Awaken, Shadows of a Forgotten Past

by Marcia Maidana

  “I don’t really know much about it, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think he cares,” Zaira whispered, leaning closer to me.

  I startled a bit as Mr. Vines unexpectedly entered the kitchen through the garden doors. “I hope you are finding Oak’s Place to your liking,” he said, addressing me.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “British food is the best in the world, as you know.” He placed the plate and cup he brought with him in the sink.

  How would I know? I wanted to answer but remained silent.

  “I’m glad you are here. We can all benefit from your presence.” Mr. Vines sat on the corner chair. “Time goes by fast, doesn’t it, Miss Contini?” I stared at him blankly. He went on, “Or at least that’s what we’d like to think, when in reality, time is just an illusion. The past always comes back to haunt us.” My confusion had now set in firmly. He was speaking in riddles.

  “I see we are having a meeting,” said Mrs. White, emerging from the hall.

  “I better get back to work.” Mr. Snider rose from his chair, deposited his plate in the sink, and walked out.

  “Come sit by me. We were just talking about you, Deborah,” Mr. Vines lied.

  “Good thing I came then.” Mrs. White looked tense as she sat by him. “What are you divulging now?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried?” Mr. Vines laughed. “Loosen up a little, would you?” He reached for her hand. Mrs. White quickly pushed him away.

  “I’m fifty years old. I have no time for games,” Mrs. White fired back.

  “Time does fly for some of us. But for others it seems to stop.” He smiled in a strange way.

  “Have you ever been to Europe, Miss Contini?” Mrs. White inquired.

  “No, I have not.”

  “That’s a shame. It’s a beautiful place,” she said.

  “Yes, you’ll have to visit England someday,” Zaira added.

  I nodded, but I knew it would never happen. “What brought you to America?” I asked collectively. “You must miss your family.”

  Mr. Vines was quick to answer. “Zaira is younger than us—surely she misses her family. Right, darling?”

  “I miss them terribly,” she answered.

  “As for me and Mrs. White,” he continued, “we are all we have left in the world. My folks died a long time ago. I never married, and Mrs. White’s husband died young. There is nothing left back in England for us, just unwanted memories.”

  “We moved here hoping to leave some of them behind, but somehow they have managed to follow us,” Mrs. White spoke sternly. “You are too young to understand, Miss Contini, but when you love someone from the depths of your heart, you can neither move on, nor forget. You are stuck in time.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how awful it must be to lose someone you love. Death is something I have not dealt with yet.”

  “It is awful,” Mrs. White affirmed. “Death can be your worst enemy and, at the same time, your best friend.”

  “I don’t see how it can be your friend.” Zaira seemed bothered by the thought.

  “When you have suffered in life like I have, you learn to compromise with death. It’s the only way to survive the pain.” In a disturbing contrast to the vulnerability of her words, Mrs. White’s voice was calculating, detached of any feelings.

  I didn’t fully understand her words. Just as with Mr. Vines’s words, I felt that hers had double meanings. Nonetheless, an invasive feeling of sympathy towards her grew in me. Her loss had been great, and now here she was, all alone, away from her land and people. Perhaps her misfortune had molded her strict, rigid personality.

  “Pain comes in many shapes, Miss Contini. The worst kind is not when the one you love dies, but when the one you love doesn’t love you back.” Mr. Vines glanced at Mrs. White. “Isn’t that right, Deborah?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand that either,” I said, acknowledging openly to myself and the others that I had never been in love before.

  “We all have our personal shadows to chase us and to chase after,” said Mrs. White.

  Suddenly, a brooding frame of mind filled me. “Please, excuse me. I’d like to take a walk through the gardens before returning to my work.” I rose from the chair, plate and silverware already in hand.

  “Allow me—” Before I finished my thought, Zaira took over my attempt to clear my setting.

  “Thank you, Zaira. Lunch was wonderful.”

  Grabbing some other utensils off the table, Zaira marched to the sink to deposit the dirty dishes, and I turned at once for the back door.

  I took the narrow path that bordered the house to the south. The sun shone faintly through the lingering clouds that hovered over Geneva. The coldness of the shade of the trees to my right and of the massive wall of the mansion to my left instantly met me. I welcomed it. The kitchen had felt too hot.

  My thoughts still dwelt on the things that were said during lunch.

  Mr. Vines and Mrs. White were distinctive in nature from others, of that there was no doubt. The more I tried to figure out their personalities, the more any clarity eluded me. I reminded myself that the way I perceived things might not be full reality—I supposed that if I were to remain sane, I’d have to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  I admitted that my current perception of them was a bit farfetched—they seemed to roam the house in a constant search for something. Something that perhaps was only visible to them. Their shadows cast a feeling of deprivation of liberty that filled the mansion, giving one the sensation that Oak’s Place was a lonely shell, without a soul of its own.

  Mr. Vines appeared to enjoy the tension that I seemed to cause Mrs. White when we were together. He played games of words only understood by her. I couldn’t shake the impression that he had something on her. He was one step ahead in whatever game they were playing.

