Reverie

The sound of groans and creaks echoes deep within this old house, sounds that only occur when a rain storm has overstayed its welcome. Mother used to say that these small noises were the house’s weary bones settling in for the summer storm. I always thought it was the house’s bid to diverge all its secrets to those who would bother to listen. The rain has a funny effect on people, and by extension inanimate objects I guess, to tell your stories. The sound of the rain drumming on the floor to ceiling windows in the hall almost drowned out the sound of the water spilling from the painting. Almost.

It was an inexplicable thing really, something that I myself have a hard time describing. It all started when I received her letter. A letter I at once needed yet dreaded to receive. Her voice soaked in the ink used to pen the words that could spear through in the most stony of hearts, I am happy. It is remarkable what the human heart is capable of feeling. To mourn the loss of someone who still yet breathes and walks this earth beside you. But her heart no longer beats in tune to mine. I can still feel her name on my tongue though I haven’t had the courage to speak it aloud in years.

Perhaps that was why the ocean painting in the study began to drip. At first I could only hope that I had imagined the little water droplets at the bottom of the painting. As the day bled into night and a new dawn graced the sky the water droplets soon began to become rivulets. I then began to fear the house had a leak, though no rain had graced this house in over a fortnight. Then just last night I heard a great crash. I raced to the study only to see a curious sight. The painting my father had brought home all those years ago was spilling water and flooding the room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Surely This painting was not actually producing water when none was to be found. But no matter where I placed the painting whether it be the dining room or bedroom, the painting was still producing water. I was astounded. I had never heard of such a thing occurring and I was desperate to get it to stop. I even went as far as putting it outside, hoping perhaps that this would fix it. But once I went back to the study to clean the water the painting had found its way back in again.

Now here I stand in ankle deep water that is slowly soaking the hem of my nightgown, mulling over how to stop the slow drowning of my home. I paced, or should I say waded, back and forth trying to puzzle out this predicament when the smell of roses wafted around me. I took a deep breath and two blue eyes found their way into the forefront of my mind. It only takes a second for me to realize what had happened before I wrangle that image and place it back into the bax I keep buried deep within my heart. I take a deep breath hoping to settle myself. But roses? I looked up and down the hall wondering where the scent was emanating from. The only flowers I ever receive are from my uncle who lives on the other side of the country, sent on the anniversary of my mother’s death. But even then they are never roses. I look back out on the rain misted scene and into our garden. Even if roses were out there it was the middle of autumn and they weren’t in bloom. So where was this smell coming from?

I followed the scent through the hall, up the stairs, and came upon the door to the library. I hesitated in front of the door for a brief second. I steel myself for a moment then I shove open the doors. The hinges make a loud creak after years of disuse. I take a look around this familiar room and suddenly I feel fourteen again. The room was almost untouched from time. Dark mahogany bookshelves line the walls with old tomes preserved on the shelves. The smell of dust and roses suffuses the space that was essentially my childhood. It seems that this place was not left untouched by the endless streams of water. The books on the second shelf were now being adequately ruined by this painted water thatI have no clue how to stop. But water is not the only thing that assails the book shelves. Vines, thick and green, grow over the tops and sides of the shelves. Some of the vines even grow out of the books themselves. Delicate red roses bloom along these vines in vivid color. Almost like out of a painting. I looked to the far wall where the vines seemed to originate. There sat a painting of a beautiful field of roses. Two figures in white seem to be dancing among the blooms. She would always say that she would imagine those figures were the two of us. A sudden warmth suffused my chest and I found I couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

As I look around this room, fractures of memories slip the confines of my mind and whirl around in pieces. A light seems to flicker in the library before a scene bursts to life. As if pieces of my memories were escaping into real life, scenes of days passed blossomed before me. A smile here, a laugh there, and a face that holds so much love and promise. I am back in that moment of when I first met her.

Her parents were family friends from when my parents were young. After my dad died when I was six my mother tried to do anything that would help her take her mind off of him. So when those same family friends asked my mom to house their daughter while she attended boarding school she readily accepted. I was none the wiser of my mother’s rash decision so I was quite shocked to see an unfamiliar girl sitting in our family’s library one sunny spring afternoon. I was quite bewildered and a tad angry at this sudden intrusion but the moment she smiled at me, oh. That was all it took.

