Marked Only By Her Name

She was, both in equal parts, afraid that the papers would continue to arrive and that they would stop.

The first package arrived at the start of summer break the year Clementine turned eight. She had finished Kristy’s Great Idea and was captivated by every aspect of The Baby-Sitters Club. Clementine struggled to make friends, preferring fictional relationships to those of her peers. She could trust the characters in the books she read, knew they wouldn’t fail her, and believed all their problems would be resolved by the final page. Clementine liked things to be reliable, and real life, she found, wasn’t so.

She liked Kristy, with her boundless ambition and leader mentality. Claudia inspired her to pick up watercolors, made her dream of turning heads with her creations, a dream that lasted four days and three hours until Mary Anne’s peaceful energy made Clementine long for a beach day. Her local lake was calm, no waves to be seen, but peaceful. Clementine let her mother braid her long, blonde hair into two symmetrical braids to keep her neck cool, and then she dug her pink-chipped toes into the coarse sand and began Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls. She had hoped for a bit of a mystery, but one that would surely end with giggles and candy at a club meeting.

Clementine and her mother had returned home that day with sand in their shoes and the smell of lake water on their skin. She was drunk on sunrays and too much Kool-Aid; the sugar overload had made her sluggish by early afternoon. She almost missed the parcel wrapped in brown kraft paper sitting beside the sunflower-spotted welcome mat on their front porch.

The package had no stamp or return address. There were no markings from the post office, no smudges or tears from travel. A simple twine had been tied tightly, collecting in a small bow at the center. The only indication that the package was intentional, that it was, in fact, for Clementine, was her name in elegant calligraphy in the right-hand corner.

Clementine thought of Kristy and her fearlessness as she carefully slid her fingers under the seam to separate the tape from the paper. Underneath was a slim, white box. It was glossy and held Clementine’s reflection when she hovered over it. She found, oddly, that when she lifted the lid to find a stack of lovely, lavender stationary inside, that she wasn’t entirely surprised. Yes, she had thought, this is mine.

Clementine wrote. Armed with her favorite unicorn pen, she crafted a story about friendship. She thought about Kristy, Claudia, Mary Anne, and Stacey. She created her own circle of friends, leaving them nameless but giving them characteristics she longed to surround herself with. She wrote a Brave One, a friend like Kristy who wasn’t afraid to live life to the fullest. She detailed a Loyal One, someone like Mary Anne who would always be by her side. There was a Happy One, a person like Stacey who took what life gave her without letting the bad drag her down. Then, the Artistic One – a friend like Claudia who could create something radiant out of the ordinary.

Afterward, the most remarkable thing occurred: the words on the pages, the words she wrote, they were real – or rather, they became real. The words were born on paper, but they came to life without her understanding or consent. In the weeks that followed the arrival of the package, Clementine made friends. One after the other, they arrived. First, there was Sara Beth, who moved in next door to Clementine with her parents and younger brother. Clementine rode her bike past the yellow house with white shutters as the moving truck was being unloaded. Sara Beth, hair the color of pennies jutting out in pigtails on either side of her head, sat alone on the front steps. Adults trudged past her with heavy boxes of all sizes. Her nose was hidden behind a weathered copy of Mary Anne Saves the Day.

“I was on my way to the library for that same book,” Clementine told the new girl. The woven basket on the front of her bicycle was full of borrowed paperbacks she intended to return.

Sara Beth lowered the book, placed a bookmark between the pages, and set it in her lap. “Oh no, I think I borrowed the only copy.”

Clementine expected disappointment to weigh down her heart, but found a spark of something meaningful there instead. She didn’t recognize this feeling, but it felt like the first gasp of air after breaking through the surface of the lake – refreshing and exhilarating.

Sara Beth continued. “I can start over. We can read it together.”

So, Clementine propped her bike at the top of the driveway and out of the way of the movers. She sat next to the girl whose name she didn’t know, and together they read. They took turns reading aloud, and Sara Beth turned the pages. An hour passed, but Clementine and Sara Beth were unaware; their heads tilted toward each other, giggling over mispronunciations and silly words. A woman, tall and thin with copper hair twisted up in a knot, emerged from the house. She carried a dish towel in her hands, wiping them clean as she watched the girls.

“Sara Beth, lunch is ready. I’ve made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we have potato chips and Sunny D,” the woman said, a warm smile upon her face. She was dressed in dusty jeans and an oversized men’s t-shirt, so casual compared to the sundresses Clementine’s mother often wore. She looked tired, but happy. Clementine liked her immediately. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m June, Sara Beth’s mom. Are you hungry?”