  On the other hand, Mrs. White had the appearance of a woman tormented by constant cares. No matter where she was or what she did, she seemed restless, always on guard. I wondered if her guarding behavior was due to a sincere desire to be efficient or if it was due to fear. Fear of failure.

  With a deep sigh, I picked up my pace. Briskly, I turned the sharp southeast corner of the house and collided unexpectedly with Mr. Sterling.

  His body felt like a solid wall compared to my lighter weight. The crash shoved me against the roses climbing on the wall of the mansion. Instinctively, my forearm went out to the wall to keep my body from the thorny vines.

  “Flor…” he caught himself mid-sentence. “Miss Contini—are you all right?” His strong hands grabbed hold of my arms stabilizing me back on the path.

  “Mr. Sterling, I’m sorry.” I looked up at him and the intensity in his eyes left me wordless. I had forgotten how he looked up close.

  “Are you all right?” he repeated, his grasp tightened around my arms. “Let me see.” Gently he raised the short sleeve of my dress to my shoulder and held my scraped arm in between us to look at the damage.

  “It’s nothing—just a scratch,” I affirmed, keenly aware of his face inches from mine.

  Now that the initial shock of the impact had vanished, what followed was even more unanticipated—I was bombarded by a strange surge of emotions and found myself at a loss for words. His presence made havoc of logic. Even more disconcerting was the voice in the back of my mind that insisted I was in danger. But danger of what, I couldn’t say. Looking foolish? Losing my job? Or something darker?

  “Have Zaira take a look at this and clean it, just in case.” He ran his fingers over the scraped area of my forearm. Fire burned through me at his touch. He must have realized the effect he had on me for he immediately released me.

  “Thank you. I will show her.” Embarrassed, more at myself than him, I focused on my injury.

  “Where were you going in such haste? Were you running from something?”

  Haste? I had never used that word before. I liked it. “No, I wasn’t running from anything—I was just
walking briskly for exercise.” The untruthfulness in my statement was palpable. I had to think fast to fill in the silence before he inquired any further. I couldn’t very well tell him that I owed my discombobulation to all of the mysteries surrounding Oak’s Place. “Is there anything that I should be aware of?” I placed him in the questioning spot.

  His face contorted in response to my question. That was curious. Even stranger, I couldn’t tell if the emotion on his face was pain, fear, or maybe even anger. What had I said to cause such reaction in him?

  “I’m not sure I follow you—” His reply held a tone of caution.

  “You asked me if I was running from something. Is there something I should be running from?”

  “No, Miss Contini, there is nothing that you should worry about.” Mr. Sterling dropped his gaze to the path in front of him and resumed his walk, leaving me baffled at the entire encounter.

  With the calendar spread on the desk in front of me, I counted the days since I had been hired by Mr. Sterling. Three weeks—weeks that had given me more knowledge and confidence in my work and, at the same time, a deep curiosity to know more about my employer. Three weeks during which, according to Mrs. White, Mr. Sterling had mostly spent resting, as his sickness had struck him harshly. He must have gotten ill after the day when I bumped into him on the grounds—for he had looked healthy then.

  It was ironic to think how well the nickname “the Shadow” applied to him. He was the very image of a ghost of a man silently roaming the halls of Oak’s Place. Indeed, he was more haunting than his spectral, rundown mansion. Several times he had appeared in my dreams, young and earnest, trying to warn me of something, but always I woke at the penultimate moment before I could learn what it was he wanted to tell me. Each time, I woke filled with an almost joyful sense of well-being, and yet, I possessed the certainty that something was wrong in the world. Growing up under Granny’s practical guidance, some of her no-nonsense philosophy had rubbed off on me, but after three weeks of dreams, I hardly felt like the same girl. The universe suddenly seemed deeply mysterious, full of potential wonder and terror, and somehow, Mr. Sterling was at the heart of this mystery.

  My yearning to see him, to get to know him had become a steady torture. Feeling faint remorse for intentionally searching through his personal information, I pulled open the second drawer of the desk. My hands shook a little as I extracted from underneath other documents a small yellow folder containing Mr. Sterling’s release papers from the British Army.

  I carefully opened it to the first page to find the image I had studied for several days. Attached to the front page of the report was a picture of General Alexander Sterling. In the picture, he was so young. It was the face he wore in my dreams, but I was amazed and more than a little frightened at how accurately they mirrored reality. How had my dreams conjured the very image of the young general before I had even discovered the photograph? He stared into my soul from the depths of the past, wearing a dark military uniform decorated with many ribbons, medals, and badges; boots high to his knees, his right hand holding a matching hat, his eyes imposing as he gazed back at me. Like a sudden stroke of light, I realized what was so different about him: his countenance. In this picture, so many years ago, his eyes radiated a light and love that have since been lost. There was hope and happiness in his gaze. What kind of tragedy could have deprived him of such a great treasure?

  Resisting the temptation that pressed upon me every time I held the picture, I placed it back in the drawer instead of in my handbag. More times than I would admit, I wished it might travel with me to the monastery, where in the solitude of night, I could ponder upon it.

  The curtains softly swirled against the wall as a small current of fresh air flowed through the open window into the room. Noon had come and almost gone just like the subtle approach of fall. My stomach rumbled, reminding me of the time. Zaira’s warm soup had never sounded better to me than it did today.

