The Gift of the Twin Houses Page 7

  “They’re good kids. Want a cup of tea before going home?”

  “Sure.”

  He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. As I followed, for the first time that evening, I noticed the photographs hanging in the hallway just outside the kitchen. I’d forgotten all about my original intent and hadn’t asked a single question about the households or any photographs.

  “Are these folks your family?”

  “Yes, and of Dianne’s, my late wife. She died over ten years ago. That’s her,” and he pointed to a picture of an elegant, stately woman in her midthirties. “She wasn’t from these parts. Most of her folks are from back East.”

  “So were mine.”

  The kettle whistled, and he went back into the kitchen to prepare the tea. I strolled down the corridor and hoped that one of these photographs would talk to me. I expected these pictures to tell me a story, just as mine did. What a curious habit I’d picked up since moving into my house.

  Then the photograph of a couple in front of a church the day of their wedding caught my eye. I stopped to look at it closely.

  “Those are my grandparents Angela and Richard,” Conrad said behind me, and handed me the cup of tea.

  My heart skipped a beat. Could this be my Angela? She looked older, more mature. There appeared to be a resemblance, but with her wedding veil covering a portion of her face, it made it difficult to be certain.

  “How old is she in this picture?”

  “I think she was seventeen when she finally got married. She ran away from home when she was fourteen.”

  I think I gasped. Conrad turned to me and looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  “What’s happened, Sarah? All color has drained from your face.”

  He took the cup of tea from my trembling hands and helped me to an armchair in the living room.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah? What can I do?”

  At last I managed to speak. “Don’t worry, please. I’ll be all right. I just remembered something that I didn’t expect. That’s all. You know how it is when an old memory just grabs hold of you. Please don’t fret. But if you don’t mind, I would like to go home.”

  Too shaken by the sudden confirmation that I had spoken with his grandmother, I couldn’t cope with Conrad’s presence.

  How could I tell him the truth? How to explain that I had met Angela, his dead grandmother, when she turned fourteen? How could I tell him she spoke to me and told me all about her plans to run away?

  He’d think me crazy and a witch for talking to the dead. He’d shun me, and I didn’t want to lose him.

  Chapter 9

  Momma and Pa

  Conrad had called three times already checking on me. I don’t remember a friend ever caring enough for me to fret so. My parents raised me to be independent and self-sufficient. Unless I told them I needed something, they just left me alone. It wasn’t that they didn’t love me; they just didn’t wish to intrude. They’d given me all the tools to do well and trusted me to know what I needed or wanted. Unless I sought their help, they didn’t worry. My grandmother was that way also. Learn the ropes, fend for yourself, don’t depend on others, and you’ll be fine.

  I’d never gotten close enough to anyone to merit their worrying about me either, so Conrad’s attention was both unsettling and enjoyable. A part of me wanted to run away to the privacy of my own world away from everyone, and another liked being looked after.

  He was working with Tom at the store, a busy time the day after Thanksgiving, but nevertheless, he’d called to see how I felt and wanted to come over after they closed to make sure I was all right. I must’ve looked awful after I saw Angela’s wedding picture because he sincerely worried about me.

  I kept assuring him that I felt fine and that there was no need for him to come after a long workday. I insisted he take care of himself, go home, and relax after a long day of work and yet another the following day again.

  We were engaged in a fun sort of dance with both of us learning the steps without trampling on each other’s toes. To settle our give-and-take, I invited him to come over for Sunday brunch. He agreed to leave me on my own till then as long as he could call here and there to check on me. He called me every so often, and every time he called, I noticed that I enjoyed the feeling of being cared for more and more.

  Conrad’s attentiveness enchanted me, but I also needed time to sort out my thoughts. I needed to come to terms with what had happened, why my emotions were so raw, and how the real Angela had come to be in my conscious and subconscious.

  I spent most of the morning glancing through Angela’s books, the books that I’d brought down from the attic, the remnants of her little library. There were two books by Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. I also found Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. The other two books were by Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers.

  What a lovely little girl she must have been, a true romantic. What a hard decision she had made to leave her family. I wanted to know more about her and her real life. Maybe Conrad wouldn’t mind telling me her story. In the meantime I searched for that ethereal connection that had spoken to me through her photograph.

  This antenna of mine seemed to be tuned into the past, into the history of my new home, particularly into the lives of the people in the photographs left behind in my attic. But why leave all these photos behind? Maybe after so many years in hiding, this ability of mine had been reshaped to this frequency, and whoever needed to be heard had found it. Whatever for? The key to these mysteries, I surmised, must be in the pictures themselves.

  After lunch I went back to the attic, not sure this time of what I should do, and wandered through the room, glancing and hoping for something or someone to say hello.

  And something did. In the very same spot where Angela’s little stack of books had been, I spotted a small book. I must’ve left it behind when I picked up the rest. It was a collection of short stories by Mark Twain.

  I sat in Angela’s grandmother’s armchair and opened the book. A letter fell on my lap. I unfolded the thin paper as if it were the wings of a wounded butterfly.

