Memory House: Memory House Collection (Memory House Series Book 1)

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Perhaps it is the magic of the stars or giddiness of too many cups of tea, but she finds courage enough to bring up the subject she has pondered all week. She begins by telling of her visits to the local antique shop and the disappointment of holding objects and finding no memories.

  “I was wondering if you might be able to teach me how to find the memories,” she says.

  Ophelia laughs. “Not everything has a memory attached to it. A feathered hat might be simply that, no more, no less. Perhaps it was one that sat on a closet shelf, never worn for a special occasion, never given a memory.”

  “But what if these things did have a memory attached and I simply failed to feel it? Maybe if you taught me how to—”

  “It isn’t something that can be taught,” Ophelia cuts in. “It’s almost unexplainable. People with an open mind and great sensitivity just seem to be born with it.”

  Annie hesitates for a moment then recalls the number of difficult cases that have crossed her desk; situations where a life insurance policy was needed and the person’s qualifications were less than stellar. Many times she could sense the urgency of those people. Although they were nothing more than names on an application, she could feel their pain.

  “I think I have a fair level of sensitivity,” she stammers.

  “I think so too,” Ophelia says. A smile curls the corners of her mouth.

  “Well, then,” Annie asks, “how do I get the ability to find memories?”

  Ophelia lets go of the smile she was holding back and chuckles aloud. “I think you already have the ability.” She explains that she suspected it when Annie first put her hands on the handlebars of the bicycle.

  “I felt the shock,” Ophelia says. “It was a jolt of electricity, the kind a person gets if they shuffle their feet across a carpet then touch a metal light switch.”

  Annie’s eyes are wide with amazement. “Did you hear him laugh?”

  When Ophelia nods, that is all it takes.

  Annie wants to know everything there is to know about the bicycle boy. “What is he like? How old is he? Where does he live?”

  Although she wants to look inside the boy’s memories, Ophelia has nothing more to give.

  “I’ve told you, his name is Allen, or Adam, something like that. I’ve only a few memories about him, and I’ve told you all I know.” Ophelia smiles. “I think the boy’s memories are meant for you. The answers are there, but it’s up to you to find them.”

  A determined look settles on Annie’s face as she sips the dandelion tea that has now grown cold.

  “That’s what I’m going to do,” she says. “That’s exactly what I am going to do.”

  A plan is already forming in Annie’s mind.

  Annie

  I know it seems strange that I would pass up a Saturday night date with Michael to come here, but there is a certain magic in this place. It draws me back. Maybe it’s listening to Ophelia talk about Edward, or maybe it’s because I halfway believe that I too might be able to gather some of the memories left behind.

  When I put my hands on that bicycle, I heard the boy’s laugh. There’s no question about it. You can rationalize all you want and say it might have been the wind or the laughter of a nearby neighbor, but I know for sure it was the boy. I can’t say how I know; I just do.

  Granted, Ophelia has a special gift for things like this, but if the bicycle was willing to give up its memory to a nobody like me then it means something. I’m starting to think the boy has a message for me. Some kind of secret he figures I ought to know. It might sound like I’m crazy as a loon for chasing after this, but the truth is it’s exciting. It’s the same as searching for buried treasure; there’s one chance in a million you’ll find it, but the possibility of that chance is stuck in your mind so you keep searching.

  Anyway, even if I don’t find out anything, I like being here with Ophelia. When I’m with her I can just be me. I don’t have to try to be smart or witty like I do with Michael. I can relax and say whatever pops into my head.

  Ophelia never makes me feel like I’ve said something wrong. When I told her about how much I was missing Michael, instead of saying that’s flat out dumb pining after a man who walked out on you she explained how a man can fill the hole in your life or be the whole of your life. That makes a lot of sense. I used to think Michael was the whole of my life, but now I’m beginning to wonder.

  I can tell he’s changed, but I’ve got to question how much. I’ve seen him wine and dine a customer he can’t stand and the whole while he’s acting like the guy is his best friend. The truth is Michael does what he has to do to get what he wants.

