Letters of Rain and Rembrance

Why on earth do people put themselves in uncomfortable situations? I guess some people think it's “good for character” or something. All I know is that four months ago I would have never done this. And I mean, never. You might be thinking “Jacob, you’re overreacting. It’s just a train ride.” And maybe I am overreacting, but I have a lot counting on this train ride. 

Not to mention the fact that being around a lot of people makes me extremely uncomfortable. It’s gotten to the point where I live alone (unless you count my adorable kitten) pull a hood over my head while running errands, and try and keep a low profile during my job as a cybersecurity agent. No talking, no socializing, and certainly no parties. That’s why I’m seated in the very back of the train, avoiding eye contact while rereading the letters I was sent. These letters have changed my life, and I haven’t even met the person writing them. Well, technically I have about thirteen years ago. 

It all started four months ago, on a rainy July morning. The Fourth of July, to be specific. There had been thunderstorms all night and I was feeling pretty gloomy that morning. That was until I walked downstairs and saw the letter on my front porch. It was in a battered, dark-colored envelope, looking like it had arrived several hours ago. That was odd, considering that postmen didn’t come in the middle of the night. I was pretty curious, so I opened the envelope, tossing the paper into a crumpled ball.. Unfolding the worn-down letter, I read the short, curvy handwriting.

Dear Jacob,

I’m so sorry I didn’t reach out to you sooner. I tried desperately for so long, but could never get your address.. I’ve missed you so much over the years, and it pains me to know that our time was cut short. I can’t get into details of where I have been, but just know that I love you so much. 

Your sister, Isabelle Whitecost.

I was so stunned I had dropped the letter to the floor. After, thirteen long years, I finally heard from her. I had honestly thought she was dead. That Halloween night was the worst night of my life, and I remembered it vividly. I was ten, and Izzy was thirteen. We had dressed up into costumes and were ready to trick-or-treat with our parents. However, they ended up having a conference to go to, and Izzy and I were left at home.

Izzy, being thirteen, decided that she was old enough to go by herself. Her usual optimistic demeanor had been replaced with anger, and for good reason too. Our parents were always busy and had little time for us. She asked me to come, but I declined, so she left alone. That is the one thing I truly regret. If I went with her, maybe I could have put a stop to the events that followed. We never heard from Izzy the next day, or the next week, or the next month.

Police searched, sirens wailed, but no one could find her. Eventually, the police ruled her disappearance as a death, due to several other children of the same age going missing at the same time. I don’t think I ever fully recovered from that night. Instead, I shut myself off from the world, trapping myself in a prison of my own creation. 

My eyes were still opened wide as I read and re-read the letter. Izzy meant so much to me, and to know that she was alive (and hopefully safe!) was a dream come true. Literally, 

As soon as I came out of my stupor, I wrote a letter back to her, pen crashing on paper at a speed I didn´t know possible. I needed to know if she was safe, what she was doing, and wanted to catch up on all that we had missed. I was out the door, ready to mail my letter back to Izzy when I froze in my tracks. There was no stamp on the letter, telling me where it came from, I had nowhere to send the letter two. My mood darkened for a minute before I decided to set the letter on my front porch, hoping that it would find its way to Izzy.

That was approximately four months ago. Now, as I sit back on a speeding train that’s heading straight to a place I hadn’t visited in years, I realize that I still have so many questions. She only sent me three letters, to which I sent two replies, so we didn’t cover much ground.  The letters would only come during the rain, I noticed. I tried to ask her where she was, and what happened to her, but she either deflected those questions or ignored them completely. That was odd, as Izzy was usually bold and straightforward. It’s funny, we’re pretty much opposites. 

I felt a smile stretching across my lips as I looked up. I was so glad to have my sister back. Pulling out my bag, I fingered the letters she sent me, carefully looking through each one. I wanted to double-check that I was going to the right place at the right time.

When I got to the last letter, I carefully opened it, reading Izzy’s writing.

Hey Brother! 

I know it’s been a long time since I last wrote to you, but I hope you are doing well. Yes, I am okay! Stop worrying so much, it will give you wrinkles. Anyway, do you remember that park we used to go to as children, St. Merriweather? I loved getting Ice-cream from Mr. Scoops there. Meet me there at 6:00 pm on the first of November. I can’t wait to see you! 

Your favorite (and only!) sister, Izzy.

I had been asking her when and where we could meet for real. She kept putting it off in her next to letters, so I had been thrilled at the chance to see her in person. 