“Hello! I’m Vivienne”

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. It felt like my heart was running a million miles an hour. It was a brand new sensation that frightened me. For all I knew I was dying from a sudden heart attack. Then I managed to catch my breath and my heart began to slow, though minutely, once more. I was bewildered. I had never met anyone before that could cause me to feel like I was flying yet falling all at once. This feeling must have reflected on my face because her smiling face took on one of deep sympathy and uncertainty.

“I see your mother forgot to mention that I would be staying here”

“Ah so it seems”, I glanced towards the bookshelf she was perusing and nodded towards it, “See anything you like?”

She glanced back at the bookshelf and that smile bloomed across her face once more. I decided then and there that I would do all that I could to keep that radiant smile upon her face. Her eyes darted across the titles before falling upon one in the second to last row. It was a leather bound book dyed a deep blue with gold filigree adorning the cover. I knew this book intimately, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It was one that I spent days upon days in my childhood reading and rereading. One of my fondest memories of it was reading it with my father.

“That’s one of my favorites,” I said, flashing her an encouraging smile.

She tucked one of her dark curls, that just barely brush her shoulders, behind her ear and gazed at the book, “Mine too. I always found myself dreaming along with Alice and hoping to find my own version of wonderland. I spent many a day digging up my parents garden hoping a small rabbit would whisk me away”

It seemed like an urgent thought occurred to her as she whirled her head to look me in my eyes which wasn’t hard seeing as how we were virtually the same height. Her deep blue eyes were wide with curiosity.

“I’m so sorry that was completely rude of me. I didn’t ask for your name”

“Ah so it seems” I had nearly forgotten myself “My name is-”

Then just as suddenly the scene sprung up that it slowly faded away and I found myself back in my house, slowly drowning. The warmth in my chest that bloomed from before did not seem to ebb as the memory receded. Rather it seemed to brighten more. I had not let myself revisit those days for quite some time. I feared they would only cause me pain, but instead I found comfort in those thoughts. I looked around the library and found a host of memories waiting for me to remember. I felt my cheeks begging to hurt from the smiling. But the warm and light of those thoughts did not seem to dry my cheeks. Even the happiest memories can be tinged with longing and sorrow.

I ran my hand across the books, feeling their gentle rides and indentations, imagining that I was feeling her touch across space and time. I stopped at one of the books and opened my mouth to read one of the titles, a book Vivienne often found comfort in, but what came out was a startled “oh?”. The vines that once adorned the shelves had now receded. The painting once more looked ordinary. No vines snaked out from it and wrapped themselves around the furniture. The scent of roses seemed to dissipate as well. How odd.

I was only allowed to ruminate on this complexity for but a moment when the soft sound of a piano floated in from down the hall. Ah the music room, our second hideaway right after the library. I followed the music down the hall and peeked into the room. It was just how I left it. White sheets covered the furniture and instruments. Mother loved music so this room was filled with instruments. Vivienne and I would spend long afternoons on each of these instruments seeing who could play them the best. I could almost hear her laughter filling up the room. I had never really understood how authors could describe a person's laughter as tinkling bells until I met her. I looked to the wall behind the piano and the portrait of a composer loomed over the dormant instrument. The sharp highs and the deep lows of the notes seemed to meld with the paint from the picture. This was a painting I particularly liked.

Once again a scene erupted in a flash of light and I found my younger self, now the tender age of seventeen, sitting beside Vivienne at the piano. Her hair had gotten longer over the years and now she had it tied back with a green ribbon. I myself supported one of blue. A gift from Vivienne to match our eye colors. At this point we had already shared our first kiss sitting in that exact spot a year prior. I was so nervous that I was nearly rattling the entire house. But she just laughed and made me feel like the only girl in the world.

But this memory was different. It was one that I tried my best to forget often. We sat plucking at the keys, creating a random and wandering melody. Talking about anything and everything. Then she turned to me with a serious look and I felt my heart slowly sink.