  Loving such a man is stupid, but it’s hard to remember that when he’s kissing me. Coming here this weekend is a good thing. It puts some breathing room between me and Michael…hopefully enough that I won’t let my heart run away with my head again.

  Rust is the Reason

  On Saturday morning Annie gets out of bed before the sun has cleared the horizon. By the time Ophelia comes into the kitchen Annie has already downed three cups of dandelion tea and a cinnamon croissant. She sits at the table with a notepad and a list of the items she’ll need.

  “Where’s the nearest hardware store?” she asks.

  Looking a bit puzzled, Ophelia answers, “About two miles south of State Road Forty.”

  At the top of her list Annie writes SR40, 2 miles.

  “What’s all this about?” Ophelia asks.

  “The bicycle,” Annie answers. “I figured it out. The reason I can’t find out more about the boy is because the bicycle is rusted and broken. It needs to be fixed.”

  Ophelia raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Fixed?”

  Annie nods. “If I clean up the bicycle and get it in working shape I can ride it. Then I might be able to feel what the boy felt when he was riding it.”

  “Oh, I don’t really think—”

  “That’s it,” Annie says with certainty. “Last night I was thinking about it and remembered a cell phone I once had. It stopped working for no reason. Then I found out it was because of the rust.”

  Ophelia says nothing, but her expression is a one of confusion.

  This doesn’t discourage Annie. “After I cleaned the rust off the charger connection, the phone worked just fine.”

  “I still don’t see what a telephone has to do with—”

  “It’s simple,” Annie says. “The cell phone wasn’t working because it wasn’t charging. And the reason it wasn’t charging was that rust on the plug prevented it from making contact.”

  “How much of that tea have you had?” Ophelia asks.

  “It’s not the tea,” Annie replies. “Just think about this. There was only a little speck of rust on that plug, but it was enough to stop the phone from making a connection. What if all the rust on that bicycle is why I can’t connect to the boy?”

  “Well, I suppose it could be possible,” Ophelia says. “Lord knows I’ve seen stranger things.”

  “I know that’s it,” Annie says emphatically. “I’m positive.”

  There is no doubt in Annie’s mind that she has figured out the answer and she is now determined to see it through. Shortly after breakfast she and Ophelia climb into the car and start toward State Road Forty.

  When Annie drives for almost twenty minutes a worried look crosses Ophelia’s face and she says, “We should have come to it by now.”

  What was supposed to be a highway is actually a flat stretch of partially paved road. On either side there is little but fields of green and cows grazing in the pasture.

  “Maybe it’s further down the road,” Annie suggests. “It looks like there might be a cross street up ahead.”

  When they reach what appears to be a cross street, it turns out to be a railroad crossing.

  “Oh, dear,” Ophelia says. “I’m beginning to think we’ve gone too far.”

  Before they turn around and head back in the direction they came from, Annie drives another three miles. Once she
has made the U-turn, Ophelia suggests they go a bit slower.

  “I’m certain it’s on this road,” she says. “We must’ve missed it.”

  Inching along like a giant turtle, Annie drives while Ophelia keeps an eye out. They travel nine miles before she spies a strip mall up ahead.

  “On the right,” she says. “It looks like a shopping plaza.”

  Pushing her glasses higher on her nose, Ophelia begins to read the stores listed on the sign. “Highway Lunch, Hair Care, Grab and Go, Irwin Tinsley, Dentist.” Although only these four stores are listed she says, “I think this is it.”

  Swinging into the tiny strip mall, Annie parks alongside a car coated with a layer of dust. “I don’t see a hardware store.”

  “I’m fairly sure this is where it is,” Ophelia says. Although she claims to have shopped the store at least a half-dozen times, the sound of her voice has little conviction.

  “I’ll go check,” Annie suggests. When she climbs out of the car she has every intention of getting directions then being on her way, but the moment she opens the luncheonette door the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee hits her. It is a smell that has the feel of familiarity. She returns to the car for Ophelia, and minutes later they are sitting on two of the six stools at the counter. They are the only customers.