Sara Beth and Clementine were in and out of each other’s homes from then on. They were planting flowers with Clementine’s mother the next week when Katie showed up. She wore ripped denim shorts and a baseball jersey. She pulled a wagon carrying bags of pretzels and candy bars to be sold in support of her t-ball team. The girls spent their savings and littered the floor of Clementine’s room with remnants of Katie’s inventory.

Clementine, Sara Beth, and Katie were at the beach when Cora and Helen laid their towels beside theirs. Cora’s raven curls were forced into a swim cap she swore her mother made her wear, but the swim cap had been improved immensely by the gems and sequins Cora had fastened to it. Helen’s brunette locks were wavy and hung long, then clung to her skin once she climbed out of the water. After the girls had played Marco Polo, Helen had to take a puff from her inhaler. Exerting herself triggered her asthma, but not willing to give up her favorite summer activity, she faithfully carried her sticker-covered inhaler case with her wherever she went.

Clementine was joyful throughout her remaining elementary and middle school years. Her friendships stuck. The girls were inseparable. During her freshman year of high school, Clementine and her friends formed their own private book club in order to accommodate their personal preferences. They took turns selecting novels, and Clementine chose White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Clementine, who had trouble with change since as far as she could remember, was broken by the main character bouncing from one traumatic foster home to the next. On the floor of Helen’s bedroom, surrounded by her friends and Helen’s Leonardo DiCaprio-covered walls, Clementine dissolved into tears and found herself still sniffling as she biked the three blocks home.

Then, a box. Brown kraft paper, twine, her name. It was the very same box from her memories; a box that she had begun to believe she had imagined – or at least, misremembered. Surely there had been a return address that slipped her mind, or a stamp indicating the package was sent from the home state of some long lost relative. Clementine had never asked her mother about the gift she had received at eight years old, had never suspected that her mother would know anything about its origin. She had always been certain that if it had been real, then the mystery of it was hers alone.

Under the glossy lid lay a tidy stack of creamy stationary with cherry blossoms adorning the edges. Clementine ran her fingers over the thick paper, then lifted a single sheet to her nose. Breathing deeply, the scent of freshly cut flowers filled her senses.

Clementine laid upon her stomach on the wide porch with a pen in her hand and the papers between her forearms. Propped up on her elbows, she wrote. She thought again about Astrid in White Oleander, and how abandonment played such a major role in her life. Like Astrid, Clementine’s father had left her and her mother during Clementine’s infancy. Her mother never spoke of him, and the one time Clementine had inquired about his existence, her mother bristled. Clementine was ten years old at the time of questioning, and perhaps her mother didn’t feel she was old enough for such topics. Later that same night, however, there was a change of heart. The man that was her father had died, her mother told her while picking at her perfectly polished fingernails. It had happened a few years after he left their family. A car accident. They never spoke of it again, but Clementine had a slew of unanswered questions that hovered in her consciousness long after the close of the discussion.

Pen to paper, Clementine wrote of security. She wrote of a stable family – a mother and daughter that spoke openly to one another, that valued honesty. She wrote of stable jobs with enough money to pay the bills, and hours that allowed the mother and daughter to have dinner together every night. Clementine wrote of contentment and laughter. She wrote of big dreams and the courage to reach for them. That evening, she went to bed with the pages under her pillow and the smell of cherry blossoms breezing through her unconsciousness.

The next day, Clementine’s mother was promoted. They splurged on lobster and steak for dinner. They ate until they could burst, and then shared a cherry pie. They stayed up past midnight watching classic movies and talking until their voices grew hoarse. Clementine had never been happier.

Brown kraft paper-covered boxes arrived at random intervals of time, but always when Clementine seemed to need them. The paper inside was always different, from wax to parchment, tea-stained to hot pink. Always following their appearance, Clementine wrote. And always following her writing, her fiction found its way into her very real world.

Clementine tried to trick the system. In the years following her graduation from college, her friends began spreading out, settling into new and familiar places. Katie married first. She and her wife started an animal sanctuary several hours from their hometown. Clementine loved to visit. She especially loved the pigs, who seemed unaware of their massive size and continuously tried to get into Katie’s house through the tiny dog door. Cora rented a farmhouse on the same dirt road and painted portraits of Katie’s animals, wildlife, and trees that grew so tall they appeared to break holes through the clouds. Helen and Sara Beth stayed nearby, but each married and had children, which made Clementine feel both elated and as if life were passing her by.

