The Gift of the Twin Houses Read online

  “Have I lost my mind?”

  That unsettling thought ran through me, but I also told myself that the awareness of these opposite personalities represented a healthy process of transformation and growth. After all, these alternate egos were reflections of what I searched for: the resurgence of my true self.

  So when the Sarah of the past crept in and spun webs of despair, loneliness, and madness, the emerging Sarah asserted herself in spite of the fear and the unpredictability around her new life. A decent, if difficult, balance.

  In the solitude of my early mornings, I saw and understood the change within me. I observed and felt the old Sarah, the worrier and planner, appear during the day and take control of things, but in the privacy of the early mornings, the new Sarah blossomed. Dawn belonged to her, and the dread about split personalities or going crazy could be set aside.

  Only after the sun rose and the day awakened was the old Sarah allowed to be in charge. However, once the household tasks that needed her attention were completed, the new Sarah returned. A good compromise by all accounts.

  With the arrival of winter, I knew that once I allowed all the worrisome what-ifs and the concerns about being stranded or snowed in, unable to heat the house, running out of food, and so on and so forth to assert themselves, they would take over in less than a second. So no sense fighting them. They needed to be dealt with. Once the old Sarah took over, the silence, the peace, and the ease of the early mornings abruptly ended, and the day filled with tasks. However, I knew that at the end of the day, the new Sarah would return and enjoy the fruits of the labor of her alter ego until sunrise.

  To be honest, once I acknowledged and welcomed the rise of the new Sarah, life became easier and definitely more enjoyable. Particularly thanks to Conrad’s appearance. Unbeknownst to him, his presence had quickly appeased the Sarah of the past and enabled the Sarah of today to emerge more often than just at sunrise.

  My two Sarahs were learning to coexist.

  When Conrad started working on the house, the skeptical Sarah got in the way, suspicious that all the things he brought were unnecessary, a ploy to make money off a stupid woman. But I intuitively trusted Conrad, and my new self conquered the old one.

  I had no idea why I trusted him so quickly. No rational reasoning formed my opinion of Conrad. I guess the unquestioning Sarah took full hold of me and gave me the confidence to rely on my instinct and trust him. Unaccustomed to that type of assurance, it took a while to feel at ease with this new sensation. For someone like me, who never trusted anyone unless given full proof that the person deserved the lowering of my guard, it felt like treading in dangerous waters. Maybe the fact that I no longer fought my emerging spiritual antenna had something to do with it.

  Whatever the case, my instincts were eventually rewarded, and the prudent Sarah was put at ease. Among the many benefits of doing business with Conrad was the fact that he owned the general store in town. He knew the merchants, the suppliers, and all the tradesmen in the area, which made the repairs and upgrades quicker and easier.

  Maybe I trusted him because I found him so attractive. He seemed to be about my age, strong, and good looking. He emanated confidence, yet his demeanor was gentle and soothing. Somewhat taken aback by the magnetism he exuded, the vigilant Sarah immediately erected all known defenses. But his easygoing poise won the day.

  Nevertheless, despite his looks and allure, I incessantly questioned the need for every household item he suggested, and every time the answers were simple and honest, all of which added to my sense of comfort and the attraction I felt.

  “What do I need a generator for?” I asked early on.

  “In case of an ice storm, or if the snow is too heavy and tree branches fall, breaking the power lines.”

  “You sure I need to store extra water? Whatever for?

  “In case the pipes freeze and crack. You need water not only to drink, but to drain the toilets, for washing, and to stay healthy until they’re repaired.”

  “Why this much canned food? I can’t eat all of this.”

  “Enough to last a couple of weeks if the storm prevents you from leaving home. We’re a bit far from town, so it’s best to be prepared. You don’t have to eat them all at once,” he joked.

  “Why do I need that?” I asked pointing to the object in his hand.

