Letters in the Attic

by Talea Botha

  We drove around for a while, looking for a hotel. It was silly of me not to look one up while I had been on the internet and booked a room, but I just didn’t think that far. Ian helped a lot. It was annoying how he kept on doing things that made me think he was a nicer person, when he was obviously obnoxious and arrogant. He knew what to look out for, and when it felt like we were driving around in circles he got us back onto a main route. He claimed not to know Phoenix when I asked, but he turned out to be quite comfortable with change and new places. Finally we found a hotel, and I pulled the car into the parking lot.

  At the front desk the process was quick.

  “Would that be one room, or two?” the clerk asked.

  “Two.”

  “Actually… would you mind very much if we took one, with two beds?” Ian looked uncomfortable, “It’s just that I don’t think it’s wise to spend money on two rooms if we’ll be perfectly fine with one.”

  I looked at him blankly. Why was money such an issue with this man? He’d been strange about it when I’d offered to pay him for his time as well. I shrugged.

  “I suppose it won’t really make a difference.”

  We were handed the key and took our luggage to the elevators.

  The room was average. It wasn’t particularly big, decorated in bland shades of cream and light brown, and contained two beds with a walkway between them, end tables with the same bland lamps, and a writing desk in the corner. The little fridge was stocked with bottled water, and the bathroom had a shower and a toilet, with the towels over a rail against the only open wall space. It would have been nice to have one of these to myself, but I should have spoken up earlier then. I put my suitcase at the end of my bed, the one closest to the window, and sat down on the chair at the desk.

  “Right, where do we start?” Ian asked after having inspected the room in much the same way I did. I expected him to be more at home in the lifeless environment, but he looked like he was trying to take up as little space as possible, which was a bit comical, because he was taller than me, and I wasn’t a short person. Was he also regretting his choice about sharing?

  “I think we’ll just take it easy today. I’m bushed from driving for so long, I’d really like to walk around a bit, stretch my legs, and then maybe later we can come have dinner here at the hotel restaurant. “

  He looked at me, unsure, so I added, “It’s included in the price, so we might just as well,” in case he was going to go on about money again.

  He agreed, and we took the elevator back down to the lobby. The front doors were open, beckoning us out into the sunshine.

  The air was remarkably dry compared to what I was used to, and it seemed to me like it had suddenly become hot. I was wearing a gypsy skirt, one of my favorites, and a wrap-around sleeveless shirt, and it did nothing to cool me down. But Phoenix was exciting. The atmosphere was different, I didn’t know how to explain it, and the city bustled prominently in the mid-afternoon sun.

  By the time it became dark we had made our way back to the hotel, and found a table in the restaurant area. Ian ordered something smaller than I expected a man to eat, but when he did eat he again ate like he hadn’t eaten in days. Half way through the meal he noticed me looking, and visibly tried to slow it down, but he still ate like hunger was his main drive, it looked like a survival thing.

  The next morning I woke up in a room that I didn’t recognize. I blinked, trying to gauge where I was, and why the ceiling was so unfamiliar. When I turned my head and saw Ian, fast asleep in the other bed, I remembered where I was. I closed my eyes again. He’d seemed shy about appearing in his pajamas the night before, even though it was the most business-like pajamas I’d ever seen. I had half expected him to sleep in boxers or something, the way Mike did , but he wore the full thing, the bottoms and the shirt, neatly buttoned up. Maybe it had been because he was so self-conscious. Now he was also sleeping like he was trying not to invade, like he was trying to sleep in a way that would make it look like the bed wasn’t slept in. I still didn’t understand why he insisted on sharing if he was obviously so serious about privacy. I went to the bathroom and showered, putting on my baggy flower print pants and a blouse to match. I didn’t usually wear pants, but this material was soft and fluttered in the breeze. It was absolutely an exception. My hair looked wild in the mirror but I’d forgotten to pack a hairdryer, so I left it that way, slipped on Indian sandals fit for walking, and felt ready for business. Nerves bubbled up inside my stomach. Today I was going to look for Elsa Ryan.

  When I came out of the bathroom Ian was awake. He looked strange with stubble; it didn’t suit him at all. He disappeared into the bathroom and came out again half an hour later looking fresh and smart. We stopped for a quick breakfast downstairs, and then we were off in the car, finding the road to the first address.

  We found the house easily. It was a smart-looking place, not very expensive, but well-maintained, in a nice area. It was the kind of place where kids played in the streets, like in the movies, and the neighbors were bound to know each other, perhaps spend Sundays together. We walked up to the pristine white door, and knocked. I had this silly moment of déjà vu, and realized this wasn’t the first time Ian and I were knocking on random doors together. It took a little while before anything happened, and in that time it felt like my heart was going to jump out of my throat. I’d never been this anxious in my life, I was sure. Finally, a little girl opened with wide eyes, and then disappeared into the house. Moments later a middle-aged woman with blond hair came to the door, looking at us questioningly.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, we’re looking for Elsa Ryan.”

