Because of Jane Eyre

It began with Jane Eyre.

Staggering over to a musty corner of the library, her arm nearly numb from the weight of the books she carries, she allows the stack to fall to the table with a thud and sinks into the soft chair with relief.

Lisa is her name, but she isn't Lisa. No, right now she is Jane. And Mr. Rochester is before her, so beautiful, yet grotesque. So plain, yet so handsome. His mannerisms so perfect, drawing her in even when they repulse her. Her heart palpitates, wishing to leap from her body, jump into the book, and enter the frame of the characters she reads about. 

She looks up to rub her eyes. How long has she been reading--two hours, three? The room is dark now, the last dusty rays of sunlight fading from between the dilapidated blinds covering the windows. She is illuminated only by the lamp positioned above her head; a bright, friendly light that continues to shine cheerfully on as the rest of the city begins to think about hot baths and bedsheets. 

Lisa is not ready to finish her adventure, not ready to exit the dream world in which she exists. The library must be nearly closed. She should finish, borrow the book, and continue reading curled up on her couch with a steaming cup of coffee. The idea is tempting and her mouth widens in a satisfied grin.

Were any people there to see her, they would notice how pretty Lisa is when she smiles, a single dimple highlighting her usually average face. If they were to examine her closer, they would sense how much she loves reading and abhors the necessary nuisance of returning to the "real world."

With a sigh, Lisa heaves herself out of the plush, impossibly comfortable chair that has become her escape haven, and begins to collect her books. As she does so, a sheet of paper flies from betwixt the pages of Jane Eyre and falls to her feet.

She stoops to pick it up, and is immediately struck by how heavy the sheet is. This is not just paper, but an envelope.

Lisa's heart begins to beat faster as she gets more excited. It must be a secret letter, forgotten by the owner when the book was given to the library. This is just like a story. She has always assumed these kinds of things don't happen in real life.

Without hesitation, she rips open the envelope (which is only partially sealed) and allows herself to collapse back into the chair to read.

Dear Mr. Rochester, it begins in delicate, feminine script. Immediately her senses awaken at the odd greeting.

I am pleased that you and I have been corresponding, but I must forewarn you that my parents are quite set against any sort of liaison between us until we are able to meet in person. Therefore, I plead that you come visit me, at which time we can reveal our true identities. I love you from your letters alone, darling, and I have no qualms admitting it. I am enclosing a picture of myself and I request that you do the same. I hope to see you soon, dearest. 

P.S. Please do not waste time, for you know that I am counting down the days 'til your face should finally be before me.

Love forever, Jane.

Lisa sifts through the envelope and comes upon the picture. The girl is lovely, although her style is incredibly old-fashioned. She has freckles, a dimple similar to Lisa's, and is holding a diploma. High school, Lisa determines as she squints closer at the grainy black-and-white.

Code names, she thinks, what a romantic idea. He's her Rochester and she's his Jane.

Lisa sifts through the papers until she comes upon the next letter, also addressed to Mr. Rochester, dated several weeks after the first one.

Dear Mr. Rochester,

I doubt I need tell you that I was very perturbed by your previous letter to me. Indeed, I was drinking tea in the sitting room and nearly choked as I read the lines "regret that I will not be able to visit you." You have no wish to see me? Why? I do not believe that I am truly hideous to you. I told you I loved you and I still feel that affection; a spark alights within me even simply when touching the paper you have written on. 

And yet you refuse to visit me. Why, in point of fact, are you so ardently trying to avoid the sight of my face? Please dearest, do not leave me waiting. We can never marry nor even carry on a proper relationship until we meet.

I eagerly await your response.

Love, Jane.

Lisa flips to the next page. Another letter from Jane. This time, the writing is sloppy, rushed. A wet spot (a tear perhaps?) blots a portion of the handwriting at the bottom and Lisa can barely make it out.

Dear Rochester, (no Mister, Lisa thinks. Interesting.)

This may very well be the last letter you ever receive from me. My parents are taking me away, forcing me to move to America with them. We leave at dawn, but in the midst of my hurried packing, I knew I must write to say farewell. I cannot abandon you now, at my darkest hour. I never knew you, not really. You were only a fantasy to me. But I knew I loved you. After the response I received to my last letter, I had nearly given up. But no, I still have hope that I may yet see you. I still cling to the last desperate sliver of the dream that was once in full bloom.

Even now it is not too late. Even now you could come to me, my love. I am sending my new address, but I will no longer write letters that receive only curt replies. Goodbye, my dearest.

Much love,

Your Jane.

P.S. My real name is ____ Burnett.

There is a large blot over the first name that Lisa cannot decipher, so she moves on to the one last sheet of paper that feels very different from all the others. It is textured, thick, and the handwriting on it is very short, choppy, masculine in nature.

My darling Jane, it reads. This piques Lisa's interest. Finally, a letter from the opposite perspective.

Do not think that the cold tone of my letters means I love you any less. I simply did not wish to tell you the truth. I am dying, my dearest Jane. I could not visit because my doctors would not permit it. I have stage four cancer and I will not live out the month. Our correspondence has been the only thing that has sustained me through this trial. I could not let you partake in my life of misery and certain death. In truth, I never meant for our relationship to go as far as it did, but trying to keep from loving you was like trying to stop the ocean tide from coming in. Thank you for everything. I adore you, and I do wish I could have seen you, Jasmine.

Love always,

Richard Perkins (Mr. Rochester).

Lisa almost drops the paper as she comes to the end of the letters. Jasmine Burnett is her grandmother's name. And she remembers once having heard her grandma speak of an old beau she had written letters to who hadn't responded.

Without further ado, Lisa shoves her books into her bag, checks out her selections, and drives the few minutes to her grandmother's house.

"Mimi!" she asks upon entering, "Is this your handwriting?"

Her grandmother falls to her couch in disbelief as she reads the letters. "So this is what happened to him," she whispers. "I never knew."

"How did your letters to him end up in Jane Eyre at this county library?" Lisa asks, puzzled.

"It doesn't matter. I'm just so happy to know the truth. Thank you, dearest, for this."

"I have to find out if he's dead," Lisa says, immediately diving for her laptop to research. "Perkins, Perkins, Perkins. Ah yes, here we are. Perkins, Richard."

Her face lights up as she reads. "Mimi! He didn't die. The doctors were wrong. It wasn't cancer and they were able to cure him. Not only is he alive, but he lives right here in town."

Lisa's grandmother begins to bounce up and down like a young puppy. "Really! If you're lying to me I'll never forgive you."

Lisa shakes her head emphatically. "His address is right here. Come on, let's go visit him."

Lisa, ignoring the protestations of her grandma, helps her into the front seat of her car and drives off in the direction of Richard's house.

They stand at the front door for a moment after knocking, Lisa's grandmother wringing her hands in nervousness. Finally the door opens and an old, dapper gentleman greets them.

"Hello. May I help you?"

"Hi. Is this Richard?"

"Yes, and who might you be."

"Richard, I'm Jasmine," Lisa's grandmother says. There is no recognition on his face, so the elderly lady tries again. "You may remember me as Jane, Mr. Rochester."

That night, Lisa does not drive her grandmother home until very late; and a month later, she gets to participate in her Mimi's wedding. It is there that Lisa meets her future husband, changing the whole course of her life.

And all because of Jane Eyre.