  “OK, Sarah,” he said patiently. “You know that I don’t live far from here, so I’d be able to help you if the need should arise. But if for some reason you can’t drive or walk to my place, here’s a blow horn.”

  “What about just calling you on the phone?”

  “It’s for when there is no phone service.” He chuckled and shook his head. He must’ve thought I needed brain surgery.

  “But if I have a generator, why the extra blankets? I’m the only one here.” I protested.

  “You can’t run the generator all the time; you need to conserve fuel. The blankets will help keep you warm along with the fire when you turn the generator off and the central heating shuts off.”

  After adding a thick, waterproof winter jacket and pants, water-resistant boots, warm heavy-duty gloves, and much more, I ended up well prepared for the winter. Both Sarahs felt safe and happy.

  Conrad not only helped bring all the goodies from his store to the house but also oversaw all the upgrades and repairs and did many of them himself. A nice, uncomplicated man, he took the time to teach me how to prepare the house for winter in future years and how to maintain it.

  He first showed me how to care for the pipes. “Just keep them warm,” he explained as he insulated the first one. “This material is made with minerals and needs to be wrapped like a bandage around the pipes. I like to secure it with string instead of tape. It lasts longer. The pipes must be completely covered, with no gaps. Keep an eye on them through the winter to make sure they stay on. Now you do the rest.” I insulated the rest of the pipes under his watchful eye and felt quite the handywoman.

  The following days he showed me how to protect the roof and sides, but this time he did all the work while I watched.

  Then we moved to the insulation of the windows and doors. He showed me how to fix one, and then I took over the remainder. I even learned how to chop wood, although in the end, he’d chopped enough wood to keep the fireplace going for at least three months. Watching him chop wood enthralled me, and I wished for winter to last forever.

  We spent several late afternoons side by side, working on my house.

  “How long have you lived here?” I finally asked one day.

  “Most of my life. I joined the marines and traveled some of the world, but home’s always been here. I can’t get enough of the Cascades.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m quite taken by them myself.”

  “I felt pretty sure that was the case when you bought the house so quickly. Glad to hear I was right.”

  Come to think of it, maybe that’s the main reason I lowered my defenses. I could appreciate his devotion for his birthplace since I’d fallen in love with this magical part of the world myself.

  During these weeks, the attic was silent. The house, aware of our efforts to ready her to withstand the harshness of wintry weather, cracked and cricked in appreciation.

  As we approached the completion of the upgrades, I brought up the matter of payment again. “Conrad, please hear me out. You’ve been working for a couple of weeks on my house and not tending to your own store. Are you I can t pay you?

  “Now Sarah, we’ve gone through this already. Tom’s taking care of the store so there is no need—”

  “Just because he’s your son, it’s not right for me to take advantage of his willingness to work without you.”

  “You sure are stubborn. We’ve already discussed this. Just pay me the direct costs on the receipts I gave you yesterday.”

  “Those are cosmetic and decorative, but what about—”

  “All the repairs and upgrades we’ve made, I should pay for. Including the generator and
all the stuff necessary for this house to weather the winter. It’s my duty to sell you a house in perfect condition and to your liking. I only waited until you were settled in and felt sure you’d stay here to work on the needed maintenance of the house. No sense in doing anything till the new owner agreed with the work to be done. Winter just came up real quick this year. Anyway, it’s the least I can do for my new neighbor.”

  And with that he refused to entertain any more discussion on the subject. Both Sarahs were at peace.

  As I sat on my porch one early morning and looked out across my valley toward the Cascades, they filled me with joy and a deep sense of belonging, as if I were part of nature. No fear lingered on what winter might bring. Instead I’d become a part of winter. I attributed my sense of wellbeing to Conrad. A man who had been nothing but generous, offering his help and time with no expectations and no demands.

  Although I looked forward to his visit later that afternoon, I dreaded the fact that it marked the last day I would spend time with him. His work around the house neared completion. Unacquainted with such feelings about a man I’d just met, a stranger really, I felt it necessary to question my emotions, but

  I refused to worry. Today the old Sarah wouldn’t be welcome, not even for a moment. The entire day belonged to the new Sarah.

