“Do you play cards?” Greg asks as he cleared our empty plates. “I love cards. Well, I guess it depends on what you mean. My family likes a good card game, but I don’t play for money or anything.” He chuckles. “Let me rephrase that. Would you like to play cards with me. Now. Maybe gin or rummy?” “You’re on! How about rummy?” We settle down on his sofa, which is surprisingly comfortable. I glance around the room as he deals. There are a few items he must have collected from his travels and a couple that could be family heirlooms or at least hand-me-downs. Pictures of his family sit on the end tables – one of him, and I assume his brother and his parents, from what looks to be a few years ago; another of him and his grandfather. A third black and white photo of his grandparents. It’s a nice room. Simple but certainly well-kept, and with enough of a personal touch that you can get a feeling for the person who had decorated it. We play cards for the next hour or so, me winning by a slim margin of ten points and him promising that he’ll come out victorious next time.
“Oh, do you want to see the diary,” he asks as we finish up our game. “I forgot that I told you about it, but you haven’t had the chance to actually read it.” “Do you think that’s ok? I mean, I know he passed away a few years ago, but still, it’s so personal to him.” “If I trust you with it, then so would he. Plus, he and I were always a lot alike. Perhaps it will give you some insight into me.” He smiles, but I had the feeling he isn’t fully joking. He does have a point. It won’t hurt for me to learn some background about his family, and him letting me see it tells me how much he already trusts me. I know enough of him to know that he wouldn’t let just anyone read it.
He shuffles through a box where he seems to be keeping those items he deems most important. “I actually didn’t get all the way through,” he indicates a bookmark about two thirds of the way into the diary. “Well, why don’t I start from there then?” It makes sense. I can always go back over the rest, but with our combined efforts, we can cover more ground quickly. “Feel free to look through anything you’d like. I think basically any box is fair game, though most of them probably don’t hold anything interesting. I figure I could shower and get ready for work while you peruse this stuff, and then I’ll come back to see what you’ve found. Sound good?” I nod. It occurs to me how much we are already acting like an actual couple, which I am rather sure we are not just yet. It’s comforting, I realize to my surprise, to feel that way. I’ve never liked the dating process much, but having someone with whom I’m at ease with is something I enjoy.
I open the bookmarked page and begin reading. The first few entries are nothing notable, at least not in terms of what we’re looking for. They talk about his dates with Millie, Greg’s grandmother, and the plans for their upcoming wedding – an event that his grandfather seems thoroughly excited about. The fourth entry, though, piques my interest.
Julienne seemed distracted today. Perhaps because Ed wasn’t there. Maybe they’d gotten in a fight.
Ed. He must have meant Sharpe, I note to myself. Interesting that he was on familiar enough terms with him to call him by a nickname. I continued reading.
She kept saying that she was glad to see me, how she’d been worried she wouldn’t get the chance. I tried to ask her what she meant, but couldn’t get a clear answer. I went upstairs to see the girls and something strange caught my eye. The door to the back exit was locked with some fancy lock. Looked like an antique. I thought maybe I’d never noticed it before, and I asked Jul about it. I was afraid maybe she was worried about her safety. She said she did it for the girls, that they were having bad dreams about monsters being in the stairwell, so she locked it for them. I didn’t really believe her, but she assured me that they weren’t in danger.”
Back entrance? Stairwell? Nan had been right, that door led outside! But where… suddenly an image flashes in my mind of a spot on the back wall of the house that’s covered with ivy. It has to be beneath there. Had Julienne feared for her safety so much that she had the door locked and the back entrance sealed off? I’d seen no sign of a door when I’d poked around the back garden. Was that even something she, or Sharpe perhaps, would be capable of doing? Architecture and construction is not my forte, but I know someone I can ask. I make a note on my to-do list to call Billy ASAP. So the door was locked by Julienne herself, before they disappeared. I look on the date of the entry. February 20. Just six days before the date on the letter that his grandfather received. Just two before the entire household vanished without a trace. And what happened to the key? Why, almost 100 years later, had nobody once tried to open it? I’m practically jumping up and down when Greg makes his way back up to the attic.
