep inside has tightened its grip. It pushes me to do something without the slightest regard of what could happen next. Out of character for sure, at least the character I’d crafted over the years.

  So, despite my fear of the unknown and with full resolve to answer its summons, I climbed the stairs to the attic for the second time and presented myself.

  The attic glowed with an orange hue. The light that filtered through the small round window seemed to change once it came inside, bathing the entire room and its contents in vibrant carroty and lemony tones. The room wasn’t warm, but the light made it feel so. It enveloped me in a cocoon of comfort and security and invited me to be at ease and courageous.

  In addition to the trunks that cared for the photographs, the attic held an old floor lamp, a cluster of dated books, a couple of empty frames of what may have been cherished paintings, an abandoned mirror, a loved armchair, and a forgotten little table. Together, they rested in the comfort of familiarity.

  I sat on the floor in the middle of the large loft surrounded by memories, looking into somebody’s life.. .in fact, several lives from the look of it.

  “Are they memories?” I thought so, hoped so, but wasn’t sure.

  Not knowing any of the people these old things belonged to made me feel like an intruder, someone who’d stepped into their private past hoping to persuade them to share their stories. How unusual this adventurous curiosity was for me, but it wouldn’t be denied. Audacity steered my every move.

  At first I was reluctant to touch anything for fear that it would disturb their peace. Yet, they welcomed me. Somehow it didn’t bother them. I felt as if I fit in. I’d never fit in before, always a step or two out of the norm. So the attic’s embrace and the sense of belonging felt delightful, and I allowed my curiosity to take over.

  “Maybe the people in these photographs can help me find myself,” I whispered aloud. “Why not?” And with that, I encouraged myself to proceed.

  After opening the first trunk, I took out a box filled with old sepia photographs, many of them hard to see, fading images of times past, strangers staring back at me. They didn’t ask me why I dared look into their lives and intrude. They didn’t reject me. Quite the contrary, a sense of comfort and reassurance flowed through me, as if deep inside someone voiced gentle words of friendship and affection. Somehow they knew I was in search of myself and offered to help.

  Of course the skeptic in me showed up, intimating, “You’ve lost your mind.” I could feel an electric charge travel through my body, spreading fear, and encouraging me to bolt and escape from all these peculiar emotions and experiences. “These very thoughts, images, or impressions you’re feeling are the culprits. They instilled fear and inflicted severe pain in your parents. They forced you to run away—”

  “And caused me to disown a part of myself,” I argued.

  This time I didn’t cower. The antenna didn’t retract. Instead, I sensed that I’d found my true destiny—at least, I chose to see it in that light. One way or another, I wanted the photographs to help.

  “The photographs’ help? That’s odd.”

  “I agree.”

  “Creepy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Frightening?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Tottering between rational thought and madness?”

  “Most certainly, but I’ll risk it.”

  The sun had set, and the attic whispered good-night as it welcomed the shadows of the evening. With newfound courage, I closed the box of photographs and took it downstairs with me. The attic responded with a little crick-crack, and I felt that it allowed me not only to remove the box from its familiar surroundings but in fact suggested I bring it down with me.

  As I shut the door to the attic, I caressed it.

  “Caressing a door? That’s peculiar.. .for sure a tilt toward madness.”

  I caressed it again. “There,” I offered the doubter in me, “I stroked the attic’s door in appreciation, and that’s the only explanation you’ll get.” I couldn’t come up with any other reason for these actions so out of the ordinary because, regardless of how bizarre my behavior had been of late, I couldn’t stop. Something egged me on. I was traveling through undiscovered emotional terrain, bravely allowing all the unusual sensations to exist as I conquered my fears and insecurities, one at a time.

  With my precious cargo, I went down to the living room and set the box on the coffee table. I stoked the fire, poured myself a glass of wine, sat on the sofa, and with great care removed the first photo from the box. It appeared to be one of the oldest—mid-nineteenth century, from the look of the garments of a woman who sat on the shore contemplating the ocean.

  As I stared at the photo, I heard a voice, and I met Louise Whitman for the first time.

