House of Cry

by Linda Bleser

  “Sounds perfect,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

  As soon as I heard my mother’s car pull out of the driveway, I ripped into the briefcase and found a folder with everything I needed for the interview neatly tucked inside. A business card clipped to my resume had an address that would be easy enough to find. I scanned the résumé, surprised to see how unqualified I was for even the most basic entry-level job. My prior work experience included part-time jobs as a waitress, a cashier, and a cake decorator. Even I wouldn’t hire me.

  Reading further, I realized the job I was applying for was a receptionist/typist. Easy enough. I had fair typing skills. Who didn’t these days? And I could smile and answer phones. Maybe I was qualified for an entry-level job after all. The appointment wasn’t for another hour and a half. I had plenty of time to get ready.

  First, I needed to do some more investigating. I searched through the briefcase for anything else I could find. There was a day planner inside. I flipped through the addresses, looking for anything familiar, then stopped when I saw my father’s name. I hadn’t even thought to ask about him. Did this mean he was alive as well? And what would I find if I called? My mother said he’d left when I was a baby. Had we kept in touch? We must have or I wouldn’t have his number in my address book. Just one more question to add to the ever-growing pile.

  *

  The interview went well. At least I hadn’t made a fool of myself or disappointed my brother—surprising how easily that word slipped into place. Since sibling harmony seemed to be important to my mother, I felt I’d accomplished something.

  I left the interview and went directly to the library. It was exactly as I remembered. So was the sense of wonder I felt stepping inside. Ever since I was a little girl, this was where I came to escape. It felt real and familiar like no other place on earth ever could.

  I wandered down rows, inhaling the heady scent of old books. Each aisle led to endless worlds of mystery, the shelves heavy with promise. As a child I’d fantasized about being locked inside with the entire library to myself. It was a fantasy that still appealed to the little girl in me, the girl who saw the world as a place of endless possibilities.

  Even then I’d preferred being surrounded by books to the company of people, a passive observer rather than a willing participant. I’d immersed myself in books, refusing to admit the gut-deep desire to write, to invent my own worlds. Admitting that would bind me that much closer to my mother and a fate I desperately feared.

  Even if I’d given in to the temptation, how could I possibly compete with the iconic specter of my own mother. The bar had been set far too high. So I’d soaked in the words of other writers while stifling my own.

  I made my way to the poetry section, where I remembered shelves marked Local Author that were lined with slim volumes of my mother’s work. There were no books of Marjorie Parker Hall’s poetry on the shelves, however. Other authors had filled in the spots where she should have been. As much as I’d resented her writing, I felt a sense of sadness and loss.

  I remembered sitting quietly in the corner while my mother gave readings at this very library. People would hang on her every word. They hadn’t known how much those words had cost her, each one torn from the very depths of her soul. But she’d touched them all. And now it was all gone. Readers around the world would never know what they’d missed.

  From my hidden spot, I watched my mother read to a group of students huddled around. Her voice was clear and melodious, bringing the story alive. There was no hint of the words trapped inside her. If she had any regrets, they didn’t show. The children’s faces were rapt, and I was filled with warmth and pride. The world had lost a poet, but somehow I’d gained a mother. It was a fair trade, at least as far as I was concerned. But at what cost?

  It wasn’t until she finished reading and the children had scattered that I stepped out from my hiding spot. A genuine smile lit up my mother’s face when she saw me. Yes, definitely a fair trade. I gave her an impulsive hug. “You’re great with kids.” I almost said that must be where Cassie got it from but stopped myself.

  “I have plenty of experience,” she said.

  Again I was struck with the sense of having been cheated out of a life that should have been mine. I cleared my throat, fighting back a wave of regret. I’d had enough regrets in my own life. Now it was time to get more information about the one I’d been thrust into. “Any chance I can buy you lunch?”

  My mother seemed truly sorry when she told me she couldn’t possibly get away for lunch today. My fists tightened as long-held feelings of abandonment resurfaced.

  “Maybe another time,” she suggested, as casually as if this were just a normal day. For her, it was.

  “Maybe,” I said, unsure whether I’d even have another day. How much longer would this fantasy last? I could wake up tomorrow and be right back where I’d started—standing all alone over my mother’s grave and searching for answers that had died with her. Every moment counted, and I was desperate to make up for all the years I’d lost while I had the chance.

  But it wasn’t to be. I could see my mother was preoccupied with all she had yet to do. There was no way I could explain without sounding crazy. Since I was working so hard to convince myself that I wasn’t, it was important to keep those suspicions to myself.

  As if to mock my thoughts, I glanced up and noticed a familiar figure sitting in a far corner of the library with an open book on her lap. Maya?

  Leaving my mother to her work, I made my way across the room, determined to get some answers out of her this time. Whether she was an angel, a spirit guide, or simply a figment of my imagination, she was here for a reason.

  I pulled up a chair and sat across from her, studying her carefully for signs of … what? Did I expect to see her slowly dissolve or vanish into thin air? Would she change before my very eyes? Sprout wings and fly?

