Awaken, Shadows of a Forgotten Past

by Marcia Maidana

  I turned on the soft bed over and over again, unable to find rest. Mr. Sterling—why was I so resolved to know more about him? Why did it matter? Why couldn’t I just be content with doing my job, and forget about my employer as a man?

  As if mocking me, my subconscious brought back the memory of that afternoon’s conversation with Zaira.

  Mr. Sterling had been successful in the army. Was it because of his own merits or an arranged marriage? Did he love his wife? His child? His child would have been my age had he survived. It was just like Granny had said: Mr. Sterling could be my father.

  Did Mr. Sterling see me as a child? I remembered the torn piece of paper I had seen in Mr. Sterling’s office long ago—Named…birth…minutes…died—and wondered if it had something to do with his child.

  Suddenly, the blankets felt heavy and hot. I slipped out of bed and withdrew from the room. Down the seemingly interminable corridor I crept. The light of the sconces on the walls shone dimmer than ever. My steps were slow but precise; I had made up my mind. A chance like this, with just Zaira in the house wouldn’t come around often.

  Yet, my heart pounded against my ribs as if wanting to hammer its way out, reminding me that I was betraying Zaira’s trust. I shouldn’t be snooping around, breaking Mrs. White’s rule number three—I would surely be dismissed from my job if she ever found out.

  Standing at the door to Mr. Sterling’s office, my hand was sweaty on the doorknob and I held my breath. It wasn’t until the door was securely closed behind me that I ventured to turn on the light. Instantly, I was stricken with an unexpected emptiness as the still, cold room looked back at me.

  I wavered for a moment but the sight of the book bound in rough black leather sitting on the desk propelled me forward. I flipped through its pages, eager to find the little piece of paper and decipher its mystery. Disappointment was destined to be my companion this night. The blessed piece of paper was nowhere to be found.

  Finally, I placed the book back on the desk. In a way, I was relieved. Perhaps my futile search appeased somewhat my guilty conscious, diminishing the way I felt about my intrusion.

  I drew near to the dead fireplace, wishing that a fire would be burning and that he would be here. I sunk on the couch, filled with longing for him.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the edge of a newspaper peeking from under the couch. Retrieving it from its hiding place, I was surprised to find that it was an old London edition, the year 1916 to be exact. I crisscrossed my legs on the comfortable sofa and told myself that reading the newspaper was very acceptable and not a crime. Soon I was engrossed in another time and place that spoke to me from those pages that had been Mr. Sterling’s world; a world I hardly understood.

  My mind was swift to imagine how it must have been; a beautiful land with its ancient castles and marvelous architecture, their extensive estates with breathtaking manors in sharp contrast to the young and bare America. I imagined the British high society ruling and setting the tone for behavior and fashion—enjoying their luxurious social gatherings, oblivious of the work and efforts that their domestic servants put forth to make it all happen. I imagined their elegant clothing, their proper and structured way of speaking, courting, and marrying.

  Then there was the middle class trying to imitate those on higher social standings as a way to improve themselves, yet constantly filling their free time with gossip and unreal expectations.

  I felt a twinge of compassion when I remembered that no matter what their station, these people shared a common plot, a shadow that hovered over their lives—the Great War. Little did they know at that moment that so many of their children, poor and rich alike would die by the hundreds of thousands defending their country.

  Their life and time had been so different from ours, and now, twenty years later, America was more than ever removed from the Old World in just about every possible way.

  Still deep in thought, I turned a coffee-stained page with no intentions of reading its blurred words when the name ‘Sterling’ jumped right out at me. Of course, as luck would have it, the article had been heavily stained. The dark beverage, smoothly blending with the ink, made it a challenge to read.

  …has made it clear on several occasions that his daughter and General Alexander Sterling are deeply in love, and their affection is the solid foundation for their engagement and subsequent marriage.