  “I’m Elsa.”

  I smiled a broad smile and pulled out a letter from my bag.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know anything about this letter?”

  Elsa took it and looked at it, turning it around and back again.

  “No, sorry.”

  My heart sank a bit, “Alright, thank you.”

  We turned back to the car. I looked at Ian, but he seemed indifferent. Maybe he’d never believed we would find her in the first go. That would fit his character.

  The second home was in an area that I really rather wouldn’t have gone in. I was glad to have Ian at my side (no matter how much I disliked him sometimes) when we climbed the dirty steps to a dirty front door. An old woman with angry eyes opened the door, and when I smiled and asked about the letter she shouted at us and chased us away.

  “What if that was her, and now we’ll never know? She didn’t answer me.” I was sitting in the car, feeling a bit shaky.

  “Somehow I don’t think that was her. She doesn’t really look like the type of woman you’d want to write a love letter to.”

  “You’re right. She can’t be the object of Nicolo’s affection, the woman in the letters is elegant and graceful. Well, that’s how I imagine her to be.”

  Ian shook his head. “Where to next?”

  At the next house, nobody was home. We worked through the list, going to all the houses, and with everyone that wasn’t the right Elsa, I felt more quiet and subdued. This wasn’t working. What if none of them were the right one? What if she wasn’t even in Phoenix anymore? Anything could happen in two years’ time.

  We stopped after five people by the time night fell. We’d gone back to the home where no one answered the door, and there was still no one in, so we decided to call it a day.

  That night in the hotel room it was less strained between us. We were getting used to each other’s company, and I found that Ian spoke more often, even if he still didn’t have much to say. He spent a lot of time on his phone, messaging and calling, and he always seemed half-distracted, but I was grateful for his company. I was sure I would have gotten lost so many times if I had been there alone, and I would probably have given up if I hadn’t felt guilty for dragging him all the way with me.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do when you find her?” He was
lying stretched out on his bed with his fingers interlocked behind is head. I sat at the writing desk, the letters scattered in front of me.

  “I’m still not sure. I think it depends on her reaction. I would really like to find out where to find him though. Hopefully she’ll agree to that, surely if she left him for someone else that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Why do you want to find him so badly? How will it help you?”

  “I don’t know… I suppose I just want to see if it’s real. If the kind of love that shows in these letters really exists. Do you believe in true love?”

  He thought about it for a second, “I don’t really know what kind of love I believe in. I haven’t given love much thought. I suppose there are people that fit together, and the love between them works, but it’s hard to define what’s true about love.”

  “Why do you want to define it? I don’t think emotions can really be defined properly, they kind of skip out on the mind, you know. They are created in the same place passion and creativity comes from.”

  Ian chuckled, “You’re one of those Destiny types aren’t you? Those who believe that love is some sort of magic that happens when the right pieces fit together, like a puzzle, and it’s just meant to be that way, it can’t be changed.”

  “Well, how do you see it, then?” I felt the familiar annoyance flare up as he shot love down.

  “I think love is more forgiving than that. What if you meet someone other than your ‘destined piece’? Then you can’t love them because the rules say no?”

  “I think if you meet someone you love then it will be your destined piece.”

  “I disagree. Have you ever been in a relationship?”

  “I have.”

  “And you lived happily ever after?”

  “Well no—“

  “But you loved him.”

  I kept quiet. Ian was being absolutely ridiculous. I glared at him, and he chuckled again.

  “Don’t get so defensive, all I’m saying is that it seems more realistic that if you find someone you want to be with – a choice you made yourself, not one that was made for you – then you should be able to make it work with that person. Love shouldn’t be a ready mix that you just add to your relationship to give you your happy ending. It should be something you can fight for, and work through, create yourself, perfect over time, complete.”

  I thought back to Mike. Would it have been that easy? To make it work, if it was about putting effort into it, rather than expecting it to work out because it was ‘meant to be’? Would he have found a reason to stay?

  I looked down at my hands, feeling emotions well up that I didn’t want to remember right now. I’d been fighting for months to try and blame him for leaving me, and now it sounded like it was my fault, that I just hadn’t done enough to keep him in my life. And what about Nicolo then? Had he been Elsa’s prince charming, and she just stopped working at it? It was confusing, there was too much of it.

  Ian picked up my change in mood, and tried to change the topic, make light conversation, but I wasn’t up for it anymore. I got into bed, and turned my back on him. Be quiet, I willed him, don’t say any more.

