Distant Hearts

Her name was Elenore Devonte. Classy, regal, civilized, and the epitome of 1950’s upper class with an attitude to match. Even at 96 years-old, the woman was sharper than the needles of a porcupine, and just as likely to go on the defensive and show her quills. The prickly woman had gone through several nurses before I was assigned as her caretaker at the retirement home I worked at. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered putting in my own request to transfer the client to another caretaker. The old crone reacted to my every sweet attempt at care just as well as a temperamental cat reacted to water.

After three months of any and all attempts to make peace with the woman, I had all but given up. In a last-ditch effort, I decided to change tactics. Rather than treat her with the same overly sensitive and agreeable attitude we normally used with our most elderly patients, I instead treated her as I would a frustrating colleague that I had no choice but to work with.

Gone were my soft knocks at the door and gentle urges for the ancient woman to take her medicine. No longer did I plead sweetly for her to allow me to assist her around her room or for a stroll on the premises. Although I may have donned a more aggressive approach to the woman’s care, that does not mean I didn’t show her the respect she deserved as my elder.

Shortly after changing my attitude around the woman, I noticed an immediate change in her demeanor and our interactions became more comfortable. Rather than wave away any attempts I made to help her, she hesitantly began letting me lend her my assistance. The contemptuous glances were replaced with curiosity, and eventually fondness. In just a few short months, the woman’s porcupine quills began to truly flatten, and I was allowed to see a side of her no one else had.

As it turns out, Elenore was simply tired of being treated like a child, though she was nearly three times older than any of her nurses. By treating her as I would any other person and not like a senile old woman, I had gained the woman’s respect; much to the awe of my coworkers and bafflement of her previous nurses.

Even into her late 90’s, Elenore was as quick-witted and intelligent as any middle-aged woman I knew, with the memory befitting her life’s work as an educator. Having lived through nine decades, the woman was full of experience and stories. From being born into a New York Mafia family in 1925, to attending Columbia University as a young woman, to meeting and falling in love with a foreign exchange student, who turned out to be a young Arabian prince. I could never decide if I believed all of her stories, some seeming too fantastical to be real. Regardless, the story of her short-lived and forbidden love was beautiful, if not tragic, whether or not it was real.

As one of the top students in her Freshman class, Elenore had been assigned to assist their newest foreign exchange student in adjusting to campus life and ensuring he knew his way around. With so much time spent together, they quickly grew attached. He revealed to her his royal lineage, to which she understandably did not believe at first. As their time spent together increased and their relationship became apparent, her family stepped in. Blinded by prejudice, they took it upon themselves to warn the young prince to stay away from her.

Try as they might, they could not stay away from each other and continued to meet in secret. This carried on for just shy of two years before they were exposed, and the prince was forced to return to Arabia.

Elenore stated that never could she love another as she had loved her prince. Refusing to open her heart again, she remained unmarried and without children for the entirety of her life.

Although I knew she had never married or had a children of her own, I never knew that she had no surviving relatives at all until she passed in the summer of 2021; two years ago. Even her passing was elegant, simply going to bed one night in her brand-name silk pajamas, only not to wake the following morning. As heartbreaking and shocking as the event was, an even bigger shock was that the woman had left all of her worldly possessions to none other than her caretaker. Me.

As it turned out, the late Elenore had, in fact, been born to a rich mafia family. As the only surviving heir and having none of her own, her family home was then passed to me. A three story, manor style house in the outskirts of New York. The estate had been completely paid off decades ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the house, nor any of the furnishings inside.

Honoring Elenore’s memory, I packed up, moved out of my small 700 square foot studio apartment in the city, and took up residence in the Devonte Manor, as I had taken to calling it. I would be lying if I said the large, nearly empty estate didn’t spook me at times. However, over the course of the next two years, I had come to love the place.

Even though I now had proof that a few more of Elenore’s stories were true, such as her ties to the old mafia families, I still didn’t quite believe them all, including the one about her long-lost prince. That all changed when the letter arrived.

The envelope had nearly been overlooked in my pile of junk mail and few utility bills. What caught my attention was the sheer number of stamps covering the front. Elegant handwriting was addressed to a “Miss Elenore Devonte”. The oldest date I could read on the first row of stamps was from 1947.

The letter was from someone named Amin Farid with no return address.

Now, I have always prided myself on being a law-abiding citizen of New York. I always threw my trash and recycling away in the correct receptacles. I only crossed the street when the “WALK” light was illuminated. And never have I ever opened someone else’s mail. But what do you do when the person addressed on the envelope is deceased with no living relatives? With evidence of how well traveled this letter was, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away when it had finally reached its destination.

Leaving the letter on the small breakfast table in the kitchen, I decided that this was a problem for later and instead busy myself with the dishes that I had let pile up over the past two days. There really weren’t that many dishes to wash, and I soon ended up back in front of that letter.

What would happen if I opened it? Would anyone even know? Would it still be considered an invasion of privacy if the person whose privacy I was invading was deceased?

