by Calia Read
Deftly, he reaches behind me with one hand and snags the keys. He tosses the keys in the air once and gives me a crooked smile. “Love you.”
He whistles as he walks outside, and I watch him walk toward his car, a small smirk playing on my lips. I brace myself for the cold waiting to greet me the second I step outside. It’s been a pretty tame winter, all things considered. A few snow flurries here and there. That can be deceiving though, because you look outside and think it’s pleasant enough, then the minute you walk out the door, a wall of frigid air hits you, stealing your breath.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and bury my mouth into my coat before I hurry across the road. I dodge the piles of slush still lingering on the sidewalk and grab my keys from my purse. It’s so cold that my hands slightly shake as I unlock the front door to my store.
Over a year ago, I opened Past Repeat with my closest friend, Liz. I knew after I graduated college that I wanted to open a store. Specifically an antique shop.
Like Will, I met my business partner in college. Liz shares my passion for history and taking old relics and breathing new life into them. Everyone, including our families, assumed we were crazy; most businesses fail within the first year. Even so, the two of us refused to let the statistics deter us.
Liz grew up in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. When she brought me here for the first time to show me around and suggested we open our store here, I instantly agreed. The city isn’t overly crowded, yet it comes alive during the day.
So far, the decision to start our business here is paying off.
We have slow days, but we have regular customers who come in daily to see if we have any new stuff. During the weekends, things pick up. By no stretch of the imagination are we making a generous amount of money. Hell, we’re barely breaking even. But we’re still in business and happy.
The smell that greets me when I walk through the door makes me smile. It’s a collective scent from having so many pieces of furniture and items that have been tucked away in boxes, attics, and basements. It’s a strong smell, but one I quickly adapt to. Some people can’t tolerate it, and because of that, we use air fresheners and everything we can think of. But the scent always comes back.
I turn on the light switch to my left. One by one, the rows of fluorescent lights turn on. I scan the shop with a keen eye, as I do every morning.
I’ve been to plenty of antique stores stuffed with so many items that it’s practically impossible to walk down the aisles without becoming inundated. Past Repeat has a healthy balance. There’s enough space for the customers to move around without feeling as though they’ll bump the items. But the shelves have plenty of pieces, so people are lured to walk down each aisle to see if we have anything that interests them.
And hopefully we do.
I walk toward the back of the store. We don’t open for another thirty minutes, but Liz and I like to get here early and go through the new items either of us have found. We go through the bills and update Past Repeat’s social media pages and post anything we have for sale. It’s surprising the number of things we sell online.
Unsurprisingly, I’m the first one to arrive. I sit down and boot up my computer. One of my favorite things to do is look online for potential finds. I don’t care if it’s furniture, clothing, or old books. If it has history, I want it. But finding quality items for the store takes a lot of work. Most of that work extends outside of the store; potential buys are all around us. You just have to search for them.
I answer a few e-mails and scan a few sites to see if there’s anything new, but I find nothing that interests me. As I hunt, I hear the bells on the front door chime. I listen to the sound of Liz muttering to herself.
“Have I got a find for you!”
I look up in time to see Liz walk in, carrying three large boxes. She drops them onto the floor in front of my desk, wipes her hands, and takes a deep breath.
We open in less than twenty minutes, but you’d never know by Liz’s jeans and baggy sweatshirt. She looks as if she rolled out of bed and grabbed the first thing she saw. Her hair is in a ponytail, and her face doesn’t have a stitch of makeup. She always has a smile ready and waiting though. I don’t think she’s ever met a person she didn’t like.
I peer over the desk at the boxes. Liz finds some great things, but a lot of times, she’ll go overboard and purchase everything in sight. Sometimes I think she’s more of a die-hard antique finder and collector than I am. Her garage borders on being a scene from Hoarders. It’s filled to the brim with broken furniture and objects she thinks will sell in the store. Once she fixes them up of course. She always manages to see the beauty in the old, the stories behind simple discarded objects.
She’s my kindred soul. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Open them up and find out.” Liz is practically bouncing up and down with excitement. The last time I saw her this excited was when she salvaged a fireplace mantel circa 1880s from a trash pile.
I walk around my desk and kneel next to the boxes. I open the one on the top. A stack of LIFE magazines. An old Zenith radio. Wrapped in newspapers are a set of plates. A glass vase. A small pile of vintage books. The spines are cracked and torn in a few places, but these will sell quickly.
“Nice find,” I say.
“I know, right?” Liz peers over my shoulder as I sift through the box. “I went to the flea market early yesterday morning but wasn’t finding anything. I was getting ready to leave when I noticed a lady setting up her booth. I stopped by and found”—Liz gestures to the boxes—“these.”
As she continues to ramble, I move to the second box. Like the first, it’s filled with random items that make it seem like Liz visited an estate sale rather than a flea market.
The third is different though. It’s packed to the hilt with nothing but leather-bound photo albums and pictures in gilt frames that need a good wipe down to bring them back to their former glory. “Did you look through this box?”
