Enigmatic Eyes

It could have been worse, things could always be worse, but this was pretty bad. So terrible in fact, she recognized her fate at the early age of ten and accepted it as her normal. Life was just that way for some, certainly for her. She longed for a safe place, even for a short time, somewhere she could go and not fear the world around her. She dreamed of a bed of her own, warm blankets and pretty new clothes; a hairbrush, a toothbrush and maybe some ribbons and one of those fancy hand mirrors, like princesses have in books. She daydreamed of a life with a mother and loving father, with brothers and sisters and friends. Friends, oh, she wanted friends more than anything; maybe even just one, yes, one good friend would be fine. Someone to stand by her, stand up for her, someone who loved her. She imagined the perfect friend, named her and whispered all her secrets to her, knowing they were safe, never to be betrayed. 

She always knew where to find her friend, their secret hiding spot just under the stoop in front of the basement apartment of her building. They could peer up to the road without being noticed, sit for hours, invisible to everyone but one another. Her tormentors never looked down, and passed her each day after school as they ran toward the park, hoping for a clear shot as they threw rocks and trash at her. Oh, they looked for her, called out her name and others they made up to hurt her. But after so many years, nothing, no horrible insult, nor sharp edged stone could inflict any more pain than she had already felt, processed and accepted. She knew where to hide, not only herself, but the feelings of loneliness and despair. 

She never wondered why the other children disliked her so, as her own father never hesitated or missed an opportunity to remind her of her worthlessness and inability to be loved. Twice they came to take her, and twice she did not protest, yet somehow, he convinced them to leave her in his care. He promised nicer clothes, better food and more frequent baths, but his promises were as empty as her belly each night. The neighbors would sneak bits of leftovers to her if they happened to cross paths in the stairwell, or see her hiding beneath the stoop, but they all said the same thing; no one wanted to “get involved.” Someone could have saved her, but she’d have to find a way to save herself. 

He broke her heart once, telling Mrs. Frost from 3B that she wasn’t his biological daughter. He said her mother died in an unfortunate accident, leaving her in his care; "stupid woman", he said. He knew she heard him; he didn’t seem to care. Did he know that she saw him strike her mother that night? How certain could he be that she wouldn’t find a way to convince someone he was responsible for the very accident he manufactured in his rendition? She was young, small and weak, but not without wisdom and wit. If only she had a friend, someone who would believe her, care about her, get her the hell away from him. She would have preferred someone who spoke, but a good listener proved invaluable. 

It was bitter cold, and the snow was threatening to fall, temporarily blanketing the city in quiet tranquility. She shivered uncontrollably, hunched in the corner of her sanctuary, just below the street. The first flakes swirled above her head; she should have gone in and kept warm, but a tiny cry in the distance kept her still. She poked her head up over the railing and craned her neck to the left then right, where was that sound coming from, anyway? Was it a person in distress or was it a soundbite of her own sorrow playing in the background of her despair like white noise, reminding her she was still alive, and as long as she was, there was hope. A whimper, soft and sorrowful grew louder as the minutes passed until she dared look up from her hallowed hideaway. Her eyes found themselves peering into another's, small, sad, and imploring. Could it be? Did her guardian angels finally deem her worthy and send a friend? She called out softly and cautiously, encouraging those tiny eyes to come to her and be comforted. 

The snowfall became relentless, blinding drivers and pedestrians alike as they rushed to seek shelter. Thomas Hunter hurried along the sidewalk, realizing his quest for the perfect shot led him far from home, into a neighborhood he’d never visited, nor would he choose to visit again. He pulled the lapels of his jacket together not only attempting to stay warm and dry but to shield the antiquated 35mm camera hanging around his neck. It was on loan, entrusted to him by his photography teacher, Amelia Banks. She said he had natural talent and a sharp eye and challenged him to define city life with one perfect photograph. As if that wasn’t daunting enough for the awkward teen to accomplish, the privilege of digital ease was denied. He wouldn’t have looked down, for the city was before him, not below. He would have missed her, if not for an untied lace and slick cement. 

Thomas fell forward, bracing himself with both hands. The cold bit at his fingers as he brushed the accumulated snow from his palms before reaching for the unruly laces of his red Converse. The slightest squeak caught his attention as if someone were turning a rusted gear by hand. He glanced to his left, frozen in awe at the sight of the actual source of the odd yet intriguing sound. A child under the stairwell, pressed against the brick, nearly invisible, clutching what appeared to be a pup with gorgeous glowing amber eyes. She held it close to her, protecting it from the cold, from him. Her eyes met his, and he could see in them a lifetime of despair. Thomas removed his tattered suede blazer, then his sweatshirt, carefully as not to expose his camera to the elements. He offered his hoodie to the child; she did not reach for it, nor did she utter a single word. Thomas tossed the jacket to her, took aim and shot, just once before tucking the borrowed camera back inside his jacket. “There’s a package of cookies in the pocket,” he said, still, no response from the child, but a distinct low guttural growl from the protective pup. He stared, not knowing what else to do for them; his knees now numb as the snow he knelt upon soaked through his jeans. Finally, managing to get back on his feet, Thomas reluctantly resumed his trek through the unfamiliar neighborhood in search of his way home, shaken by the image he just managed to capture.

Professor Amelia Banks studied the 8x10 printed photograph presented to her for critique and grading by her most promising, yet insecure student, Thomas Hunter. The image threatening to evoke a long-suppressed memory crept inside her very soul. Her eyes, so familiar, so expressive, and the pup, wild and feral by the looks of her eyes, was that a wolf? Was the child homeless; a product of a broken society, nothing more than dysfunctional family fodder left to her own devices, cold, alone and barely surviving below the busy city streets? Amelia obsessed over the photo, silently pleading with herself to remember, to recognize the element of familiarity. She counted the minutes until class began, until she could speak with Thomas. She needed him to fill in blanks, confirm the assumptions, and shed some much needed light into the recesses of her memory. 