  The recent Veils’s scandal accompanied by the allegations that General Sterling is simply marrying the well-recognized lady to obtain a higher rank have been completely dismissed by her prominent father…

  Despite the many rumors and speculations as to why the apparent happy couple is to wed, their wedding will be celebrated in a private ceremony this summer at…

  The article matched closely what Zaira had said about him. Maybe he had married her for power and ambition after all, but maybe he had not, and had truly loved her. I wondered…

  How would it have felt to be the wife of the young and handsome General Sterling?

  Monday evening found me exhausted and ready to return to the monastery for a change. After a busy weekend trying to keep up with Zaira’s endless enthusiasm, my long day at work dragged on interminably. Taking Zaira downtown had been a riot. Her bright eyes and charming accent left few heads unturned. With the exception of the smoke shop, which she couldn’t bear the thought of, we visited all the stores in town.

  “Allow me to try that one,” said Zaira at the hat shop. “And that one too, and the peacock one as well, please.”

  She tried on every hat in the store, some more than once, and bought none.

  Sunday, I brought Zaira to the monastery. Granny had been more than thrilled to give her a tour.

  “Oh, please, do come again,” Granny invited her at the end of the day.

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ve felt quite at home conversing with you,” Zaira replied.

  On our way back to Oak’s Place, Zaira inquired about the nearby towns. I had the presentiment that this was only the beginning of many outings. But for tonight I was content to leave Oak’s Place as Mrs. White and Mr. Vine returned from their short adventure.

  “Looks like they had a good time,” Zaira observed as they stepped out of the car. Mrs. White giggled at something Mr. Vines said. He had a noticeably pleased look in his eyes.

  I wondered what had transpired between them.

  “Has Mr. Sterling called?” were the first words Mrs. White pronounced.

  “No, ma’am, the phone has been silent,” Zaira answered.

  “Oh, it’s so hard to come back to such a dead place after spending time in New York City. Someday we’ll travel the whole world,” she said to Mr. Vines, who hauled her luggage into the house.

  “Speak of the devil,” muttered Mr. Snider. Mrs. White gave him a poisonous look. Nothing had changed.

  “Thank you for staying over.” Zaira walked beside me to the car.

  “My pleasure, but next time, you’re staying at the monastery.” I felt the sincerity of her friendship as we briefly embraced, and then I took the long drive home.

  After parking the car in the old barn that doubled as a garage, I made long strides towards the back door of the monastery, the cold January air cutting into my skin. I reached for the door handle and, upon crossing the threshold, I was met with an enormously unpleasant surprise.

  6

  ~ A New Beginning ~

  The moment I had avoided thinking about for weeks was here. Sister Callahan bounced to her feet as if off a spring the moment she saw me. I paused in the doorway, considering my options.

  “Fannie, dear, look how much you’ve grown!” Sister Callahan cried out as she hurried towards me. Wildly, my eyes searched the room for Granny to save me. From the far side of the kitchen, by the stove, Granny smiled helplessly at me. Two other sisters waved at me from the table.

  Squeezing the air from my lungs, Sister Callahan gave me an enormous hug. “Look how pretty you have gotten. Who would’ve thought you were the s
ame girl.” Her plump fingers squeezed my cheeks so hard that I feared my face would pop. “Don’t just stand there—come inside! You are letting in a terrible cold breeze.” Sister Callahan pulled me in by the arm and slammed the door shut, very nearly hitting me with it.

  “Too bad you haven’t changed at all,” I murmured to myself.

  “This is the young lady I told you about,” Sister Callahan said to the sisters who looked at me with pitiful eyes. “Isn’t she adorable?” Sister Callahan swiftly helped me pull off my coat, placing it on one of the iron pegs on the wall.

  I went straight for a chair to better evade her grasp and reluctantly sat down, knowing full well that I could be here for quite some time.

  “Florence, this is Sister Miller and Sister Sullivan. They are in charge of helping Sister Callahan with the tour.” Granny finally came to my rescue.