“Of course.” Liz kneels next to me and smiles. “You saved the best for last. While you’re going through that box, I’m going to open up the shop.”
Some of the photo albums are so old, I’m afraid if I open them, they’ll fall apart. I gingerly place them on my desk to go back to at a later time. The ones that are in better shape, I quickly skim through. The black-and-white photos flash by in a flurry. Adrenaline and excitement over this discovery make it impossible for me to settle on one picture. I want to see them all in the span of seconds.
To someone else, photos of virtual strangers might mean nothing, but I love them. Pictures from the past give me a thrill, make goose bumps appear on my arms, because I believe that relics from the past show what life truly is—they start out so beautifully, but slowly fade with time.
As with most antiques and pictures we uncover, I find myself thinking about these pictures. Where are the owners? What happened to them? How did these memories end up in a flea market?
Before I know it, the box is empty save for one framed photo. It lays flat, its stand broken. I flip it over, but layers of dust conceal the picture. I wipe the dust away with the hem of my sweater. The picture is a black-and-white photo of four men standing in front of a beautiful mansion so large that only half the house is seen in the photo. Two men sit on the steps, arms resting on their knees. The other two lean against the stumpy brick pillars flanking the stairs. I stare at every face carefully but stop short at the man second from the right.
My heart stutters for a second because he’s the man from my dream. Impossible, yet there he is. My hands shake as I make quick work of removing the photo from the frame. I need to get a better look at this picture.
In my dream, his face was smeared with dirt and blood. The dim lighting made it impossible to see his features, but I know it’s him. I recognize those eyes. They’re sharp and challenging, almost daring the photographer to take the photo, and his even sharper cheekbones could cut glass. His hair is sh
oulder length. In my dream, there was blood caked through his strands. In this type of picture, everyone has dark hair, but it’s easy to tell this man’s hair is lighter. Blond, maybe?
He’s far from being the best-looking man in the photo. That award goes to the guy on his left.
No, this mystery man’s face is a bit too harsh. His Grecian nose is slightly crooked at the tip. Either he was born that way, or he was in one too many fights. His facial hair is one day away from becoming a full-fledged beard.
The rest of the men are dressed impeccably. He looks as if he just rolled out of bed, his wrinkled shirt tucked hastily into his pants.
He looks a bit scary and unhinged, as though he’s seconds away from ripping every person in the photo from limb to limb. I’d never been with a man like him. Not my type. The fact that he was in my dreams makes me relieved that it was only a dream.
I pull my gaze away from him and squint to get a better view of the rest of the faces. No one is smiling. Except for the other man sitting on the steps. It seems like a fleeting smile that the photographer caught by pure luck. The men standing are closed-lipped in a way that’s all too common for the era.
I flip the picture over for more information. Maybe a name or location. In faded black ink is the year 1912 and the letters E, L, E, A. Presumably those are the initials of the people in the picture.
To me, these letters are clues dropped into my lap, and I hate clues. They only give me a small portion of the answer when I want the whole thing. Almost immediately, my imagination gets to work and picks them names based on the letters.
I tap my finger against the first man. “Your name is Eric.” I tap the next man. “And you are… Luke.” When I get to the scary, ugly guy, I pause. “You’re Ezra.” The second the name slips from my lips, I know I’m wrong. He’s no Ezra, but I continue to the last guy. “And you’re Adam.”
Feeling pleased with myself, I lay the picture on my desk and continue to inspect the albums, but my attention keeps going back to that photo.
I stand, cringing at the mess I’ve made, and pick up the picture. I know it’s not uncommon to dream about people who are virtual strangers. But what are the chances of dreaming about some stranger, only to find a photo of them the next day?
“Serene?”
I drop the picture on the desk and discreetly cover it with some random paper. “Yes?”
Liz leans into the room, drumming her fingers on the doorframe. “You ever coming out of here? We’ve been open for almost an hour.”
In shock, I glance at the clock. I’ve spent an hour staring at this photo? “Sorry. I got distracted. These boxes you brought in were great finds. Let me just clean up this mess, and I’ll be right out.”
“No problem. Take your time. I knew you would like those boxes,” Liz replies, and then she’s gone.
I feel like an ass for lying, but it’s instinct. My dream was weird, but finding a picture of the person from said dream is just creepy and bizarre. I make quick work of placing all the albums back in the boxes. Then I stack the boxes and push them against the wall, telling myself I’ll inventory them later today.
Before I leave the office, I grab the photo of the mystery man and slide it into my back pocket.
“HEY, YOU’RE HOME.”
I set my bag and purse on the kitchen table and walk back into the living room to kiss him. He’s sitting on the couch with his laptop resting on his thighs.
I drop into the spot next to him. “Got distracted at work.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. Liz found these boxes at a flea market with some amazing stuff inside.”
He groans; he’s all too familiar with Liz’s habit of buying anything that appeals to her. “What did she get?”
“A lot of stuff. But you have to see this. Wait right here!” I jump up from the couch and hurry back to the kitchen. I grab the picture from my purse and run to Will, holding the photo toward him.