“Greg!” I startle him in my excitement. “You’re not going to believe what I found, right here in your grandfather’s diary!” “Really?” Greg raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like I should have kept reading.” I hand him the journal, flipping to the entry. I stand close to him, examining him as he reads, the scent of his cologne and remnants of his soap, fresh from the shower, reaching my nose. God help me, I think. I have few weaknesses when it comes to men, but their scent is one of them. “Why don’t we bring this downstairs?” I suggest, hoping to get out of such close quarters before I find myself much too attracted to him. “You’ve just cleaned up and now you’re here in all of this dust.” His practical side weighs in, and we head back down to the living room.
I wait anxiously while he makes his way through the entry. Finally, he looks up. “She locked the door herself, and grandpa knew. He thought it was out of safety. That completely goes against every assumption we’ve made so far, thinking that she left on her own. And he mentions a back entrance….” “I think I know where that might be. The other day, I noticed a patch of ivy growing on the back wall. It wasn’t anywhere else in the garden, and I thought it odd, especially since the rest of the garden had been so carefully groomed. But then I remembered that Linda had moved somewhat suddenly, and just figured it was a project she hadn’t gotten to.” “But perhaps,” Greg continues my thought, “the ivy is covering up the door.” “But Linda wouldn’t know that, unless she experienced that feeling too…” I’m thinking out loud now. “Feeling?” “The house has a lot of odd feelings. Even Nan, princess of everything practical and logical, felt it.” “I’d love to take a look at it. The back garden I mean. Crap, we’d better get going,” Greg says as he catches a glance at the clock on the far wall.
“Do you want to take the journal with you?” It’s tempting, but it feels wrong to remove it from the house. Besides, I should probably get some actual work done, and I know I won’t with the journal nearby. I tell Greg as much. “Ok, maybe tomorrow night? If you’re not sick of me by then,” he teases, using my joke from earlier. Without warning, he pulls me to him and kisses me. Not the gentle, sweet kiss that I’d gotten in the park earlier, but a deep kiss full of passion, telling me in no uncertain terms that he was far from being sick of me. “We really should get going,” he mutters after taking a moment to recover. “It’s probably a good thing. I’m trying so hard not to rush this, but it’s not easy.” I nod. I hadn’t expected to feel the way that I do now – to feel disappointed that I can’t kiss him again right away, anxious for the next time I can see him. I truly don’t remember experiencing this before, even with Brent - at least not to this degree. Perhaps it’s because it’s unexpected. I came up here to get away from this kind of feeling, not run straight into it.
He drops me off at my cottage with a gentle kiss on the lips, taking my hand in his before telling me that he’ll see me tomorrow evening. I walk into the house and shut the door, pacing the living room unable to collect my thoughts. Half of my brain tells me to put on the breaks, that this is moving too fast, emotionally at least, and that I’m not ready. The other half tells me it’s too late, and that by pushing Greg away I risk losing something, and someone, that may become quite special.
I decide to look outside to see if I can find the doorway th
at his grandfather alluded to. Being among the flowers, their colors and scents, always seems to quiet my mind. I grab a pair of old gardening gloves that I recently found while unpacking a box. I don’t know anything about the vine in the back, and I don’t want to risk getting scratched up. I walk towards the wall, pulling away a piece of the ivy. Sure enough, I can see a faint outline beneath. Whoever attempted to cover up the door had not done a top-notch job. How did I not noticed this before? They must have planted the vine, hoping to further cover up a sub-par concealment. Or maybe, I counter my own thoughts, the vine was planted later. The previous tenant loved to garden, and maybe had simply disliked the outline of the door in her well-manicured garden. Not everything is a conspiracy.