  For some bizarre reason, I wanted the house to smell of fresh-baked bread when he arrived. Only one problem: I’d never baked bread. As it happened, a few days earlier I’d retrieved my mother’s old cookbook that had been neglected for years in a bookcase. My mother had created her own cookbook in a small three-ring binder where she had inserted many recipes, all of which had handwritten alterations or notes with her suggestions or my grandmother’s. She had created an index in the front of the book and had included dividers separating the different types of dishes. I looked up the recipes for baking bread, chose the easiest one, and rushed out to purchase all the necessary ingredients and cooking utensils.

  Thus armed, I bravely entered the kitchen. The recipe, the components, the appliances, and the baking gadgets were all ready. The real trick came down to my ability to bake the bread. Without hesitation I dove into it, gathered the ingredients, measured the exact amounts, combined each one, and then kneaded the dough with my hands. I had a grand time as I baked several loaves in search of the perfect look, flavor, and consistency. As I tinkered and toiled, I kept imagining Conrad’s reaction to my homemade experiment, and each attempt that brought me closer to what I envisioned to be the perfect loaf filled me with excitement. To my surprise, I found that I enjoyed baking.

  This type of endeavor had never been to my liking in the past. I thought it to be too time-consuming and impractical. Discovering that one can actually spend hours engaged in the practice of creating something just for the pleasure of it turned out to be a rewarding, fun experience.

  I knew my plan had succeeded when the first thing Conrad said as I opened the front door was, “Boy, the house smells delicious.”

  “Been baking bread. Want to stay for dinner?” I blurted out the invitation without even thinking about it. I must’ve felt unduly courageous given that I’d just learned how to bake, yet I knew only too well that I didn’t know how to cook.

  “Sure thing, thanks,” he simply answered.

  My plan to have the house smell of fresh-baked bread had ended at the moment of his sensory experience. My plans did not include anything beyond that instant, and I most certainly didn’t anticipate inviting him for dinner. A bold and dumb move on my part, considering that I had no clue how to fix anything tasty. I’d cooked only for myself for years, and my skills in the kitchen were limited to heating already prepared foods.

  I did have one so-called specialty, spaghetti with meat sauce. While Conrad finished winterizing the house, I rushed to the kitchen and was relieved to find that I had all the necessary ingredients on hand. I hoped that my homemade garlic bread, a fresh vegetable chopped salad, and a nice bottle of wine would help conceal any flaws.

  He finished his work by the time I had dinner under control. I offered him a glass of Chianti, and we sat in the living room watching the fire crackle.

  “Thank you for all of your help.”

  “Not at all.”

  He was not a conversationalist, and I liked that.

  “I think I’m ready to spend my first winter here in safety.”

  “I’d say so. But don’t let your guard down. Nature has a way of surprising us all.”

  We felt no pressure to have an intelligent conversation and were comfortable to just sit in silence, watch the fire, and sip our wine. So we did just that.

  After a while, we went into the dining room, and I served dinner.

  “This sure is good spaghetti and meat sauce. The garlic bread is great. You’re a good cook.”

  “This is it. I’m not a cook. This is all I really know how to prepare. Today was the first time I actually baked bread.”

  “Well, then I’m right. You’re a good cook.”

  He paid me a sincere compliment, and it felt good—really, really good.

  “I’m glad you bought this old house.”

  “Me too. Do you know who lived here before me?”

  “She’s been on her own for quite some time. I felt sorry for the old girl.”

  “Old girl?”

  He smiled. He looked wonderful when he smiled. Something about his eyes changed.

  “I think this house has cared for her residents the way a loving mother cares for her kids. Don’t you get that feeling?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  I wanted to tell him about the memories in the attic, ask him if he knew of the three sisters, or Jeremy, the cowboy, or maybe of Louise Whitman and Leonard, but I didn’t want to share my secrets. I didn’t want him to think me odd, or even worse, evil or a witch.