He gives it a cursory glance before he looks at his laptop. “What’s this?”
“You see the guy second from the right?”
Once again, he looks at the picture, only this time he narrows his eyes and leans in. “The angry, ugly guy?”
“Yep.”
“What about him?”
I pause dramatically. “He’s the guy from my dream.”
He immediately sits up and places his laptop on the coffee table. “Gimme that picture.”
I hand it over and fight the urge to reprimand him for getting fingerprint stains all over the image.
“Holy shit.” He hands it back, and I hold it gingerly. “That’s weird.”
“I know, right? This was in one of the boxes Liz brought in.”
Leaning back on the couch, he shrugs. “Odd, but stranger things have happened.” And then he grabs his laptop again.
That conversation was more abrupt than I anticipated.
“Will, think about it. I dream about this guy, then the next day I find a photo of him? It’s creepy.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s creepy.”
For the millionth time, I stare at the photo. “What do I do with this?”
“You throw it away.”
I can’t throw it away. That feels wrong, like I’m throwing away a piece of history. Evasively, I shrug. “Yeah. I guess I should.”
Suddenly, I feel stupid for showing this to him. Will sees the world with logic and facts. In his mind, there’s never a reason to dream.
As if he can read my thoughts, he rubs his hand up and down my thigh. “Relax, baby.” Normally his touch relaxes me within seconds, but tonight it doesn’t. “You’re giving this way too much thought.”
I flip the picture over and trace the writing. “It’s so old. Someone must be missing this picture.”
“Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do.” Will closes his laptop and stands. “It’s getting late. I’m heading to bed.”
“I’ll be in soon,” I reply, my eyes never leaving the picture.
Will walks away. Our bedroom door clicks softly behind him.
I’m surrounded by silence, yet I’m immersed in the picture. Resting my chin on my palm, I peer closer, wishing it were possible to slip into the image and see these people alive. How did they live? What were they thinking? Why does the man from my dream seem so angry in the picture?
Sometimes I think I’m strange, being obsessed with the past. But I believe that the past defines us. It’s what brings us to now.
“What happened to you?” I ask the man from my dream.
I will him to step out of the picture and whisper it to me so my curiosity can be put to rest. But he never does, and I’ll never know what secrets this man carried.
DAYS HAVE PASSED since I first saw the picture, and I can’t get it out of my mind.
Whenever I have free time, whether I’m at home or work, I find myself pulling it out of my purse, staring carefully at each individual until my vision goes blurry. I don’t know why I’m so fixated on a simple photo. I feel their eyes looking back at me, begging me not to forget about them.
Especially the one in the middle.
It sounds crazy, but I feel a strange sense of rapport with the men, almost as if I’d been right there with them. I can feel the breeze against my skin and the sun blazing down on us. I can hear the birds chirping in the trees and the gravel crunching beneath the men’s feet as they shift back and forth, anxious about having the picture taken.
This bizarre connection is so strong that I’ve given each man made-up biographies to go with their made-up names.
I am more than aware that this is more than a little crazy.
Eric, the one on the far left, is the friendly one. I bet he has small wrinkles around the corners of his eyes from laughing so much. If you wrong him, he’ll more than likely give you another chance. And another. And another. He’s lean, with his hair slicked back and old-school wire-rimmed spectacles that scream out the era of the picture.
Then there’
s Luke, second from the left.
Luke is definitely single. He has no interest in marrying or having children. His biggest responsibility is himself, and he wants to keep it that way. Yet that doesn’t stop women from chasing after him. With his devilish grin, he dares them to come forward and try to tame him.
To the far right is Adam. From the stubborn tilt of his chin, I peg this guy as the cocky one. He gets what he gets because no one has ever told him no. He’s the most cunning, used to getting his way no matter the cost.
The one in the middle, Ezra… he’s trickier. I’ve changed his name a handful of times and nothing seems to fit. So I’ve started to call him mystery man.
Mystery man is the leader. Whereas every other person in the picture stares at the photographer with genial expressions, he looks as if he’s barely tolerating the photographer. His shoulders are stiff and his mouth is unyielding.
It’s obvious that mystery man and Luke are related. They don’t look alike, but the way they hold themselves is eerily similar.
This is the type of thing crazy people do—create lives for strangers who are probably dead and have been dead for a while. Yet this whole process is thrilling for me. I feel as if I’m reconstructing the past one piece at a time.
I don’t have time for this though. My kitchen table has been transformed into a makeshift desk. I’m supposed to be paying bills for the shop, and then, after I’m done, put them in their proper file. It’s tedious, but I know how forgetful I can be, and when it comes to the shop, I don’t want to leave any room for error. There’s already so much stacked against a business the first few years.
Simply thinking about it brings on a massive headache. I close my eyes and gently rub my temples.
“You’ve been sitting here for hours,” Will says as he comes up behind me. His hands curl around my shoulders.
I rub both hands down my face. “I feel like I’m behind on everything.”
“I doubt it.” Gently, he tugs me back until my head rests against his stomach. “Let’s go out tonight. You need to regroup and clear your head.”