  Dear daughter:

  I hope one day you’ll come home, if only to pick up your books. I know how much you like them. I was cleaning your room today and found this book by Mark Twain with the short story entitled “Advice for Little Girls. ” After I read it, I understood why you left.

  Pa died last year, and I’ve sold the house. I’m sure you’ve felt his absence by now. I’m writing to tell you that I’m leaving this place. Without you and Pa, it’s not the same, and I can’t bear being here. Something in my heart tells me you’ll be back one day. You know how we both are about feeling these sorts of things. I hope you’ll find all your loved belongings in good shape when you come back. You’ll find in your old room or in the attic your grandma’s armchair and mirror, your books, and guitar. The lady who bought the house said she would keep all as is, and I believe she will.

  I hope you don’t blame your pa for wanting you to marry Richard. It was not his fault. It really was mine. Your pa was set on having a big family, and after you were born, I could not have any more children. He never blamed me, never said a word, but I knew he was very disappointed. With only one girl in the family, the farm would be lost. So, when Mr. Thompson asked him if he’d like to join the farms by marriage, your pa agreed. It was just as important for him. With only one boy and three girls, they were in the same predicament. Although they were already sharing the chores between the two farms, they knew it could not stay in the family, so they were hoping that the two of you would give them boys and that the land would be saved. They shook on it, and that’s how your future was planned.

  Maybe I would’ve left too, if that had happened to me. Your pa didn't mean to chase you away. He just couldn’t bear losing the farms. Doc said it was a heart attack. I was so distraught at the time that I lost my ability to sense
what really was going on and couldn’t be any help to him or you. I’m sure you’ll understand.

  I don’t know where you are. You write to us, but you don’t tell us where you are. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about Pa, but I think you already know. You could feel these sorts of things since you were little.

  Anyway, I’m leaving some of your things and this letter behind so you will know for sure what happened.

  Your pa had words with Richard, and he promised he’d keep looking for you. I’ve asked him to look after the farm animals once I’m gone until the new owners settle in.

  I cannot tell you where I will end up because I do not know yet. Maybe I would rather not know. Sometimes it is better that way. First I will be staying with my cousin in Montana. So if you come by in the next few months, that is where you can find me.

  With all my love forever,

  Momma

  I cried for a long time. When my tears dried, I read Mark Twain’s story, and I also understood.

  I wondered if Angela had ever come to the attic and read this letter. But if she’d come back to the house, why leave the letter and all her things behind?

  I took the book and the letter downstairs, not sure what to do with them or what to think. I felt such deep sadness for Angela and her parents that I couldn’t focus on anything but their grief. So I decided to take a walk, feel the cold air, and visit my little valley.

  I put on my gloves and glanced at the box of photographs on the table in the living room. Maybe if I took one of the photographs for a walk with me, I’d have company. A peculiar thought, but nevertheless, I reached in the box and grabbed the very first one, and without looking at it, I slipped it into the side pocket of my jacket.

  Less than ten steps into the valley, Pa stirred in my pocket.

  “I suppose you think I’m some kind of coward for dying like that after Angela left,” he said.

  “No. I don’t,” I responded immediately. “I can understand how hurtful it must’ve been for you.”

  “It wasn’t Angela’s leaving that killed me. My ticker wasn’t working right. I knew I would die soon. Doc told me I had no more than a couple of years.” “Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “Don’t like folks fretting over me. You can understand that. I didn’t want any pity, and I didn’t want to worry them either. What’s the use? I made a good arrangement. With the marriage, my girls would’ve been taken care of.”

  “Did you know how Angela felt about it?”

  “I guessed. But a good future for both of them was more important, and eventually she’d come to understand. After she left I looked for her. Truly I did. Didn’t tell Momma. No sense in worrying her more. I guess the strain of the search for my little girl while caring for the farm just wore me out sooner than I wished.”

  “Momma sold the house and left,” I told him.

  “Yes, she agreed in the end to do just that. I knew she’d get enough money to get by. At least I did that right for her.”

  “You did more than that. Angela came back and married Richard.”

  He remained silent for a long time, and I just let him be. We walked in silence listening to the snow crunch under my feet. I noticed it was getting dark and started to make our way back to the house. Just before we got back, I felt him smile.

  “I asked that boy to keep looking for her. I’m glad he kept his promise.”

  “She was seventeen when they married, and she looked beautiful. Her grandson Conrad is my neighbor. Angela also has a great-grandson, Tom, who together with his wife, Alyana, gave her two beautiful great-great-grand-babies, a boy and a girl, and there’s another on the way. They’re a loving family. Conrad is a good man.”

  “That’s why you trust him.”

  I’d reached the porch of the house and wanted to hear more from Pa. But he was at peace and didn’t want to talk anymore.

  Although Pa’s story calmed me, I still felt unsure as to what was happening to me. Experiencing with such vivid detail the lives of the people who’d lived in my home brought with it exhilaration but also the panic of losing myself in those images and plunging into madness.