“I sent out an application to that school across the country”

I sucked in a quiet breath. Vivienne had the dream of becoming a scholar in history. Something she could not truly achieve in this small town. Though one of the best boarding schools was close by, the colleges in the area did not boast the same prestige.

We both knew what it meant if she got in. She would leave and achieve her wildest dreams, and I would stay here because this was where I belonged. I had no great ambition besides my desire to write, something I could do even in the smallest of towns. But Vivienne shone bright and she could not spread her wings to the fullest here. We both knew it.

“Hey, don’t get down” she nudged my shoulder gently, “I haven’t been accepted yet. Who knows I might get rejected and you’ll have to take care of me for the rest of my life”

“Yeah, when your old and gray I’ll be right next to you in the rocking chair”

We both dissolved into bright giggles at the thought of me taking care of her. But we both knew the truth. She was one of the brightest people I had ever met with the passion to match. She would get in for sure, no questions asked. But at that moment we were two girls deeply in love dreaming up a bright and happy future. So we pretended this dark and looming spectre was not there and happily dreamed the days away.

As the memory faded once more I couldn’t help but take in a shuddering breath. Her acceptance letter arrived two months later. I tried to put on a brave face and pretend I wasn’t scared but I was young and inexperienced. She saw through me in an instant. She said she wouldn’t go, that she would stay here and figure it out. But I was adamant. She shouldn’t throw away a bright future for a life of what if’s and uncertainty. She was meant for greater things, and that unfortunately meant she would have to leave.

Just like the roses the music seemed to vanish with the memory. I stood for a moment in that room, the water now lapping at my upper calf. This memory was the beginning of the end. Forever is not guaranteed when you are so young. We had not experienced life yet. How would we know we would make it?

The loud sound of a foghorn jolted me from my sadness. The sudden noise scared me half to death but at the same time it sounded like a summons. Like a lighthouse guiding the ships who have spent long days at sea home at last. I did not need to search for this painting for I knew where it was located for it provided the water assailing this house.

I stared at the doors of the study wondering what memory would greet me upon arrival. I closed my eyes and thought of the possibilities. Well, no time like the present. I gingerly opened the doors to the study and found an unexpected sight.

Before me wasn’t the study but rather a train station in the late evening hours. We wanted to spend as much time together as possible so she opted for a red eye train. It had rained a record amount that year. That year also had the unfortunate coincidence to coincide with the drainage failure of the city. That night would go down in history as the night the city was nearly washed away. I can still smell that acrid smoke and shorn metal from the train. The hem of my coat and dress stuck awkwardly to my legs from the ankle deep water we had to wade through but I could hardly notice. My entire focus was anchored to a single point. Those bright blue eyes that always looked at me with mirth and mischief now held a myriad of emotions parading around like a carousel within those beautiful eyes.

I took her face into my hands and tried to commit it to memory and I knew she was doing the same. It wasn’t long before the train gave the final whistle to warn that the train would soon depart. I was loath to let her go and it took a herculean effort to let go and take a step back. As she climbed aboard the train she stopped for a moment at the top and turned, flashing that smile. A smile that held the promise of a someday that would never come, then she disappeared into the cabin.

The memory slowly cracked and faded from view and I found myself back in my water logged study. The painting of the ocean still dripped but it wasn’t the deluge that it had been producing before. I waded to my desk, the water halfway up my calf now, and sat down at my desk. Her letter still opened atop where I had left it a week before. I gave it a gentle touch before moving it to the side and producing my own pen and paper. I poured myself out onto this page, everything that I had done, everything that I felt was put to ink upon the page. I drowned in the letter and when I finally clawed for air I found I had written her ten whole pages. I surveyed my work for a moment, my heart fully wrenched of emotions but noticeably lighter, then placed the letter into a drawer in my desk. The water around my desk still leaped around my chair and legs. I proceeded to get another paper and pen a short letter to her expressing how happy I am to hear she is happy as well. This letter didn’t take as long to pen but when I put my signature at the end, I found that the water had finally receded.