E-M-I-L-Y. Her mouth dropped open.“Oh, my goodness!”
“What Mom, what is it?”
“It spells your name.”
“That’s what I told you,” she repeated.
“No, I mean it really spells your name.”
Emily giggled, delighted to have found her name in the poem before her mother did.
Laura continued through the poem, pulling out the first letters and putting them together. T-h-e P-a-s-s-w-o-r-d i-s t-f-a. “Amazing,” she mumbled. Laura thumbed through the other poems frantically. Pulling out first letters didn’t seem to spell anything. She read several slowly but could see no other patterns or hidden meanings.
“You like them, Mom?” Laura didn’t reply, consumed in the pages of the book. “Are you listening to me, Mom?”
“What? Oh, sure, baby.” Laura rolled off the bed, bent over, and kissed Emily on the cheek. “You get some sleep. I’m going to go read through Grandpa’s book some more in my bed. Good-night. I love you.” She rushed out the door and headed for her bedroom.
Turning page after page, she scanned the words. Some were nonsense poems; others seemed more serious. Many were peculiar. Did others have hidden meanings, she wondered. When did he create this book? He didn’t seem coherent enough to have done it recently. The password must be for a file on Harry’s computer, she reasoned. Now she wished she’d brought it home. It was too late to get it tonight, but first thing in the morning she’d run over to his house.
At midnight she was still reading. She was intrigued that Harry had had the mental capacity to put such a book together. She picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s number.
“Hello,” he answered the phone quickly and sounded alert. She paused for a moment straining to hear any other voices with him. “Hello?” he repeated.
“Bob, it’s Laura.”
“Laura, what’s up?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I was awake.”
“Oh, then I’ll call back later,” she teased.
“Laura, it’s twelve-fifteen. Is everything okay?”
“I don’t think so. Have you got your dad’s book of poems there?”
“What?”
“I said, have you got your dad’s book of poems there? Get it quick.”
“Are you really okay?”
“Now you’re sounding like the therapist. Just get the book of poems, Bob!”
“Okay, okay, don’t get so feisty, just a second.” In the background she could hear him fumbling around trying to find the book.
“All right, I’ve got it.”
“Open it to the first poem, read it, and tell me what you see.”
“Do what?”
“Please, Bob, just read it.”
“Just a minute.” After several silent seconds, he continued, “I’ve read it. So what?”
“Do you see anything peculiar about the words?”
“Not really. Harry used to call me a silly worgle when I was little, but that’s it. Why?”
“Don’t call him Harry, he was your dad.”
“Is there a point to all this, Laura?”
“What’s an enigma, Bob?”
“I’m not really sure. What?”
“Where’d you go to school? It’s a puzzle or a riddle. Never mind, just look at the first letter of each word—starting on the top line.” She smiled, knowing the response she was about to get.
“Wait! Laura, there’s a message in there. It spellsEmily.” A few seconds of silence passed.“But, what’s the password for?”
“I’m not sure. I’m guessing there are files on your dad’s computer.”
“So you haven’t been to Harry’s yet?” he questioned.
“No, I’ll swing by in the morning.”
“Call me and let me know. Will you? Laura?” Without answering, she hung up the phone.
LAURA AND EMILY AWOKE EARLY AND HEADED TO HARRY ’S house before school. The house was still empty, but somehow it didn’t feel as lonely this morning. They clicked on the light and trotted over to the computer to turn it on. The antiquated machine whirred for several minutes as the operating system loaded. Laura waited patiently until Windows flashed onto the screen.
“What you looking for, Mom?” Emily quizzed.
“I’m not sure, let’s find out.”
She scanned the hard drive for files, and sure enough, there was a folder called “Letters for Emily.” She opened it, revealing the contents. Twenty-six files, each numbered consecutively, listed on the screen. They appeared to coincide with the table of contents in Harry’s book—each poem, puzzle, or story having a number from one to twenty-six. She clicked on the first and waited for it to open. As she did, a small box requesting a password popped onto the screen.
“Perhaps the crazy old man wasn’t so crazy after all,” she whispered. Cautiously, she typed in the letterstfa and hit Enter. “Incorrect Password—Please Try Again.” Confused, she opened the book and looked again at the words.
“E-m-i-l-y t-h-e p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d i-s . . .”
“Wait, I know.” This time she typed in “time forever after” just as it was written in the poem, and then hit the Enter key once more. After the hard drive whirred again, the file opened before her on the screen.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, giving Emily a quick squeeze.
“What is it?”
“It looks like Grandpa wrote you a letter. Listen, I’ll read it to you.”
Dearest Emily,You found the secret of the first poem. I knew you would, you’re a smart girl!
As you may have guessed by now, each poem or story in my book has its own secret for you to discover. If you look hard, you will find each contains a password that will lead you back here to my letters.
I have done this for two reasons. First, I want to teach you that in life, the solutions to problems are not always clear. Often, you will need to look beneath the surface to find your answers.
The second reason is a more practical one that has to do with my condition. I fear as my symptoms worsen, I may accidentally delete or alter my work. The passwords help protect me from myself.