  What she actually did was even more shocking. She tapped the sharpened tip of a pencil against her tongue, then began writing on the pages of the open book. A library book.

  “Maya!” I was horrified. I’d been brought up to respect books, never bend the pages or crack the spine, and above all, never ever write in the margins.

  She glanced up and put a finger to her lips, then went back to marking the book on her lap.

  “You can’t do that,” I said, my voice rising an octave.

  “Why not? Isn’t learning a cumulative process? We build on what we know and benefit from other’s experiences as well as their mistakes. I’m simply sharing my thoughts with the next person who reads this book.”

  She went back to her notations, leaving me both frustrated and confused. I glanced at the open book. Lines were underlined, passages marked with question marks, and doodles drawn along the margins. I leaned over until our foreheads nearly touched. “How long will I be here?”

  Maya shrugged. “It depends. Life is unsure, isn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Her lips curved in a Mona Lisa smile. “I can’t answer your questions, Jenna. I can only help you find the answers for yourself.”

  “Well, I’m not doing a very good job of finding the answers.”

  “Sometimes if you’re not finding the answers, it’s because you’re not asking the right questions.”

  “Here’s the question I keep coming back to: What would my life have been like if my mother hadn’t selfishly taken her own life and left us all alone? And now I know. I’m alone and unemployed with a brother I don’t get along with and a mother I don’t even know.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “She doesn’t even write poetry anymore.”

  Maya nodded. “That poetry came from a place of pain and regret. Does your mother seem depressed now?”

  I glanced across the room, seeing my mother the way she was today—happy, optimistic, and fulfilled. Unbidden memories come to me. Memories of a happier time before my mother’s suicide, when the melancholy slipped away and I caught a glimpse of the
woman trapped inside the darkness, moments when she was trying with every ounce of strength in her body to be a good mother and wife, to stitch herself back together again. We’d go to the zoo, and for a little while we looked like any normal family, slipping a quarter into machines for a handful of feed to be lapped up by llamas. I would sit on my mother’s lap while she read stories of fairies and trolls that we’d checked out of the library together. I remembered my mother’s laughter, rare as it was. How could those memories have slipped away? Why had I focused only on the bad memories when there were so many good ones as well? I’d spent my life coloring her memory with a black crayon, blotting out the good as well as the bad.

  “No,” I replied. “She seems happy.”

  So what finally pushed her over the edge? What was it she couldn’t live with? That was the answer I was seeking. If I knew that, then maybe I could move on. The only one who knew the answer to that was my mother. As hard as it would be, I knew I’d have to talk to her about that long-ago past when she made a life-changing choice. But not now. There were too many distractions. Tonight, in the privacy of our home, we’d have a heart-to-heart talk. I’d get to know the real person without resentment coloring my understanding.

  It still seemed unfair somehow. My mother’s poetry had touched so many people. It was a shame to see such talent go to waste. “It’s all about choices, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Every day we make a multitude of choices,” Maya echoed. “Some big, some small. Each one takes you in a different direction, expanding outward in an infinite number of possibilities.”

  Choices. Hadn’t my mother said the very same thing last night? I watched her across the room. I’d been focusing so intently on the differences in my own life that I hadn’t even given a thought to her reality. An idea was forming, but it remained elusive, drifting just out of reach. “What about other people’s choices? They affect our lives, too, right?”

  I turned back to Maya, but she was gone, vanished into thin air. The book she’d been reading sat on the table in front of me. At least it was real. I turned it around and glanced at the notes in the margins. There was a picture of a tree with its branches extending outward and off the pages of the book. It was eerily similar to the pin I wore, the pin that Maya had said was a clue.

  I traced the outline, imagining a world of choices, each one setting the story on a different path. The possibilities seemed endless. And what was the sense? Was there only one right path, or was it necessary to experience all of them for the story to be complete?

  I closed the book, glancing only briefly at the title: Doorway to Everwhen. A chill coursed through me. I was no closer to finding answers, but I felt like I was beginning to hone in on the right questions. The biggest question of all was why my mother was alive and happy in this lifetime. What choices had she made that split her world in two? What was different?

  The answer was clear. Parker was different. Somehow I knew that he was the key. What was his place in all of this? Was his birth the catalyst that pushed my mother’s mental health over the edge somehow? Or was he the one who ultimately saved her?

  I needed to talk to my mother about Parker, but how could I approach the subject without raising suspicion? Then it dawned on me. This might be something my father could answer. If nothing else, I needed to find out why he’d left and put together some of the missing pieces to this puzzle. I considered calling him, then decided that I’d rather talk to him face-to-face.

  I stopped by my mother’s desk and told her I had some errands to run but I’d see her tonight.

  “Will you be home for dinner?”

  I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get information from my father, or what further directions those clues might lead me in and didn’t want to keep her waiting in case I set out on a wild goose chase. “Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t I pick up a pizza and a movie for us tonight?”

