The Reigning and the Rule

by Calia Read

  “I remember that weekend. That’s when I first met Bradley.”

  I glance at her stomach. “And it’s history from there.”

  “You could say that.” She laughs and continues to stare at the photos.

  I drift toward the diploma hanging on the wall. Apparently, I graduated from the University of Illinois. I see my name in Old English font, Serene Katherine Langley.

  That makes me pause. My middle name is Olivia. Well, used to be.

  The rest of the diploma says I received a bachelor’s in accountancy. Leaning closer, I squint, willing the words to change. There’s no way. I’m horrible with money. More than that, it bores the shit out of me. I’m passionate about antiques. History.

  The past.

  But accounting? No fucking way.

  Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach. This is all too much. Leaning against the computer desk, I rub my temples and take a deep breath. What else has changed? Will is no longer my fiancé, but do I have a boyfriend in this new life of mine? God, I hope not. I just want to go back to Étienne.

  “Serene? Are you feeling okay?”

  Slowly, I lift my head and let my hands drop onto my thighs. “I’m just really exhausted.”

  Myen nods in sympathy before she pats my hand. “I’ll let you rest. But you have no idea how nice it is to have you back home.”

  She hugs me tight. Tears glimmer in her eyes when she pulls away. She says goodbye, and I wave. I watch as she closes the door behind her. All my mind can latch onto is the word home.

  This isn’t my home.

  My home is in Charleston, South Carolina.

  My home is Belgrave.

  My home is wherever Étienne is.

  Numbly, I take off my ruined dress, but instead of throwing it away, I lovingly fold it and hide it on the top shelf in the closet where no one can find it.

  It doesn’t take me long to find a pair of sweats, t-shirt, and underwear. My footsteps are slow as I make my way to the bathroom connected to the bedroom. I barely take in the granite countertops and white marble floors. I go straight to the shower and turn the nozzle to a scalding hot.

  When I step inside, I tilt my head back and let the water drench my hair and drip down my face before I hang my head and sigh. Opening my eyes, I see the water is a light murky brown mixed with light red. It trails toward the drain before it disappears.

  For a second, I feel guilty; I’m washing the past off me in every sense of the word. Quickly, I shampoo my hair and shave. As I dry off, I can’t help but wonder if my life has changed this drastically, then has Étienne’s also? Better yet, did Old Serene come back and replace me?

  I change into the sweats and t-shirt I found, and even though I’m incredibly tired, I grab the laptop from the computer desk and sit in the middle of the bed. I give the MacBook a thorough once-over. It’s nothing like the MacBook I previously owned, which was beaten up from constant use. This one looks brand new.

  Is this even mine?

  I press the power button, and two users pop up. One has my name, and the other is a guest account. The cursor blinks, patiently waiting for me to type in a password. My old password used to be my nickname and the year I was born. Not original, but it was easy to remember.

  I try that first. The box shakes, and I know I got it wrong. There are dozens of things the password could be, but I have a limited amount of tries.

  I try my full birthdate with my newly dubbed middle name, but that comes back wrong. I try the school I went to along with the year I should’ve graduated. That too is incorrect.

  Closing my eyes in frustration, I rack my brain, trying to think of what it could be. I try to keep my passwords all the same so I won’t confuse myself when I’m logging onto a site.

  My hands hover above the keyboard for a second before I type in EAL1880.

  A colorful loading wheel appears, and then the screen changes. I got in. The fact the password is Étienne’s initials and year of birth gives me relief but also fills me with confusion.

  There’s no time to really think about that, though. I need to look up Étienne and make sure he’s all right. Immediately, I go to Ancestry.com. I type in my account info, but it comes back with incorrect login info. I try again and get the same reply.

  In this new life, with this new last name as Langley, did I ever research the Lacroix family? As quickly as possible, I create an account but reach another roadblock when it says the e-mail account doesn’t exist. The e-mail address I’ve had since I was sixteen. Dragging my hands through my hair, I take a deep breath and create an e-mail account.