Clementine had yet to receive one of the brown kraft paper parcels at her new home, but they had found their way to both her college dorm and the apartment she had rented with Sara Beth her senior year. Eager to catch up with the life events her friends had achieved, Clementine sent silent wishes out to the universe. She ached for the papers. She yearned to pen a new story, one where she found love, one where she found her purpose, but her requests went unanswered.

For Clementine’s 30^th birthday, her mother gifted her a leatherbound edition of Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman. It had gilt edges of delicate vines and a cat in each of the four corners. A crescent moon with dancing stars adorned the cover, and a satin ribbon marker was tucked between the pages. Clementine spent the morning of her milestone birthday in her mother’s garden, surrounded by flora, rereading her favorite book by her favorite author. She fell asleep there, cushioned by freshly mowed grass, the book resting on her chest. When she woke an hour later, she was disoriented but overcome with the notion that the universe had shifted. The air held the scent of roses and daylilies and something unidentifiable. Clementine breathed deeply until she could taste the air: musky floral and bitter almond.

Clementine returned to her home just after the sun had set. She and her mother had shared a celebration dinner of pasta with garlic and herbs that Clementine had brought from her own garden, followed by lemon layer cake made by her mother that morning. Clementine was drowsy and nearly missed the package sitting atop the wooden bench on her front porch. It had been years since the last one appeared, and Clementine had concluded that the delivery of the packages had ceased indefinitely.

Under the familiar brown paper and twine, lay the sleek white box that had reflected Clementine’s image from adolescence to the cusp of adulthood. The freckles that sprinkled her cheeks at the age of eight had faded to specks, simple hints at what once was. Broad cheekbones and shimmering eyelashes looked back at her before she lifted the lid and freed the contents within.

Raw edges and uneven texture. Handmade, Antemoro paper. Stationery embossed with flowers, each page distinct and remarkable. A light, papery perfume filled the air: bitter almonds, musky floral. Yes, Clementine thought, this is mine.

She wrote of contentment and bike rides. She wrote about rosemary bread, summer breeze, and companionship. Clementine filled the pages with words that described the attributes she loved most about herself – her strengths and the things that brought her joy. She wrote until morning light seeped in through billowing curtains, and then, she slept.

Her words were delivered as early as the next morning. When Clementine opened her front door to collect the morning paper, golden eyes stared up at her, blocking that morning’s headlines.

“Hello,” she greeted the stranger. The black cat blinked once, then waited no longer before entering the door Clementine still held open.

Wren, as Clementine named her, was there to stay. Days, then weeks passed of Clementine leaving the door open in case the visitor wished to depart. She took the cat to a veterinarian who scanned the animal and found nothing that revealed prior ownership. Clementine invited Wren to remain with her permanently.

Months after Wren’s arrival, Clementine noticed the bakery she frequented had closed right under her nose. She wondered how she could have missed the signs of dwindling business, as if she could have done anything to change the inevitable. Then, her thoughts swam rapidly. She could barely register one before the next overlapped. Clementine felt a spark, a pulsing inside her. This, she thought. Then she snapped a picture of the sign on the glass door and returned home.

Herb & Garden opened less than a year later. Clementine offered homemade herbed breads (her sourdough loaves and rosemary focaccia solid out daily), bagels on the weekends, and seasonal cakes at the back of her favorite former bakery. She lovingly wrapped each and every baked good she sold in brown paper, held together by twine. Along one entire wall ran bookshelves made of mahogany, where she offered customers a variety of cooking and gardening books, along with her favorite fiction. In the front of the building were rows of farmhouse tables she planned to use to seat students of her baking and cooking classes. Clementine intended to add a workshop about how to incorporate herbs into floral arrangements in the spring.

On opening night, Wren circled Clementine’s feet as she made final inspections. Sara Beth arrived behind Cora, then Helen after Katie. Clementine’s mother came next with an expensive bottle of champagne hugged to her chest. They toasted Clementine, to dreams coming to fruition, and to days spent sleeping amongst the flowers.

While her mother and friends strung fairy lights and arranged hors d’oeuvres, Clementine walked the length of Herb & Garden. Her fingertips touched tulips and baby’s breath, basil and oregano. When she reached the wide front windows that let in what was left of the day’s light, she turned to look back at dreams that once existed only on paper.

Silently to herself, Clementine lifted her champagne flute to her lips and toasted to simple brown kraft paper boxes, tied with twine, marked only by her name.