  Her eyes lit up at my suggestion. “That’s a wonderful idea.” She made as if to give me a hug, but I’d already stepped out of her reach and the moment passed. I just couldn’t fake an intimacy I didn’t feel. She was my mother, but for all intents and purposes we were strangers.

  I checked out the book Doorway to Everwhen at the library desk and rushed out the door, nearly bumping into a familiar figure on the sidewalk. A genuine smile sprang to my lips as I recognized the real-estate agent who had shown me and Cassie around the House of Cry. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s Bob, right? Bob Hartwood?”

  Running into him shouldn’t have surprised me, since this was the same small town with the same people living here—if you didn’t take into consideration those who should be dead. Still, seeing him gave me a jolt, like running into a neighbor when vacationing in a foreign country.

  He tilted his head and shot me a puzzled glance, then took my hand. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”

  “I, um …” I suddenly realized how lame it would sound to remind him that he’d shown me a little house in the woods that had a secret room where I’d gone spinning off into some strange parallel reality. He’d think I was crazy, and it was bad enough that one of us was half convinced of that. I had to come up with something vague enough to explain how I knew him. “We met at a mutual friend’s party a few months back.”

  A frown creased his forehead as he searched for recognition. I could see he had no idea who I was and was simply trying to be polite.

  “I’m Jenna Hall,” I said, as if to jog his memory, although it was clear to me we had never actually met in this timeline. I noticed he was wearing contacts. I kind of missed the nerdy Clark Kent glasses, but he was definitely easy on the eyes without them.

  He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and smiled. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Jenna … again.” It sounded sincere, and I had the sudden desire to unload everything to someone. He seemed genuinely nice and was probably a good listener. I was tired of being lost and alone in unknown territory.

  “Same here,” I said, resisting the urge to continue the conversation. His body language told me that even though he didn’t remember who I was, he was more than willing to get to know me better now. I knew I was simply grasping at straws. There wasn’t anything he could tell me that would help me find my way home. Deflated, I turned to walk away. On a whim I turned back. “Do you sell real estate or do I have you confused with someone else?”

  “No, you’re right,” he said. “But I’m phasing out of real estate and starting a new venture. Why? Are you looking for a house?”

  “I might be.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call,” he said, letting his fingers linger over mine for a moment longer than normal. “I’m sure I can find something perfect for you.”

  “I will,” I said, tucking the card into my purse. Up close, his scent was fresh and familiar, like sheets left to dry on a summer breeze. I wanted to linger, to bury my face against his collar and inhale him into my soul. Imagining his arms around me felt natural, like something he’d done hundreds of times.

  I was convinced that running into Bob Hartwood again was more than coincidence. He was the gatekeeper, the one who’d led me through the doorway into this new reality. Of course he didn’t know that, but it wouldn’t stop me from using him to get information. Besides, he was just as handsome as I remembered. And if anything, the attraction was even stronger this time.

  I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away. How many times do we run into people that we feel an immediate connection with? How many unfamiliar faces hold a hint of recognition that our logical minds immediately ignore? I found myself wondering if we were all connected in one way or another, simply waiting for the right set of opportunities to find each other all over again.

  I shook my head. There were too many questions and not enough answers. An unnamed yearning blossomed deep inside me. I felt the need to connect with someone, even a stranger, for just a little while. All around me people were paired up
in laughing groups of two or three. Why was I always alone?

  7

  I’d only taken two steps when he called my name. I took one more, smiled, then turned and waited. He took a deep breath, and then blurted, “You wouldn’t want to join me for a cup of coffee, would you?”

  I hesitated. I wanted to see my father, but the thought of spending more time with Bob intrigued me. It would be nice to talk to someone without having to watch every word or accidentally say the wrong thing. While we weren’t exactly strangers, he didn’t know enough about my personal life to notice if I mentioned a sister who didn’t exist or a dead mother who did.

  “You’d be doing me a favor,” he coaxed. “I just received some good news and have no one to share it with.”

  “Well, in that case, I’d love to,” I said, unable to resist the hopeful expression on his face.

  A smile curved his lips, making him look younger and more approachable than when we’d first bumped into each other. We walked a block and a half to the coffee shop, making small talk along the way. I shouldn’t have felt so comfortable with a virtual stranger, but I did, and I could sense that he felt the same way. I remembered that same sense of familiarity the first time I’d met him at the doorway to the House of Cry. It was still here. And more. Maybe this sense of connection is what people feel when they talk about meeting their soul mates.

  The coffee shop was small and intimate. At the counter we eyed an assortment of homemade muffins the size of softballs.

  “Want to split one?” he asked.

  “You read my mind. How does blueberry sound to you?”

  “Perfect.”

  We sat at a cozy table drinking coffee from sturdy ceramic mugs while taking turns pinching off bite-sized chunks of blueberry muffin. The aromatic steam and accidental brush of fingertips felt deliciously decadent.

  I ran my fingertip over my lips to catch errant muffin crumbs, noticing the way his eyes lingered there. “So, tell me about this good news.”