  It’s only when I go back to Ancestry and type in my information do I realize I made my e-mail SLacroix9. I didn’t realize what I’d typed in; it just happened so fast. Almost like itching your leg after being bitten by a mosquito. It’s first instinct.

  The second I’m logged in the site, it asks if I want to start my family tree. I bypass the option and type Étienne’s full name. The seconds that tick by while I wait for the site to load feel like hours.

  Impatiently, I drum my hands against the edge of the laptop. “Come on, come on,” I whisper.

  Gradually, the page finishes loading. I get a small sense of déjà vu as I search through all the Étiennes the site has provided me with. I remember doing this not so long ago. Yet in my new world that didn’t happen. It’s confusing to even think about.

  I switch over to family tree option, and I finally get the hit I’ve been looking for when I see Étienne’s full name and date of birth. Alongside that is his death: August 7, 1962. He would’ve been eighty-two. He would’ve lived a long and hopefully fulfilled life. But seeing that deflates my soul because his life wasn’t spent with me. He died before I was even born.

  I click on the link to the family tree, my curiosity dying to know if he remained with Old Serene or remarried someone else, but a window pops up telling me this is a private family tree, and if I ask the user kindly, maybe they’ll give me access. I peer closer to get a better look at the username.

  “ATrimble91,” I repeat.

  The name Trimble doesn’t sound familiar to me, and the exhausting part about family trees is this ATrimble person could be a fourth cousin twice removed who is merely a distant relative of Étienne’s and nothing more. Even so, I type a quick bullshit message, explaining I’m a distant Lacroix relative and would love to learn more about my family history and press send. I continue searching for more family trees that are open to the public, but none of them are.

  Like ATrimble, they’re all on lockdown. It’s almost as if the Lacroix family name and the secrets they take to their grave are top secret. I want to shout at my screen—at these people who created these family trees—that I was married to the man who is part of their ancestry.

  Not to be deterred, I switch to Livingston, but the same thing happens. His date of death is still the same, though. He still dies in WWI. When I look up their sister, Nathalie, her date of death is May 23, 1954. She would’ve been sixty-three. It’s certainly better than having your life cut short and dying in a fire, but I still feel the same sharp pang in my chest when I see the year of her passing as I did with Étienne’s.

  It makes everything I did real. Sets it in stone. And that scares the shit out of me because if they lived long lives, and my great-great-grandfather is out of the picture, then what do they need me for? There’s no reason for me to time travel.

  I can’t think of a single soul on this Earth who doesn’t long to feel wanted. It’s a tangible feeling that can fill us with a sense of importance. Reminds us we’re needed. When that pleasure is taken away, it feels as if the rug has been pulled out from beneath you.

  I can feel the tears start to pool in my eyes. Immediately, I close my eyes and try to take deep breaths.

  “Focus, Serene,” I whisper.

  Because I’m not done yet. I still need to look up the legacy behind my new last name and the store they started. I go to Google and type in Hambleton’s. Results a
re instant, giving me the nearest location of a Hambleton’s store with Google reviews and photos of inside the store. There’s the store’s official site, and all its social media profiles, then I find my golden ticket: Wikipedia.

  I click on the link and lean in as the page loads. When it does, there’s a picture of a large six-story building. The Hambleton’s logo is in cursive directly above the image. The caption reads, “State Street, the flagship store, (2012).”

  I move on to the piece written about the store.

  “Hambleton’s is an American department store chain founded in 1913 by Uriah Langley. As of 2016, Hambleton’s was the largest department store in the Midwest with over fifty stores in full operation. The flagship store is located at the Loop Retail Historic District in Chicago, Illinois.”

  Instead of reading more about the store and its accolades, I click on Uriah’s name to find out more information about its creator.

  “Uriah Langley (August 18, 1878 - May 27, 1951) was an American businessman who founded the Hambleton’s department store chain.”