  “Hello?” she calls out.

  “Be right with you,” a voice answers.

  It is several minutes before a bearded man hurries out from the back. “Sorry, I had business to attend to.”

  Annie orders two coffees, then turns to Ophelia and asks if she would like a sweet bun. “Maybe one of those frosted doughnuts?”

  Ophelia gives a broad smile and nods.

  When he sets the coffee in front of them, the counterman asks, “You ladies from around here?”

  “I am,” Ophelia answers, “but Annie here is a Pennsylvania girl.”

  The man looks at Ophelia, and for a moment it seems as if he is studying her face. “I figured I knew every soul in Burnsville, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Herman Fetters.” He stretches his hand across the counter.

  Ophelia lifts her hand and shakes his. “Ophelia Browne.” Before he can turn away, she asks, “Didn’t there used to be a hardware store here?”

  “Ten, maybe twelve years back,” Herman replies. “Ed Langer had a hardware shop where Doc Tinsley’s got his office.”

  “Ten years?” Ophelia gives her head a sorrowful shake.

  “Maybe twelve,” Herman says. “It’s been a while.”

  Annie orders a second cup of coffee. As much as she loves Ophelia’s dandelion tea, she misses the rush that comes with a mug of coffee. As Herman refills both cups she asks, “Do you know where we can find a hardware store?”

  Herman fingers the snow-colored hair on his chin then says, “I think the closest one’s over in Langley.”

  “How far is that?” Annie asks.

  “Twenty miles, give or take.” Herman turns back to Ophelia. “You ought to stop by more often. We got a lunch special that’s real good.”

  “Maybe I will,” Ophelia replies and returns the smile.

  Now armed with a new set of directions that will take them back to where they started and then over to Route 97 East, they return to the car. As Annie backs out of the parking lot and pulls onto the road she gives Ophelia a knowing grin.

  “That Mister Fetters was flirting with you,” she teases. “And it seems to me you were flirting right back.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Ophelia says, but the flush of her cheeks is obvious.

  They have no trouble locating the Ace Hardware store on the main street of Langley. When Annie asks about the best rust remover for use on chrome, the clerk hands her a bottle of Rust-Be-Gone.

  “This’ll do the trick,” he says. “Pour a bit on a square of aluminum foil and rub gently.”

  “Aluminum foil, like Reynolds Wrap?” Annie questions.

  He nods. “I’ve got steel wool if you want, but it’d scratch the tar out of whatever you’re working on.”

  “A bicycle,” Annie says.

  “Bicycle, huh? Lotta work if it ain’t nothing but a bicycle.” He explains that the Rust-Be-Gone costs nine dollars, and he’s got some nice clean used bikes that are only $10.50.

  Annie explains that what she’s working on is not just a bicycle, it’s a very special bicycle. She says the tires are flat so she’ll also need an air pump.

  “Pump’s eight-fifty,” the clerk replies. “You sure you wanna do all that work and spend an extra seven bucks to fix up an old bike when I got a really good Huffy that’s ready to go?”

  “I’m sure,” Annie says. She is tempted to explain how she is trying to reach back through time and find the boy who originally owned the bicycle, the boy who’s laugh she has already heard, but she doesn’t. She recalls her own disbelief when Ophelia first suggested such a thing and she knows the clerk will be equally skeptical.

  When they arrive home it is nearing noon, and Annie is anxious to start working on the bicycle. She plans to skip lunch, but Ophelia won’t hear of it.

  “By the time you get the bicycle out and change into your work clothes, I’ll have lunch ready,” she says.

  Ophelia is happy to do this. It has been too many years that she has sat alone and nibbled on a tiny plate of goat cheese and sliced pear. It is good to have someone sitting across the table. It is good to have someone to talk with and do for. It is good to look into violet eyes that are still the color hers once were.