“I gave her my jacket and the cookies I had stashed in the pocket,” he explained. 

“Where were you when you took the photo, Thomas?” The photo, a term so generic, just a senior class assignment adequately fulfilled by an above average student with a passion for pictures. It would be ten years before the name Thomas Hunter was on every collector list, and on every aficionado’s lips. The print entitled, “Enigmatic Eyes” will sell over a million copies, and the original will earn a place in The Museum of Modern Art. For now, Amelia Banks simply gave the work a generous A-, focusing on the subject rather than the execution.  

“I’m not sure. I was walking through the park, and I managed to find my way out on the other side, landing myself in a strange neighborhood. It was snowing and I lost my bearings. I slipped on the snow, or maybe it was my shoelace, but in any instance, I was on the ground when I looked over and saw them. Miss Banks, they were so cold and so afraid, I didn’t know what else to do.” 

“You did what you could, Thomas. I commend you for your kindness; you could have chosen to complete your assignment and moved along without any further consideration. I understand you were feeling disoriented, especially in blizzard-like conditions, but if I were to ask you to retrace your journey, would you be able to find your way into that neighborhood again?” 

“I suppose so. It may be easier now that the visibility is clear. I have to ask, Miss Banks, if we find the girl, what is your plan?”

“I’ll know when we find her; Thomas, please, we must find her. Are you free after class today?”

“Sure.”

Her hideaway under the stoop was cold and damp. Melting snow pooled along the building and on this particular day, the tiny nook smelled of urine and spray paint. She ducked under the railing and whispered to her friend. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” In her hand, she held a few scraps of Mr. Enders dinner from the night before. He left a meager plate just outside his door for her, as he had done several times in the past. There was barely enough to satisfy her own hunger, never mind that of a growing pup. However, she was grateful for anything at all, and happy to share her meal. “It’s ok pretty girl, I have food for us.” The amber glow of her eyes emerged from the broken grate on the side of the building, as she squeezed her emaciated body from the crawlspace into the stairwell. Her fur was matted and filthy, but her spirit remained unbroken; they had one another. Soon, she would grow too large to fit into the hole in the foundation under the broken grate, soon she would be vulnerable when they were apart; this frightened the child. She scooped up the mangy pup and tucked her into the sweatshirt she wrapped herself in; the very one the boy with the kind eyes gave her just days before; the only thing she ever cherished, besides her best friend, of course. 

Amelia babbled incessantly as Thomas led her through the park and into what he hoped was the same neighborhood where he took the photo of the girl and her pup. The 35mm hung from his neck, like a thoroughbred in the starting gate, anticipating another big win. However, Thomas was certain he would never take a more significant photograph than the one of the child and her furry companion. Her eyes told a story, whether true or born of his imagination. Either way, the tale began with her, and continued in the eyes of the pup; simple, innocent, heroic, hopeful.

“You know Miss Banks, it just occurred to me that the child in my photo kind of resembles you. I imagine if you had a daughter, she would be very reminiscent of the girl.” Suddenly, Amelia’s legs refused to move. “Miss Banks, are you ok? Have I said something to upset you? I’m so sorry, it was not my intention.” 

“No, Thomas.” Her voice was raspy and low as if she had to coax it from her diaphragm. “I know why she is so familiar to me. Oh, if I’m right, her world and mine are about to change forever. Thank you for being so bold as to express your thoughts without hesitation; your words are exactly what I needed to pry the memory from my dark subconscious into the light of day.”

Thomas made no assumptions as he reached for his professor's hand and gently pulled her free from her temporary catatonia. “This way,” he told her. Many missteps taken, roads that seemingly led them in a circle, caused Amelia great frustration and made Thomas feel useless and guilty. “Miss Banks let’s not lose faith; I know I can find her. Please, give me a few more minutes.” 

“Thomas, it’s nearly nightfall. Soon, we will be even more disoriented than we are now. I’m going to call for a taxi to get you home. Maybe I’ll keep searching on my own.” 

“Wait, there!" he exclaimed excitedly, pointing across the street. I recognize the railing. They were down under the stoop.” 

They didn’t rush, not even quickening their stride as Amelia and Thomas crossed the city street in approach. No one ever looks down, she thought, not unless they need to tie their shoe. However, this day, Amelia Banks looked down, staring into familiar eyes, the child’s eyes, her sister’s eyes. “Hello.” she managed. The child instinctively recoiled, pulling her pup tighter against her tiny body. Amelia crouched down, settling on the sidewalk with her legs dangling below the street into the nook under the stoop. She sighed deeply, as the resemblance was truly uncanny; she gazed into the long forgotten eyes of her own sister, separated from her at a very young age. Amelia never knew what became of her, only what she managed to overhear in the form of family gossip and lies. Her once broken heart began to mend with the very real possibility of the child belonging to her Alana; the child she wasn’t certain existed, until now. There were rumors among the few family members who managed to keep in contact, but Amelia’s inquiries were never addressed. She heard of a child by the name of Raina, born to her beloved Alana, but the family speculated as to the child’s plight after Alana’s tragic passing. No one felt the need to find her, take her in, love her, until now. “I think you may be my niece.” she offered.

The girl remained quiet and contemplative for a few moments before recognizing Thomas. She addressed him directly, “Thank you.” 

Thomas smiled, and Amelia continued, “Is your name Raina?” The girl shook her head. “Was your mother’s name Alana?” Again, the child nodded. Amelia offered her hand, wanting nothing more than to lift them out of that forsaken hole, into the light, into her arms. “Would both of you like to come with me?”