You are so young. You may wonder what an old man like me could teach? I wonder as well. I certainly don’t claim to know all the answers. I’m barely figuring out the questions. I do know that I want you to have a better life than I have had. I want you to learn from the many mistakes I’ve made. Learn from the good times and the not-so-good times. For you see, this journey is a test and many of the problems that I have faced, you will face. Life has a strange way of repeating itself and I want my experience to help you. I want to make a difference.
My hope is that you’ll consider my words and remember my heart. If you’re helped even once, then my prayers will have been answered. Much of what I say may not make sense right away, but as you grow, perhaps it will be appreciated. Remember me for my words and my heart. Please forget the times I made you angry or sad. It is a wish that everyone should be granted.
My book of poems and these letters are my gift to you. I hope they bring you joy. I hope that as you read them, you will think of me, because I will be thinking of you.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
“That sly son of a . . .” Looking at Emily, she concluded with gun . “That sly son of a gun.”
“He wrote me a letter!” Emily was thrilled.
“He sure did, babe. He wants to tell you how smart and wonderful you are.”
“Are there more?”
“There are, but we have to find his secrets first. Sit down and I’ll show you.”
Sitting on the couch, Laura explained how the password Emily discovered was hidden in the poem; how every poem had one, and as they discovered each one, they could read more of Grandpa’s letters.
“Can we show my letter to Dad?” Emily wondered.
“Absolutely.” Walking to the computer, Laura clicked on the printer icon and waited for the page to drop from the printer. Once it had, she exited Window
s and turned off the machine. She could copy the files, but not knowing what else might be hidden on Harry’s hard drive, it seemed best to take the whole thing home.
As Laura moved behind the desk to unplug the monitor and printer cables, a cracking sounded beneath her feet. She jumped back and saw a small plastic prescription bottle in pieces on the carpet where she’d stood. Picking up the shattered container, she scanned the label. The doctor’s name and address were different from that of the clinic she had visited on Highland Drive, yet the prescription had been filled recently. Peculiar. Emily was already late for school, so Laura pulled off the broken pieces of plastic and dropped the label into her purse. It took three trips, but after the computer was safely loaded in the car, she scooted Emily outside and locked the door.
Laura dropped Emily off at school and rushed to an appointment with a buyer. It was just after noon when she arrived home. The answering machine showed eight messages, seven of which were from Bob. Rather than returning his calls, Laura studied Harry’s book while waiting for the phone to ring again. It didn’t take long.
“Hello?” she answered slowly.
“Did you find something?”
“You should say hello first, Bob.”
“Hello, did you find something?”
“Yes, we did.” She paused, waiting for his response.
“What? You want me to beg?”
This was better than calling him at midnight, Laura thought. “Just like I guessed. He has a file on his computer for each of his poems. The password Emily found opened the first file.”
Bob interrupted, “Emily found it?”
“You have a very smart daughter.”
“You’re right about that. So, what does the file say?”
“Is your fax machine on? I’ll just fax it to you. Oh, there is one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I found an empty bottle of pills at your dad’s, but they’re not from the clinic he normally went to.”
“So?”
“Don’t you find that strange?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably an old bottle.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re beating a dead horse to death, Laura—excuse the pun.”
“Don’t you want to know all the answers?”
“Answers to what? That he was sick and died?”
“I know that Bob, but there’s more going on here than just that. I can feel it. Wait until you read his letter.”
“Will anything I say stop you from looking?”
The answer was simple.“Not until I find what I’m looking for.”
“When you find Jimmy Hoffa, will you let me know?” She ignored his retort. He continued, “You’ll fax the letter right now?”
“Only if you hang up the phone, Bob.”
She wanted to wait. Instead she walked to the fax machine in the bedroom, slipped in the paper, and dialed his number. After she had finished, she rifled through her purse and extracted the label from the prescription bottle. It was new. It made her angry that Bob wouldn’t even listen. She scribbled the date of the prescription and the name of the drug on a piece of paper and circled the date boldly. Underneath she wrote just two words. “It’s new!” She placed the sheet into the machine and faxed it to him as well.
After the fax finished, she picked up the phone and dialed the number of the pharmacy printed on the label. The pharmacist was polite and located the record quickly. The original prescription had been filled six years ago. It had been renewed a year and a half ago and had been written with five refills, the maximum allowed. The last one had been mailed out seven months earlier. For further questions, he recommended she call the doctor directly and gave her the number. The phone rang only once.
“Riley Medical, may I help you.” To Laura’s relief, the receptionist at this place sounded civil.
“Yes, is Dr. Jensen available, please?”
“He’s just finishing up with a patient. May I have him return your call in a moment?”
“Yes, please. It’s concerning my father-in-law, a patient of his, Harry Whitney.”
“Did you say Harry?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s a man?”
“Of course he’s a man. I said he was my father-in-law.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Jensen is a gynecologist. You must be looking for Rodney Jensen, his father.”