  Ophelia knows that given the amount of rust on the bicycle the girl will be working all afternoon and be lucky to finish before nightfall, so she brews a larger pot of dandelion tea. While the tea steeps she adds a dose of pennyroyal to sweep away the weariness that will come from Annie’s task.

  The years have taught Ophelia that no matter how hard you try it is not always possible to get more of a memory than the object is willing to share. As she waits for the tea to brew, she thinks back on the year she first read the Lannigan family Bible. She had the same determination Annie now has. For hours on end she would sit silently, holding the Bible in her hands, waiting for it to tell her the rest of the story. Nothing more ever came of it. The Bible whispered a handful of secrets in her ear and then went silent. Whatever else there was to tell would forever remain with Livonia Lannigan.

  The day has turned warm, so Ophelia pours the tea into a pitcher filled with ice and carries it to the porch. From there she can see Annie has already pulled the bicycle from the shed.

  “Lunch is ready,” she calls out.

  Annie waves and says she’ll be right in.

  Ophelia nods and waves back.

  At lunch Annie tells Ophelia that she’s looked at the bicycle and the rust is not so deep it can’t be cleaned. She lowers herself into the chair then says, “It’s mostly the handlebar, and maybe a few spots on the wheels that need work.” Before she takes her first sip of the chilled tea, she begins explaining how she will fold pieces of aluminum foil into thin strips to clean the areas around the rusted spokes.

  Ophelia is happy listening to Annie, and as the words cross the table she gathers the warmth of the conversation. It is the first time she has ever had another person willing to look for the forgotten memories.

  “I wish you could come back more often,” she says.

  “I do too,” Annie replies. “Maybe if I had more time I could get to know everything there is to know about…”

  She hesitates. It no longer seems right to call him bicycle boy; she needs to give him a name. “Allen,” she says.

  “I’m not certain that’s the boy’s name,” Ophelia warns.

  Annie laughs. “I know, but I have a feeling it is.”

  Ophelia shakes her head and chuckles. “Few people have the gift of finding memories. You’re one in a million.”

  “Maybe a billion,” Annie replies. “I don’t know a single soul other than you who can do it.”

  Ophelia laughs again. “I gue
ss you could say we’re two of a kind.” The words are barely out of her mouth when the thought brings another one to mind, a way to perhaps bring the girl back more often. “That’s sort of like being related. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I suppose so.” Annie smiles, the pleasure from such a thought obvious.

  “Good,” Ophelia says. “Seeing as how we’re practically related I can’t possibly accept money for you staying here, so you can come as often as you like without paying for the room.”

  Annie looks up wide-eyed. She is in a business where money is the measure of everything. She is a person who hangs a price ticket on people’s lives. The thought of not paying strikes her as odd.

  “Why would I not pay?” she says. “Renting out bed and breakfast rooms is your business.”

  Ophelia laughs. “It’s actually more like a hobby. Folks coming and going keeps me from feeling lonely. I don’t really need the money. Edward left me more than enough to live out my years.”

  “But you said you had to scrimp and save to—”

  “We did. But Edward was a life insurance salesman, and he believed it was unfair to ask others to buy something he didn’t buy himself. When he died the house was paid off, and there was money to spare.”

  Annie notices this is the first time Ophelia has given voice to the mention of death. Up until now Edward has always been just “gone”. Feeling the friendship that is being offered, she pushes her chair back, stands and comes around to the other side of the table. With both arms around Ophelia’s narrow shoulders she leans forward and kisses her cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, and it is all that needs to be said.

  All afternoon Annie works on the bicycle. Starting at the very same spot where she heard the boy’s laughter, she works on cleaning the handlebar. It is slow going. She pours a dollop of Rust-Be-Gone on a square of foil, then scours the area with quick circular motions. When the spot is free of rust, she wipes it with a soapy rag, then rinses and dries it. As each area is cleaned she holds her hand to it and listens for a sound, any sound. Laughter, yes, but maybe something more. A word. A phrase. A name. But even when there is not a speck of rust or single pit mark left on the handlebar, she hears nothing.