  Chapter 3

  Louise Whitman 1830

  “You are here,” I heard her say. She spoke with a cadence of yesteryears.

  In the photograph Louise Whitman watched the waves break on the beach. It appeared to be sunset. She sat pensively, her hair dancing in the wind. Somehow I heard the sea and felt the wind, as if transported to her presence.

  I was about to respond when a couple of feet appeared at her side.

  She didn’t need to look up. He sat next to her while she continued to stare at the horizon and placed his arm around her shoulders. She welcomed his companionship and dropped her head on his shoulder.

  “Louise, you have to let go of your fear,” he whispered, his speech bearing the same old-fashioned tone.

  “It will not let go of me, Leonard. You know that.”

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  “This cannot go on,” Louise whispered. “It will destroy us.”

  “The alternative is even worse. You must accept it as I have. That is all there is to it.” Leonard sounded so stern that Louise turned to look at him to make sure he was the one speaking.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her. His lips pushed hers open, and before she could protest, his tongue searched for hers. She knew they shouldn’t give into their desires, but she was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of being someone she didn’t want to be.

  “I want you,” he whispered.

  “Leonard, we cannot. Please, no.” She protested but clung desperately to him.

  He took off his shirt and gently opened her blouse. He helped her out of it and lost himself in her breasts.

  His desire for her ran faster than he could catch it. It sped ahead; he could see it, feel it, as he reached urgently to capture it inside of her.

  Louise, in starvation, devoured his intensity.

  Their lovemaking had a desperate quality, as if they might never lie together again.

  Their explosion jolted them.

  Then, panting, they remained in a tight embrace.

  “I want more,” he said.

  “I need more,” she replied.

  “Come what may?”

  “Come what may.”

  The photograph went silent as Louise sat pensively, her hair dancing in the wind.

  I felt as if I’d been there, experiencing the ecstasy of their forbidden sexual encounter and their love. Panting, I placed Louise’s photograph on the coffee table.

  I had no knowledge of love like this, let alone the passion Leonard and Louise had just shared with me. All the men in my life turned out to be temporary companions, mostly due to my apprehension of intimacy. After witnessing this scene, I wondered if at the core of my aloofness was the fact that I expected to feel this kind of ardor and hadn’t.

  I tried to make sense of the emotional impact the photograph had elicited when I noticed that Louise was alone. Leonard wasn’t there.

  “Where is he?” I asked her.

  She didn’t respond but remained watching the waves break upon the beach.

  Somehow, even though he wasn’t
in the photograph, I knew what he looked like and what he experienced. How strange. Although Louise remained silent, I understood that in time I would meet Leonard.

  After a warm shower, I rationalized that the images I’d experience were figments of my imagination.

  “You’re so pathetically lonely that not only are you talking to yourself but you’re making up stories about these old photos. And what’s wrong with that? Nothing. I imagine their lives and the images keep me company. It’s fun to make up stories. It’s like reading a book and visualizing the characters. Simply that, nothing more. It certainly isn’t anything like when I had premonitions or saw things. This is just imagining what Louise was feeling or thinking when the picture was taken. That’s all.”

  With that explanation, I turned out the lights and buried myself under my warm comforter.

  I slept so soundly that night that when I woke up the next day, I felt young as a teenager. I worked on my yard, cleaned the house, and midmorning, allowed myself the pleasure of sifting through the box of photographs again. Hopefully Leonard would make himself known. I wanted to meet him in person, not his ethereal presence.

  I went through the box a couple of times, but none of the photographs introduced themselves. They just stared back at me, wondering why I looked at them with such persistence.

  “Maybe I’m trying too hard,” I surmised, and went back to my chores.

  Except, they didn’t feel like chores. I loved my house and its surroundings. The mist of the late autumn, softly caressing the multicolored foliage and giving life to the evergreens, took my breath away every single day. I knew I’d made the right decision to start a new life here, away from my past, and with an unplanned future ahead.

  To most folks my three-story house would look old and out of place. But she was much more than that. She had character, an internal knowledge that she was special, at ease in the valley, surrounded by the beauty of nature, offering a safe haven to her inhabitants.