  It was rare to find the kitchen without people, but preparations seemed to be underway for lunch. The stove held a large pot of chicken soup. Nearby, on the countertop, a wood cutting board held a homemade loaf of white bread already sliced. The vapor trapped in the pot immediately escaped as I removed the lid, filling my nostrils with the sweet smell of vegetables and condiments.

  Zaira walked in just as I sat down to enjoy the food. “It smells delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Zaira replied absently. She seemed troubled about something.

  She avoided my searching eyes by submerging herself into the scrubbing of pots and pans. I kept my silence until I noticed that she had been working on the same pot for the past five minutes.

  “Are you trying to get a genie to come out of it?” I teased.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if one did.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s just so strange,” she muttered to herself.

  “What’s so strange?”

  “I…shouldn’t tell you…”

  “Tell me what? Zaira, you know you can tell me anything.”

  She stopped scrubbing and lowered her voice. “All right—but you must keep it quiet.”

  “You know I will.”

  Drying her hands on her apron, she quickly sat on the chair next to mine. “I was out in the front yard speaking to Mr. Snider. It was so cold that I decided to come back in the house through the front door.”

  “Okay.” I looked at her impatiently.

  “The door to your office was ajar. Since you always keep it wide open, I wondered if you were in there.” Zaira’s eyes scanned the kitchen doors nervously. I shifted in the chair closer to her. “So, I peeked inside through the little opening and there he was. Hovering over your desk.”

  “Who was in my office?” My immediate thought was she meant Mr. Vines, with his incomprehensible riddles and eerily silent slinking steps around the house.

  “Mr. Sterling! He was in your office!” She exhaled, releasing some of her tension. “Isn’t that the strangest thing? I have never really seen him wandering around the house like that.”

  In my office? My mind was racing, but I forced myself to sound casual and unconcerned. “Maybe something urgent came up. Something related to his properties.”

  “No, he would have called you to his office—it is odd, truly odd.”

  “I suppose…but after all, he is in charge. He can do as he pleases. Perhaps he still is there. I’ll be back.” I got to my feet, consciously trying to suppress my anxiety.

  “Wait!” Zaira exclaimed. “That’s not all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “He wasn’t just standing there.” She hesitated a moment. “He was looking through something.”

  “Through what?” My voice escalated just enough to urge her to respond quickly.

  “Your handbag.”

  I stared at her blankly. What could Mr. Sterling possibly be looking for in my handbag? It was ridiculous. Why would he do such a thing?

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I rushed out of the kitchen feeling a strange blend of curiosity and anticipation to see Mr. Sterling. But I found no one in my office, just a thick silence that filled me with deep disappointment of not encountering him after all.

  Next thing I knew, I stood by Mr. Sterling’s office. Where I had gotten the courage to call on his door, I didn’t know, but it had something to do with the fact that I hadn’t thought about it twice. I definitely acted in an irrational manner, but the realization of my incoherent actions didn’t hit me until I heard his voice inviting me in— “Come in.”

  I didn’t move. Mrs. White had been clear: Under no circumstances is he to be disturbed. Too late it occurred to me that maybe “the rules” weren’t hers after all; maybe they had been placed by Mr. Sterling himself. What would he say when he saw me? What would I say? I couldn’t accuse him of searching through my handbag. The possibility of returning to my office passed through my mi
nd, but the door opened, and we stood face to face, inches from each other.

  “Miss Contini.” He was undeniably surprised. “Come in, please.”

  I took a few steps forward, instantly feeling the warmth coming from the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “It’s quite all right. How can I help you?” He gestured for me to sit down. Calmly he took his place on his leather chair.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t in my office when you came looking for me earlier. I thought you might need my assistance.”

  He held me in his gaze for a long while before responding. “You are mistaken. I have not been to your office.” His tone was precise. I felt incredibly inadequate, and there was little comfort in the reality that I wasn’t the only one telling tales—for either he or Zaira wasn’t telling the truth. I was more inclined to believe Zaira.

  “I must be seeing things.” As soon as those words left my mouth, I wished I could recall them, for I was openly questioning his truthfulness.

  “You wouldn’t be the only one.” His firm answer disconcerted me, yet I felt the need to apologize.

  “I apologize, Mr. Sterling.” I made the attempt to rise from the chair but didn’t as he quickly spoke.

  All at once, his tone turned bitter and angry. “Are you sorry that you are lying or that I wasn’t in your office?”

  “Excuse me?” Had he said what I thought he’d said? His bluntness was startling. I felt as though I’d been slapped.

  “Well, since I didn’t visit your office, are you apologizing for lying, or is it just an excuse to see me?” I was wordless. “Which of the two is it, Miss Contini?” he pressed in a soft tone that seemed to be designed to provoke me.

  “None of the two, of course,” I said, striving to ignore my steadily increasing frustration. “I know for a fact that you were in my office, that’s all.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” He pushed his chair back and strolled to the fireplace, clearly vexed by the whole situation.

  “No, you called me a liar,” I replied carefully, endeavoring to keep the anger out of my voice.