  “Nice to meet you both.” A faint smile crossed my face.

  Sister Miller, a woman around Granny’s age, had a round sweet face filled with shyness. Sister Sullivan, older than them, possessed a frail frame, a thin delicate face, and long slender fingers. Her gaze revealed the wisdom she had likely accumulated throughout her life.

  “Sister Miller and Sister Sullivan, like Sister Callahan, come from the Church of Saint Mary in Cambridge. They brought with them twelve young sisters, who are situating themselves in the dormitories upstairs. You’ll meet them soon enough,” Granny explained.

  “Enough about us—tell us, Fannie, what have you been doing?” Sister Callahan loudly interrupted.

  “My name is not Fannie.”

  “What did you say, dear?” Sometimes I wondered if she purposely annoyed the unfortunate souls who found themselves around her.

  “My name is Florence,” I said in a strong voice.

  “I know your name is Florence,” Sister Callahan replied. She turned and whispered to Granny, “Dolores, why is she telling me her name? I already know it.”

  “You do?”

  “What, dear?” Sister Callahan asked as if I had just asked a stupid question.

  “Sister Callahan is losing her hearing,” Sister Miller explained.

  “That’s just great,” I mumbled.

  “But she is not aware of it yet,” Sister Sullivan’s soft voice explained further.

  “I know it’s Florence, but there is no need to tell it to the whole world when Fannie is a much prettier name, is there?” said Sister Callahan. I rolled my eyes in defeat and dropped the subject.

  After I helped Granny serve tea and biscuits, I was able to finally escape the kitchen and hide in my room. I wondered what Granny had planned to keep them busy, especially Sister Callahan, who was destined to cause trouble wherever she went. Granny said that everything disagreeable in life had a purpose and we just had to find a way to deal with it—my strategy to deal with Sister Callahan was to avoid her like the plague.

  In the upstairs common room, I encountered some of the young sisters. Their youth was startling. Some looked like they were barely out of childhood. Why they had decided to become nuns was beyond my comprehension. I admired them, for it was a noble calling, but it involved giving up so much. I couldn’t, at least not willingly, renounce my freedom and personal desires that easily.

  My room was quiet. I lay on my bed. I was weary, my thoughts became blurry, and I drifted into a pleasant sleep.

  I stood in a meadow filled with beautiful flowers, looking east. The morning sun was rising, its red, yellow, and orange colors dominating the sky. A tall male figure appeared against the shape of the emerging sphere. The sunlight seemed to fill his whole body, concealing his identity until he stood before me. The young Mr. Sterling, as he looked in the picture I had in my office, held out his hand to find mine, and the light flowed from him to me. Contained in the light was a searing feeling of happiness.

  When I awoke, I was surprised to find my heart still enveloped in warmth, as if a burning torch lay on my skin. I wasn’t sure why the dreams had returned, but the feeling this one left me with was so sweet that I decided to accept it as a gift. And at some deep level, I acknowledged what I had denied to Granny and Zaira and even myself; my affection towards my employer was steadily growing.

  February found me in my office at Oak’s Place looking out the frost-covered window. This was the longest and darkest winter of my life. So many weeks had gone by since Mr. Sterling left. I placed my hand on the frozen glass, and its coldness pierced my fingers. I sympathized with it. I felt cold and abandoned.

  My eyes focused on the snow softly, silently, descending upon the lifeless gardens below when suddenly, I became conscious of the shadow behind me. Instinctively, I removed my fingers from the glass and turned towards the figure. I gasped as I looked into the eyes that had been haunting my dreams.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said promptly.

  “I…didn’t know you were back.”

  “Late last night.” There was a moment of silence in which our eyes didn’t meet. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

  Christmas? I was slow to process his question; December seemed long ago. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I had to go back to England.” His voice was apologetic. I couldn’t help but notice that he looked younger—healthier.

  “Did you have a good trip?”

  “An interesting trip,” he clarified.