  I scroll down the page, skimming over the beginning of his Life and Career section. He was born to Samuel Langley (April 28, 1833 - August 11, 1908) and Louisa (Sutton) Langley (June 16, 1842 - January 8, 1916). He had one brother. His father, Samuel, owned a dry goods store, Samuel Langley and Company, in Chicago. After the store’s initial success, his father opened three more and started a partnership with Potter Palmer who, according to this article, was responsible for a lot of the development of State Street in Chicago. I don’t live in Chicago, so I’m going to assume that’s important.

  It goes on to say that later in life, Uriah frequently credited his own success to his father’s business skills and direct approach.

  When his father decided to focus on his real estate interests with Mr. Palmer, Samuel handed over the reins to Uriah in 1898 when he was only twenty years old. Over the next five years, he expanded the company to seven stores across the Midwest before he ultimately sold his shares to focus on other business ventures.

  My eyes scan the screen and stop when I see the name Hambleton. I re-read the beginning of the paragraph.

  “In 1913, he met Emmeline Hambleton. They married in August of that year. He developed the premise for Hambleton’s department store to cater to women’s requisites, believing it would lead to a committed patronage. It was a radical move no department store had considered at the time, and it greatly paid off. The first Hambleton’s store opened in December 1913. Not too differently from the way he expanded his father’s company, he did the same with Hambleton’s department store, making it a landmark in the Midwest.

  In 1914, Emmeline passed away. Uriah adopted her son, Henry Cain Hambleton. His name was legally changed in 1915 to Henry Cain Langley.

  Uriah never remarried, and after falling ill in 1927 at the age of 49, Uriah decided to take a step back from the company. He moved to Champaign, Illinois, where he purchased a lavish mansion from Dr. Herbert and Doris Sherman and raised Henry.

  Uriah passed away in 1951 at the age of 73, handing the company onto his son, Henry. At the time of his father’s death, Henry promised to make Uriah proud and keep the Hambleton department stores thriving. At his father’s wake, he was quoted as saying, “H. Roger Grant once said of Cornelius Vanderbilt, ‘Contemporaries, too, often hated or feared Vanderbilt or at least considered him an unmannered brute. While Vanderbilt could be a rascal, combative and cunning, he was much more a builder than a wrecker...being honorable, shrewd, and hardworking.’ Mr. Grant never met Uriah Langley, but his quote accurately describes my father. For he was much more than a cunning businessman and adversary. He was complex with many layers but unfailingly loyal. Without him, I would not be where I am today, and it’s all because of his hard work and shrewd business skills.”

  The rest of the article is a little too contrived and talks about the generations all the way to my father, Daniel, who apparently took over the company in 1995. What I find incredibly interesting is with every Langley patriarch that passes, the son gives a moving speech akin to the one before him—speaking about making their father proud, and how their father instilled family and hardworking values they would never forget, etc., etc. Words would change here and there, but it’s almost as though they had a rough draft of the original copy and used it as a reference point.

  It puts a bad taste in my mouth. No one’s life reads like a Hallmark movie. We all suffer. We all laugh. We all trudge through the darkness to get to the light. But this biography glosses over that and gives Uriah a messiah complex. It’s almost as if the man could walk on water.

  And interestingly enough, the article makes it seem as though my father is a loving, hardworking man. Now, the dad I knew in my past life was just that, but the man I met downstairs was not loving. Far from that.

  Feeling unsettled, I go back to Google and type in Emmeline Hambleton. Hardly any links pop up, and when they do, they’re connected to Uriah. I go to the images section to see if I can find a photo of her. What does she look like? Did I get any features from her? But there are no photographs of her. Just pictures of the store Hambleton’s and once again, photos of Uriah.