  We finished our evening around ten o’clock, and as usual he tilted his hat and smiled as he left. The house and I smiled back.

  I lay in bed later that night listening to the silence that cradled me in my new home, reliving my entire day. It had been splendid, filled with beauty, calm, and friendship. Our first dinner together had been simple, uncomplicated, and enjoyable.

  I wondered when I would see Conrad again, given that the house had been tended to.

  I realized I needed to be tended to as well.

  Chapter 7

  The Birthday

  Now that the house had been cared for, my attention needed to return to the attic. I stood in the doorway, looked around the room, and absorbed its contents. It was midmorning, and the light was different. A combination of white and pale yellow suffused the room, inviting me in, intimating that it would be easier to see inside the trunks and find what I looked for.

  The attic knew that I had a purpose, and hopefully it would respond this time. I wanted to find Jeremy and the photograph the cowboy had given to his pa. I also wanted to see if there were more pictures of Amy and her sisters and find out who had taken their photograph. Perhaps her sisters Laura or Cora might speak to me. Come to think of it, I also sought more information on Louise Whitman and Leonard. I thirsted for more stories.

  The attic whispered that maybe wanting more details about my companions might not be a good idea. It reminded me that every time I’d looked for something specific, I failed to find it and suggested I open myself to whoever was willing to say hello.

  Entering the attic this time seemed like coming home. It felt safe. I understood why the memories were safe here as well. It looked to be devoid of dirt, dust, spider webs, or any signs of abandonment. I didn’t remember cleaning it, but I must have. It was perfectly inviting.

  Being in the attic felt like tenderly rocking on my grandmother’s cozy lap while she read a favorite story. I must have been dreaming of Nana when I’d cleaned the attic. I’d not thought of her in years, but lately I felt her presence most of the time. I loved losing myself in the memories that she evoked. Oh, h
ow I’d wasted precious time not thinking of her. If only I’d known then how marvelous it was to visit with one’s memories.

  I made my way to the first trunk on the right side of the room and caught a glimpse of a short stack of books sitting in the corner. I picked up the books and brought them with me to the armchair, carefully placing them on my lap. I opened the first one, and a small photograph greeted me.

  A young girl was blowing out the candles on her birthday cake. She didn’t seem happy. I turned the photograph over to see if someone had dated it or written the girl’s name when I realized that I already knew. Her name was Angela, and the year was 1919. I leaned back to listen to her story.

  “I turn fourteen today,” she told me. “I’d waited a long time for this birthday because on this day I was leaving home.”

  “Why?”

  “I figured fourteen was the best time. I first thought about leaving when I was ten, but ten is too young. Eleven was barely out of ten and not grown up enough. Twelve was right before becoming a teenager, and I thought it best to wait till after that. Thirteen was the first year of the ‘terrible teens,’ as my pa would say, so I figured I needed to adjust to being terrible for at least a year. That’s why fourteen is the perfect time to run away.”

  The day had come, her fourteenth birthday. On this fine morning, the summer sun seeped through the lace curtains into her bedroom. She could hear the birds, the crickets, the cows, the pigs, and of course, George the rooster. She could even hear the neighbor’s barnyard stirring and wished she couldn’t, particularly on this day, but she did. That was her lot in life.

  “I’d never heard them that clear before,” she told me. “That’s because they knew what I was going to do. Maybe it was their way of saying good-bye to me.”

  She liked the animals. Actually she loved them. Riding Mollie was the best part of the day, and milking “the girls” was a great treat. They were so appreciative afterward. She didn’t mind at all caring for the chickens and picking up the eggs. She hadn’t been too crazy about feeding the pigs at first, but she’d opened her mind and heart to them and understood them. She would miss them. For sure she would miss all of them.