  I looked deep into his eyes, and my pulse quickened at the unexpected feeling that Mr. Sterling held the answer to my inquietudes. But all too soon I realized how awkward the situation had become. My employer, without reason, was standing too close to me, having a conversation short of words. Under any other circumstances, with any other man, I’d have been gone for good. Things like this weren’t supposed to occur in a work environment, but yet, with him…I would let it happen.

  “I have the list you wanted,” I said, finding the easy way out.

  “The list,” he repeated, clearly lost. “Oh yes—the list.”

  “I’ll get it for you.” Mr. Sterling didn’t move one inch, so our arms touched as I walked towards my desk.

  Between my notebook’s pages I found the suggestion list for the improvement of Oak’s Place.

  “They are just suggestions.” I extended the paper to him.

  Taking the paper, Mr. Sterling dropped it onto the desk without looking at it. He took my hand and softly touched my bracelet. The touch of his fingers on my skin made my head spin.

  “Florence Contini…” His hand shook a little as his finger traced the engraving on the bracelet. “How can this be?”

  Now I was totally adrift once more. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “If I told you that your bracelet is one of the reasons I went to England, would you believe it?” he whispered, his face inches from mine.

  “My bracelet? Why would you do that? Have you seen it before it belonged to me?” I found my voice dropping to a whisper as well, automatically matching his. Coherence left me as he took my hand and placed it on top of his heart.

  “All I can tell you is that my heart is beating again, thanks to your bracelet.” There was a sense of recognition in the way he looked at me, in the warmth that his body transmitted to my hand, in the way he held it against his chest.

  “What do you know about it? Please tell me,” I encouraged, but my words broke the spell. He blinked several times, looked down at my hand and let it drop.

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I have made a fool of myself.” Reaching over, he took the paper from the desk. “I’ll look over this. Thank you, Miss Contini.” He walked out, leaving me disoriented in every possible way.

  I sat out in the garden on one of the many stone benches scattered across the grounds. My mind raced over the suggestions I had given Mr. Sterling.

  * * *

  Reface the outside of the house

  Paint the inside of the house in light colors

  Replace windows to retain warmth and bring in more sunlight

  Resurfac
e fireplace (the blackness from years of burning wood have totally destroyed the beauty of the bricks)

  Replace light fixtures to reflect more light

  * * *

  Mr. Sterling was taking his time to get back to me. Finding it difficult to wait, I wondered if perhaps he didn’t like the ideas. Maybe they were too drastic, too much change for him. I frowned, and then I smiled, remembering what Jim had wanted me to add: “A room for the priest so he can rid the house of ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” I softly said to myself, letting my face absorb the weak warmth of the sun. Before me stood the majestic statue of the lady and child. I marveled at the exactness and details perfectly carved into the stone. Since my conversation with Zaira, I had a good idea what the statue represented for Mr. Sterling: his late wife and child. They were the ghosts that haunted Oak’s Place—that haunted his life. They were the shadows that covered and suffocated him.

  From behind me, I heard quiet footsteps approaching. I was instantly inclined to turn towards the visitor, yet I did not. I waited, unmoved, on the bench.

  One after another, marking a perfect rhythm on the garden’s floor, the footsteps came closer. I contained my urge to look. The steps ceased a few inches from me. At first, I only heard my own breathing. Then, I felt his breath down my back. Would he or I be the weak one to speak first? I bit my tongue, forcing it to remain silent. A gentle but cold breeze swept through the grounds dissolving my resolution to be still. I winced.

  A mocking, disturbing laugh cut through the air ending the waiting game. My suspicions were confirmed. I got to my feet to face Mr. Vines. To say that he frightened me was an understatement. His shrewd eyes said it all; he had enjoyed his little game more than I cared to know.

  “Mrs. White is looking for you, Miss.”

  I resolved not to give him any further pleasure in my discomfort. I forced myself to collect my emotions and suppress any outward signs of distress. “Well, I’m here.”