  She existed, but someone has tried awfully hard to make sure there’s next to no surviving trace of her. My heart thumps wildly in my chest. I know I’m onto something and should keep going, but my eyes are starting to flutter shut while I stare at the screen. I glance at the clock and realize it’s only five in the afternoon, but it feels like midnight to me.

  In a zombielike state, I get out of bed and place the laptop on the desk, close the blinds, and climb back into bed. The second I lay my head on the pillow, the tears that have been begging to come are finally set free. They trail down my cheeks and drop onto my pillow. The whole time I yearn for Étienne, I’m reminded not to feel sorry for myself.

  Cry for what you lost.

  Cry for what you miss.

  Cry for the ache in your chest.

  And then wipe the tears because tomorrow is a brand new day and a whole new beginning.

  “Serene...Serene. Wake up.”

  Moaning in protest, I roll over toward the direction of the voice, brush my tangled hair out of my eyes, and blink the room into focus. When I do, I see my parents solemnly staring down at me.

  Automatically, I jump back, my head slamming into the headboard. “God. How long have you been watching me sleep?”

  “We just walked in here,” Mom replies.

  “Oh.” My shoulders relax a fraction. I look back and forth between the two of them. “Okay. How long have I been asleep?”

  “About thirteen hours.”

  “Holy shit,” I remark. Not that I’m surprised. After sleeping in the storage room, the road trip, and then discovering that my entire life has been turned upside down, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

  My parents exchange a glance before my dad clears his throat and walks toward the foot of the bed. “We need to preface this conversation by saying we’re pleased to have you home.”

  He could’ve fooled me. Right now, he reminds me of one of many portraits hanging up of solemn relatives of Étienne’s. You’d think someone told my father he has to get a bone marrow transplant. “But we need you to know you can’t stay here forever.”

  I push back my tangled hair from my face and clear my throat. “Okay.”

  Dad looks at Mom from the corner of his eye. “And I’ve given it much thought, and I won’t be giving you your job back at Hambleton’s. Right now, you’re far too unpredictable for me to rely on to do the bookkeeping.”

  I must look like a fool, sitting there staring at him as if he’s grown three heads. But inside my head, I’m trying to keep up with all the information he’s giving me and matching it to the info I gleaned from my computer search last night. I must’ve been an accountant for the family business.

  Dad crosses his arms. “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”

  I look at my parents. “Not
really. You seem unmovable with your decision.”

  Dad frowns. Clearly, he didn’t expect that response from me.

  “When do you want me out of the house? Today?”

  “Now, we didn’t say that,” Mom interjects.

  “Then when?” I ask.

  Mom glances at Dad before she looks at me, and I see a hint of protectiveness in her eyes. It’s then I see a small glimmer of the mother who raised me. “You can stay here until you get back on your feet. It’s apparent you had a nervous breakdown, and we want to make sure everything is stable with you.”

  I want to snort at the phrase “nervous breakdown,” but I don’t want to poke the bear. My parents feel like virtual strangers to me right now, but they are giving me a place to stay.

  “Two months should be good enough, right?” Dad says bluntly.

  Mom opens her mouth and looks at him. It seems as if she’s going to object, but ultimately, she says nothing.

  “Two months is fine,” I reply.

  Although I have no idea. I feel as if I’m on autopilot. I don’t know if two months is long enough to find a job because I don’t plan on staying here to find out.

  “Good, good.” My dad nods his head. His stern face never wavers as he looks around the room. “I can put in a good word for you at some of the businesses around town, but I can’t do all the work.”

  “Of course not. I don’t expect you to.”

  Me agreeing with him seems to be throwing him and Mom more than anything. I don’t know what they expected, but it wasn’t this.

  He scratches the back of his neck before he clears his throat and tucks his hands into his pockets. “Well, I’m glad we had this talk.” He walks out of the room.

  I arch a brow because it wasn’t much of a talk. More like him laying out a set of demands for me to follow. I’m too overwhelmed to put up a fight. Everything I read last night is running through my head on a nonstop loop.