“That could be. The label just has an initial before the last name. Does he work there? Could I speak to him please?” There was no answer. “Hello? Could I speak to him please?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Dr. Rodney Jensen passed away just over a year ago.”
“What?” She was confused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She was about to hang up when an idea struck. “Could I speak to his son, as soon as he’s free?”
“Certainly. Just a moment, please.”
While she waited for the doctor, she stared again at the date on the tiny label she held in her hand.
THE NEXT MORNING LAURA AWOKE EARLY. THE POEMS WERE perplexing, and one especially had her intrigued. Sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Emily to wake up, she opened the book and again read the words.
Kathryn,
Believe—and love will burst forth as rays of morning light. Touch—in moments unexpected, a world dark, now brilliant white. Warmth—love so wondrous, bequeathed from you to me. Both encircled at an instant—I was blind, you made me see. Apart but joined—first love you touched my very soul. Lost & blind, you gave sight—peace of mind—you made me whole.
Love, Harry
Laura read the poem over several times. It was quirky, but that meant a clue was hidden inside—but where? She read the lines quickly and then slowly, sounding out each word carefully. . . . both encircled—at an instant . . . The phrase seemed peculiar. Shouldn’t it be in an instant? She could tell she was on to something, but was not sure what. The poem was describing love, but what else . . . both encircled—at an instant . . . apart but joined . . .
The answer came bluntly, and after seeing it she felt foolish for taking so long. Picking up a pencil, she drew a light circle around the names of Kathryn and Harry in the poem. She spoke to him as if he were sitting by her side. “Okay, Harry, there you go. You’re bothencircled . You’re apart, now let’s get youjoined .” As she talked, she drew a straight line between the circled names, linking words in the poem. She chuckled at his cleverness. It was so plain—and yet so beautiful. She read the words aloud that the line connected. “Believe in love at first sight.” It was a long password, but there was no question this was the secret. She moved to the computer and clicked on the file. Her heart raced as she typed in the words. Harry wasn’t just a crazy old man; behind the crusty façade was a real human being—a person who cared about his family. She hoped Bob would start to discover this as well.
As the words flashed upon the screen, she began to read.
Dearest Emily,
Love is a strange and wonderful thing. It makes you do things that you’d never even consider if you’d been thinking clearly. It’s spontaneous and unpredictable, sheer misery and absolute bliss, all mixed as one.
In your life, Emily, you’ll have your share of pain and heartache; but to balance that pain, you’ll know the joy oflove. If you ask people about love, most will say you can only experience the full bloom of love after a life of sharing, affection, selfless giving, and mutual sacrifice. They are correct. Also know that the flower can begin to bloom the first time your eyes meet. I know because it happened to me.
Let me tell you, Emily, the story of how your grandma Kathryn and I first met. Understand that if she were here today to defend herself, she would dispute what I am about to tell you as pure rubbish. But, as God is my witness, this is how it happened.
I was pitching at varsity baseball practice that Tuesday afternoon when she arrived. As I hurled balls over the plate, she entered the stands, strolled down the steps, and sauntered over to our team’s bench. Her f
ace was ravishing, her skin clear and smooth, her smile enchanting. The light reflected off of her auburn hair in such a way that I imagined her to be an angel from heaven sent to watch me practice. She had the softest brown eyes and as I watched her, I knew we were meant to be together. There was just one problem—she was holding hands at the time with my best friend, Bud Nobles.
Bud and I were rooming together at USC that semester. He had told me about a girl that he’d run into from Wharton, Texas, but I had yet to meet her. It was a cruel quirk of fate that he found her first, when he dropped by the school registrar’s office to change his schedule. She had just been hired as a staff assistant and Bud had been her first “customer.” Enchanted by her twangy Texas accent, he seized the moment and asked her to go to the Spring dance, then just days away. Because she was new to the school and didn’t know any better, she agreed. Now, as fate would have it, I stood in the middle of the field, sweaty, dirty, and alone,while Bud sat holding hands with the most wonderful creature I had ever seen.
It’s a dangerous thing when a girl comes between two best friends. I had watched it destroy friendships with others and I wasn’t going to let that happen to ours. Right then and there, in the middle of the wet grass field at USC, before I’d even spoken a word to her, I began to devise my plan.
Wednesday at the dorm had been designated as “study” night; to guys in college that meant poker. The game was always the same, seven-card stud, no jokers, ten-dollar limit, two-dollar maximum raise. Four of us played religiously. Bud was thinking of skipping the game that next night to ask Kathryn to a movie; I intercepted him after English class, just in time. It wouldn’t be fair to the group, I pleaded. He had an obligation, a responsibility, and even a duty, to show up and support the poker-playing men of the world. He needed to carry on that sacred tradition personally. In the end, he had no choice.
The game began right at nine. I was nervous and by ten, just an hour later, I had lost half my stake. Since I knew this to be my only chance, I closed my eyes and pictured the dimples, the smile, those captivating eyes, the accent that would make the strongest man’s knees buckle like a newborn baby. I vowed success and started my comeback.
Letters For Emily Page 8