But why had someone gone to such great lengths to cover it up in the first place? Had Julienne been afraid for her life and that of the girls? Had she locked everything up and ultimately run away? Had her fears been well founded, and something more sinister happened? Greg, Grace, and myself had come to the conclusion that they had left of their own volition and not been harmed. Had we been wrong? And what about Sharpe? Greg’s grandfather hadn’t indicated anything but warm regard for him, and as the only person much acquainted with him besides Julienne, it seems reasonable to assume Sharpe innocent. But who else could Julienne been so afraid of? Then again, she told his grandfather that she wasn’t, that the measures were all to assure the girls that they were safe from the monsters of their dreams. It seems a pretty drastic step, but she’d cared for the girls as if they were her own. I wander the gardens, letting my mind settle.
Billy would be able to take a look at the cover up work and give me an idea of when it had been done, I think. Then, I remembered that Greg offered to do the same. But Billy was a contractor by trade, and I’d already told him he could poke around the house and the door in the spare room. Perhaps I can arrange a time when they’re both available to avoid any hurt feelings.
I go back inside, thinking a dinner break is in order. I should probably do some work as well, I realize. I didn’t plan on a full day outing with Greg, and though I don’t have any pressing deadlines, Grace’s family was in town this weekend and I know she wants to host some get togethers. I throw some pasta on the stove, settling for a dinner that isn’t particularly healthy but a step up from eating out again, I assure myself.
Dinner in hand, I make my way upstairs and throw on my favorite gray t-shirt and loose purple pajama pants. It somehow feels impossible to work in the sundress I’ve been wearing all day. For whatever reason, I have trouble getting into my writing zone in everyday clothes. Creativity requires all comfort, I tell myself - no confinement from buttons, zippers, and unforgiving materials that refused to stretch when I reposition.
As I sit down, I make a note to send Cat an email and catch her up on my findings so far. While Nan has taken an unexpected interest in the door, Cat is the one who I suspect is most curious. Now, though, I have to sign off of all my personal accounts and work. Otherwise, I’ll get carried away. I draft two potential articles, not completely satisfied with either of them, but content that I’ve at least gotten a head start. I determine that I’ll revisit them in the morning with a refreshed mind and put them aside. After firing off a quick email to Cat, saying we needed to catch up and that I have some new developments to tell her, I set my alarm for 7 AM and climb into bed. A good night’s rest is essential - tomorrow has to be a productive work day.
My day of playing hooky took its toll on my emotions, and I am gripping the edge of sleep, thinking about Greg. The kiss in the garden was spontaneous - sweet, emotional, surprising, and everything that a first kiss should be. The one in his living room had been purposeful. He wanted to leave no doubt in my mind where I stood with him. But he also cautioned me that it was moving quickly, at least by his standards, and I was worried he might pull back. On cue, my phone buzzes. “Would much rather still be with you than at work. Hope you’re having a good night.” I write back quickly that I was having a quiet night and already in bed and will talk to him in the morning. This time, it isn’t an effort to be evasive or hold back. I am simply exhausted and having trouble keeping my eyes open long enough to press the send button.
Chapter 11
My alarm beeps too loudly, waking me from a sound sleep. Despite having slept well, coffee is a necessity, and I wander downstairs to put on a pot. While it brews, I pulled out my ever-handy to do list and start organizing my tasks: revise two articles, video lecture, text Greg, call Billy. I laugh at having to make a reminder to communicate with the outside world, but I know myself, and I’ll get caught up in my day and not remember until way later than I intend.
I’m glad to find that my articles from the night before look more promising than I anticipate. After about thirty minutes of fine tuning each, I fire them off to the respective editors and cross the first task off my list. The video lecture is next and, as always, my nemesis. Last week’s topic of fascination with tragedy got rave reviews - or as rave of reviews as a school lecture garners- and more than a couple of students requested a follow-up. To oblige, I’d sent a list of questions to the class to aid in the process, and asked them to submit their own questions to me. Now, as I read through some of their responses, Im impressed by their curiosity and creativity. Is it shameful to be captivated by a tragedy? Especially something that happened long ago, like the Titanic? We had used the Titanic as one of the ultimate examples of people’s interest in re-living mass tragedy. Why are we not as drawn to exciting surprises as tragic ones? I add that to my list of questions to answer.