  On the one hand, I wanted to continue down this path of discovery, and on the other, years of conditioning to avoid such experiences kept yanking me away. An internal tug-of-war had erupted, and indecision seemed to be the one feasible option. If I didn’t do a thing and simply allowed all of these sensations to evolve of their own accord, maybe I wouldn’t go crazy. Yet, I could never accept to be the victim of circumstances. If madness was in store for me, then I should be in full control of my decision to go insane.

  I stepped into the house, and its warmth encircled me. A sense of comfort and security bathed me, and as if by magic, all fear disappeared.

  Sanctuary.

  Without warning, Angela whispered a challenge that entered my soul. You need to finish this journey.. .the mystery must be revealed.. .be brave... be daring...the secrets of the twin houses must be unearthed.

  Chapter 10

  The Grandparents

  With a sense of renewed vigor, I spent most of Saturday cleaning the house. She needed attention, and it pleased me to provide it. I loved cleaning it, polishing the wood, tending to all of her needs. It didn’t feel like housework or boring chores but more a labor of love. I’d heard that expression many times in the past and thought it to be corny, but now here I was living it.

  After concentrating on the house, my curiosity as to who had built the twin houses increased, and I turned to my computer to do a bit of research. When I bought the house, Conrad told me he believed the house was built in the late 1800s, but since they didn’t keep good records back then, it was hard to tell. The twin houses were certainly gems, with a unique combination of picturesque architecture and coziness. Both of them reflected the colors of the Cascades and the style of comfortable living for the housewives of times past, offering nice open rooms that helped moms keep an eye on the little ones while tending to their chores. I imagined that the porches wrapped around the houses were used to enjoy the outdoors even if it were drizzling.

  The modern marvel of the Internet didn’t help. It simply showed me the various architectural movements in America and the Queen Anne styles of both coasts but offered nothing specific to my house and her twin.

  Turning to the attic for answers didn’t work either. The attic was silent, offering little assistance. Even though I’d spent a good amount of time dusting and cleaning, nothing invited me to open any of the trunks or pick up any of their contents.

  I left that endeavor and instead baked some bread and a lemon meringue pie for Sunday’s brunch.

  The joy of baking invigorated me. I couldn’t believe that I derived such pleasure from a task that I’d not only misunderstood but also misjudged. I remember wondering why a person would spend time in a kitchen baking when there are bakeries that do it for you. Now I knew why. The simple act of making your own creation is special. It’s about something pleasurable that you have shaped by mixing a collection of independent essentials into a unique design that ends up giving you and others great delight. I wondered if that was how artists felt when they sculpted or painted or when musicians wrote a song. I certainly felt like I’d created edible art. Well, maybe not quite art but my own pleasurable creation nonetheless.

  Sunday arrived quickly. I made potato pancakes accompanied by an egg casserole of veggies and homemade turkey sausages for brunch, another first. Given my previous emotional state, I lacked the time to rehearse their taste and realized I’d reached the point where I trusted my newfound culinary skills.

  As the morning passed, my mood improved. Although still unsettled about my conversations with ghostly spirits, I decided to make the best of my time with Conrad. The house not only smelled wonderful but also looked beautiful. Furthermore, I daresay I thought I looked beautiful as well. I felt so at ease with my physical self that it unnerved me. But once again, the mirror suggested I simply accept the pleasure of the f
eeling, and eventually I did.

  When Conrad arrived, he looked even more handsome than usual all dressed up for Sunday brunch, holding a bottle of wine and a big gift box.

  “Morning, Sarah. Boy, you sure look nice. I’m glad to see you’re back to normal.”

  I know I reddened, because he laughed.

  “You sure know how to make a woman blush,” I said as I tried to look away while closing the door behind him.

  “Not my doing. You blush easily.”

  “Didn’t use to.”

  “I like it. Glad you do it. Mm...this house smells delicious. How much rehearsal this time?” he said as he placed the wine and gift box on the seat of the coatrack and took off his jacket.

  “None, I had no time.”

  “Brave.”

  “You’ll be the judge.”

  We immediately fell into a comfortable togetherness. He wouldn’t let me open my “present” until after brunch, so while we got the meal ready, he told me all about the busy time they had at the store. It was so easy to be with him.

  “Conrad, would you mind telling me about your grandparents?” I asked as we sat to eat.

  “Nope, don’t mind at all. I knew you’d ask. What do you want to know?”

  “How did they meet?”

  “They grew up together here, my grandmother in your house, my grandfather in mine. They were supposed to marry when my grandmother turned fifteen. My grandfather would’ve been seventeen. But she ran away from home.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “My grandma was special. Exceptional, I’d say. She felt things, knew things even before they happened. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guessed as much. Well, you’ll understand when I tell you that she left because she knew she had to,” he said, and leaned back. “She knew that to become the woman she was destined to be, she needed to leave home. She never told me where she went or what she did. That part of her life was just her own. I don’t know if she ever told my granddad.”