Conflicted, I remembered that I had left a load of laundry in the dryer before leaving for the nursing home that morning.

Two loads of laundry, a vacuumed and mopped kitchen, and a tidied manor later, I found myself once again standing before the letter in the kitchen.

Flipping the envelope over, I noticed that the corner of the seal had already been torn. This proved the quality of the letter’s stationary if this was the only damage it received after over 70 years of being passed around in the postal system between numerous countries. My fingers ached to grab the corner and finish tearing the envelope open. Who would know? I suddenly needed to know now more than ever if the story of Elenore’s mysterious Arabian Prince was true. This was no longer some whimsical curiosity, but a burning desire to know the truth. A truth that was within my grasp, quite literally.

Sending a silent apology to the spirit of the Elenore, I tore open the envelope. From it, I removed three sheets of aged paper. The texture of the parchment was thick and expensive, unlike anything I might receive in the mail nowadays. Whoever wrote the letter did so with elegant, looping script. Treating the pages as delicately as fragile glass, I carried them to the nearest sitting room.

There was a total of three sitting rooms in the manor: one on each floor. This room was perhaps my favorite in the entire estate. Located towards the back of the first floor and just behind the kitchen, the room was decorated in deep hues of blue, with beige accents and elegant crown molding. Three of the four walls were covered in shelves of books and near-ancient decorations. Despite the quality of the furnishings, this room was far from the most elegant. It was also one of the smallest, which in turn made it feel cozy.

Settling into my favorite oversized chair and cuddling under a thick quilt matching the theme of the room, I began to read.

“My dearest Elenore,

I pray that this letter reaches you. Since we were separated, I have spent nearly every moment thinking of you and of how we were forced apart. So many words left unsaid, so many experiences I hoped we could have together, and pray that somehow, we might still.

Even with the distance between us, I often find my thoughts wandering back to the nights we spent together, wondering hand-in-hand, with no purpose in mind other than to just be near one another. I can still hear your laughter, feel your hand in mine. The absence of you by my side has left a hole in my chest that cannot be filled by anyone else.

I am not above admitting that coming to the United States was a terrifying experience. Our nations had only recently become friendly, and I felt alone. I had expected to visit your country to glean knowledge of your culture and economics. I never imagined I might find love as well. 

Even after learning of my official status, you never treated me as anything more than just a man; a man that I hope one day will be worthy of your affections. 

I understand the precarious position my title has put you in with your own family’s dynamics. Had I ever stopped to think of the repercussions my attention and love would cause you… well, I wish I could say that I would have done things differently, but I cannot say with confidence that I would have. To not have experienced your love would have been as to never experience the brilliance of the sunrise after a long, dark night…”

The next two and a half pages were poetic professions of his undying love for Elanore that no force, not even that of his title or the profession of her family, could come between. The writing was elegant, the words full of heartbreaking emotion.

The last few paragraphs were what brought me to tears.

“This will be forward of me, and I can only pray that you will forgive my presumptuousness. Please understand that this request comes from weeks of torment and contemplation. My love, I cannot be without you. My family and title demand that I wed to a woman of good standing, which limits my choices in the matter. However, though from different nationalities, I have been given my family’s blessing to request your hand in marriage.

I know our time together was brief, and there is much of each other we did not have the time nor opportunity to learn. I ask that you give me that opportunity now. Come to Arabia, my love, and be my wife. I understand the position this will put you in with your family, and I can promise that I will leverage every power I possess to prove to your family I am deserving of your love. 

I eagerly await your response, my love, for my life cannot continue without you by my side.

Forever yours, Amin”

Processing the entirety of the letter in my hands, my heart felt heavy. It was all true. Not only had Elenore met an Arabian prince and fallen in love, but he was so smitten with her that he convinced the royal family to accept her and make her his wife. Elenore had never known, because the letter I now held in my hand had never reached her. I wonder now if that was the reason she had refused to leave this massive home until she was no longer able to care for herself. My heart broke further as I realized that by never responding to this declaration of love, the prince must have believed she had refused his proposal.

Hopping to my feet, I rushed to my room and opened my laptop. Being royalty, surely there had to information on this prince. After a bit of digging, I finally found the information I was looking for… in his eulogy. Amin Farid had indeed been a prince in Arabia. Born to a family of six siblings, he was the youngest and, in turn, held the least amount of responsibility and expectation assisting in the governance of his country. With this freedom, Amin was able to pursue his passion in education. He spent many of his years studying abroad in foreign countries, one of which being the United States in the mid-1940’s.

Amin Farid never married or had children, devoting his life instead to improving the educational system in Arabia. He passed away peacefully in his sleep two years ago on the 3^rd of June, much to the surprise of his family. Wait… two years ago? Opening the calendar on my laptop, I found the date of Elenore’s funeral. June 3^rd, 2021. Two years ago.

Clutching the letter tightly to my chest, I hoped that these distant hearts had finally found each other.