  We started with the same home we kept trying the day before, and this time someone was in. A young man opened the door. He was tan, with shoulder length dark hair and a square jaw, the kind of handsome you saw in fairytales. He looked at us with amusement, looking Ian up and down without much interest, and then smiled at me in such a way that I blushed, and then felt ashamed for blushing.

  “Elsa?” he asked with a glimmer in his eye, “of course, I’ll call her for you.” He called over his shoulder, and then invited us in, leading us to a lounge that was chaotic. Piles of washing were scattered over most of the seating space, and three dogs lay tangled together in front of a coffee table decorated with empty mugs. He disappeared down the passage.

  A moment later a small woman walked in, her brown hair cut short and styled into a mess. It looked bullet proof to me; she’d used so much gel. She was wearing slacks with holes in it and a shirt with a coffee stain.

  “Oh, look at what a mess it is in here, sorry, see if you can find a space to sit. Wait, here.” She pushed some washing off the couch and it flopped into a crumpled mess on the floor, “there, you can squeeze in next to each other, can’t you?” She sat herself down on the edge of the coffee table, pushing the cups away as she sat down.

  Ian squeezed in next to me, and fidgeted uncomfortably. Neither of us wanted to be pushed up that close to each other, and he made no point of hiding it. Why didn’t he just stand up then, if he insisted on being rude?

  “What can I do for you?”

  I fumbled in my handbag and pulled out a letter.

  “Do you know anything about this letter?” I handed it over. Elsa held it in her hands, and looked at the loopy handwriting, absently tracing over the first letter of the address with her thumb. Then she looked at me, her face suddenly very serious.

  “Where did you find this?”

  A little explosion happened in my chest. “I recently bought an old house, and I found a box with letters in the attic.”

  “The attic,” she looked down at the letter again, cradling it in her hands, “I didn’t think anyone would find it. Cathy had shut it up, told me never to go in there. I’d hidden the box in there after she’d died, with the things that she couldn’t let go of. It seemed right.”

  The atmosphere in the room was suddenly heavy. I noticed that Ian had stopped shifting uncomfortably next to me. Elsa had his attention too.

  “Why did you come to find me?” her eyes had gone watery.

  “I wanted to … well I wanted to find Nicolo, if I have to be perfectly honest with you.”

  “Ha!’ she suddenly burst out, “you went through all this trouble to find him! You’re wasting your time, honey, you’ll only get your heart broken.”

  I frowned and looked at the letter in Elsa’s hands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a writer. Do you know what writers do? They manipulate with words. They can create any emotion, and sell it off as real. Everything in these letters is fiction. Nicolo was only this sincere when we were separated. In reality, when we were together, he wasn’t this man that you read about at all. He was selfish, controlling. He was like a child.”

  “Is that why you cheated on him?” I felt guilty the moment I’d said it. Elsa’s head shot up and she squinted.

  “Cheated on him? He cheated on me.”

  I blinked, unregistering for a second.

  “What? But… that doesn’t make sense. The last letter…”

  “He sent the last letter to me more than a year after I’d left him. I’d found out that every time I was away to look after Cathy, he’d entertained girls in our home, in our bed. I left him as soon as I found out, and I heard nothing from him until shortly after I’d found Carlos that you met at the door. He didn’t mind moving on, as long as I didn’t.”

  “I had it all wrong,” I whispered, and Ian patted my knee. This strangely friendly gesture distracted me for a moment. Then I looked at Elsa, who still looked like she was going to cry.

  “I really loved him, you know,” she said, her voice slightly breaking at the end as she handed back the letter to me, “I really thought we were meant to be.”

  I felt tears well up in my own eyes. How many times had I said those exact words to Reggie? Worse, how many times had I put Elsa in the same place I’d put Mike, thought of her with dislike, scowled at her selfishness?

  “Do you want to keep it?” I asked her, holding out the letter, but Elsa shook her head.

  “No, thank you,” she smiled, “there’s no space for it in my life now, I have more with Carlos than I’ve ever had with Nicolo. Do what you like with it.”

  We stood to leave, Elsa back to her cheerful self, as if the moment between us had never taken place. My chest felt like it was made of lead, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands, they were covered with a
burning sensation. We walked to the front door, and at the last moment I turned and wrapped my arms around Elsa. I didn’t know why I did it, but Elsa hugged me back, and I felt better about doing it. I felt better about judging her, like she’d somehow forgiven me for what I’d thought of her, even though she hadn’t known it until now. Then Ian and I walked to the car, and drove off.

  I parked around the corner, out of view from the house. I had to try and figure out why my body felt like it was going to implode, why I felt like burning every single letter. We sat in silence for a while, both caught up in our thoughts.

  CHAPTER 6