Checking my watch, I saw that the train would arrive in less than twenty minutes. Since the park was right next to the station, I should get there at exactly the time she said to meet. All I had to do was find something to keep me occupied for the next half hour.

After what seemed like hours had passed, an automated voice rang out from the speakers of the train. 

“We ask at this time you exit your seat, throw away all waste, and exit the train. Please…” The voice droned on, but I hopped out of my seat, rushing to get to the front of the train car. I had to give a lot of people the obligatory  “excuse me” and “sorry” after bumping into them, but getting to my sister was definitely worth their disapproving looks. 

Stepping down from the train, I gave my thanks to the attendant, sliding onto the silver escalator that would take me up to the main floor. The train station was a big, circular dome, with fancy golden railings and potted plants lining the walkways. I remembered staring at it along walks with my sister, but I had never been inside of it.  Realizing I had been standing in the same spot for several seconds, I continued on out the doors. 

Stepping outside of the train station was like seeing someone’s face at the store, but not remembering how you recognized them. The place I used to call my childhood home had changed. I had a pretty good view of the center of the town from the train station, which was on a hill. Some of the buildings were modernized, with glass doors instead of the thick oak ones I remembered. The sidewalks and roads were no longer crumbly gravel, but instead a smooth brick. Mr. Scoop’s Ice Cream Parlor was still around the corner, but it appeared to have gotten much bigger than before. 

And right smack in the center of all of this was Merriweather Park and Cemetery. The normally green trees were red and yellow in the November air, and the cemetery looked as beaten down as ever, though perhaps a bit bigger? I wasn’t sure. Either way, I ran down the hill like a child, with my trench coat flapping behind me. When I arrived at the edge of the park, I paused. 

I had absolutely adored this place as a child, always begging my parents, sister, or literally anyone to take me there. I loved to run around the trees and make up funny stories about the people buried in the cemetery with my sister. Of course, my parents never agreed - they were too busy, but I and my sister liked to go. In the center, the great willow tree I remembered had been replaced with a sparkling fountain. It was a nice addition, but I would almost miss the tree.

Checking my watch, I realized that it was exactly six o’clock. Izzy should be here! I didn’t see her, but then again I had no clue what she looked like. Even if she was older, I would recognize that flaming red hair anywhere. I decided to just walk around the park until I saw her. The park was basically just a giant square, with a cemetery off to the side and two diagonal paths that intersected in the middle. Slowing my pace to a normal walk, I slid my hood down, looking in every direction. Where was she?

I started scanning each and every face looking for Izzy. I still couldn’t find her. After I had made two full laps around the park I checked my watch. It was six-fifteen. The sun was starting to set, and I began to panic a little. Where was she? I needed to see her. I had missed her so much, and finding her again meant everything to me. I cut across the middle, wondering if she would be at the fountain. No luck.

Where could she be? I had looked everywhere and there was no way she would be late for this. The Cemetary. A spark of hope lit within me. Of course, I hadn’t thought to look there. Cutting across the center of the park, I walked over to the old iron gate that encircled the cemetery. It squeaked shut behind me, and I started walking around, looking for her. It appeared there was no one in the cemetery, as the only other thing I could see was dark tombstones. Wait, over there. I saw a silhouette in the far corner, by an old willow tree.

That had to be her. Abandoning all sense of dignity, I charged at full speed, my feet making soft noises across the ground. As I ran to the silhouette in the corner, It disappeared behind a tree. I reached the gnarled trunk of the tree, spinning myself around to see...nothing. There was nothing there. No! I needed to see her. She has to be here. I was so devastated. I knocked my head into the tree, tears threatening to spill out of frustration. Losing my balance, I crashed to the ground, bumping my head against a rock.

At that moment, I truly wanted to cease to exist. Maybe I would find my sister in the afterlife. No, no, I needed to calm myself. Picking up my head, I used a tombstone to steady myself. It was a lot smaller than the others, yet it gave off an ominous feeling. Curious, I knelt down to inspect it. There was thin, slanted writing on it, and what it said stopped my heart.

“Isabelle Whitecost: 1998-2012” And beneath it, a slogan. “In loving memory of a girl who’s life was taken far too soon.” My eyes widened in shock. According to this gravestone, my sister had been dead for twelve years. That would mean they would have found her body one year after her disappearance. Why didn’t I know? How didn’t I know? 

A cold fear, deeper than anything I had felt before settled in my stomach. The air seemed to get colder, sensing my dread. I became hyper aware of my surroundings, slowly standing up straight, eyes still opened wide.  My sister was gone. She really was dead. But if she wasn’t sending me those letters, who was?