Are people who work in psychology as captivated by tragedy as the rest of us? Or can they break it down so that it’s no longer intriguing? A taste of my own medicine, I think with a smile. It’s only fair that I answer from my own perspective. I give this one some thought. We might be more intrigued by it, in fact. We want to see what went wrong, study the mindset of the people involved, discover how it could possibly have been prevented. Of course, as in any profession, this analyzation is as much based on the personality of the professional as it is on the trade itself. I can only speak for myself.
I look back at the list of questions, searching for one more to include in the pile. “Is a tragedy ever too great to attract this type of morbid fascination?” Bingo, I have a winner! No, I think. Even something as horrendous as the Holocaust has been made into a motion picture. Wars, with tens of thousands of deaths have been turned into hollywood phenomena. Partly, of course, this is done to educate, and remember, so that the lives lost aren’t forgotten, and hopefully so that, as the saying goes, history doesn’t repeat itself. But partly, we are fascinated, morosely so, with loss and death and terror. Personal tragedies, on the other hand, may indeed be too great. At the sudden loss of a loved one, for instance, people can push their grief inside them for so long that they don’t cry until years later, if ever. I’ll expand on this topic of personal tragedy in another class.
I turn to the question I’d written for them:
Choose one real-life national or global tragedy and analyze the public’s response. Why do you think this reaction occurred? Has this, or will this, reaction change over time? Do you think the reaction is appropriate? Why or why not?
I like to provide loose guidelines with some structure and let the students run with it. One of the issues, in my opinion, with modern day psychology is that we put things in boxes too quickly. Things are analyzed and placed into black and white categories, and the workings of the human brain, to me, are far too complex to tidy up so neatly.
I asked each student to submit a topic, and accepted no more than two of the same. I urged them to choose less-well known events so that they weren’t quite so swayed by public or historical opinion and could analyze it more objectively. I read their topics now, curious to see how creative they are. These topics alone provide material enough for a few more video classes, and I find myself surprisingly excited to see how they turn out. “I
guess we professionals are just as intrigued as everyone else,” I conclude, smiling to myself.
As is bound to happen, my mind flashes back to the books on local disappearances, the newspaper clippings, my own notes and conversations about a potential tragedy that happened right here in my own cottage. Has all of this snooping around fueled my interest in unraveling tragic events? “Focus,” I tell myself, turning back to my class outline. I am grateful for the intelligence and curiosity of my students. With one lecture and three articles a week, material can sometimes feel tough to come by. I worry I’ll start sounding repetitive. While I never use the exact same content in each - it’s prohibited by my contracts, of course - it’s easy enough for the lines to blur and leave me wondering if my readers are getting weary of a subject.
The hour video lecture flies by, leaving me uncharacteristically eager for next week’s, and hoping my students felt the same. I am thankful once again that these classes were pre-recorded instead of live. It’s easier to be creative and animated when the mood strikes, as opposed to when thirty five kids were dutifully logged on, staring at me through their computer screens because it’s the assigned hour, hoping I don’t put them to sleep. I do have office hours via skype for students that need to speak one on one, but I’ve yet to get a request to “meet”.
This week’s class finished and two articles down, it’s time to write. I came up here to complete my novel, and I don’t want to involve myself so much in everything else that I forgot to do just that. This is to be my time of freedom, following my dreams of being a published novelist, with class and articles simply to pay the bills. I can’t let myself lose sight of that. I start the ninety minute timer. Re-reading the last few pages I’d written, I put some jazz on my headphones to block out distracting noise and begin to write. When my timer rings an hour and a half later - I set it loud enough to hear even through the headphones - it’s as if I’m waking from a trance. I haven’t gotten this swept away in my writing since arriving here, and it feels good. Maybe, I think, I’m finally settling in. I’m getting into a routine, or as much of one as I want, at least. I feel happier and more at ease than I have in the eight months since Brent and I parted ways. I know I owe much of that to Grace, Billy, and Greg. They’ve helped me get adjusted and get my life back here. For the first time in almost four years, my life depends solely on me, rather than a significant other. Even Greg, and whatever is happening between us, does not control my life in any way. He is there when I want to see him, but our lives are very independent.
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