Grimm's Last Fairy Tale

by Becky Lyn Rickman

  “I have been observing you for some time now.”

  “How do you even know who I am? Isn’t there some way you can appear to me or communicate with me?”

  Once again, the pen wrote:

  “Only if you agree to it.”

  “I agree. Please. Show yourself. I want to talk to you. I have questions, none of the least of which is, ‘Have I finally lost my mind?’”

  “Hello, Miss Austen.”

  Maggie gasped and turned to see the apparition. It looked remarkably like the portrait of Jacob Grimm that was on the computer screen and she did a few double takes to verify the resemblance.

  “What are you doing here? Why me? Is this real? Why have you been watching me? What do you want?”

  “Miss Austen, please try to relax a bit and allow me to explain.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! First things first. Why are you speaking in contemporary English vernacular?”

  “There is an explanation for that. May I speak now?”

  “Yes, please, I’ll just sit here and entertain this whole delusion I am suffering through, but, really, I’m not suffering through. I’m actually kind of enjoying it. I use the word suffering because I think most people suffer through mental illness. Not me, though. I am remarkably calm considering I’m speaking in a reasonably rational way to something that may or may not actually exist. I mean . . .”

  “Margaret? May I call you Margaret? Please. Hold your tongue for just a few moments and I’ll attempt to help you understand. First of all, I have been with you since you were 3. Do you remember your grandmother reading to you from my book of fairy tales? She bought you the book for your third Christmas, as I recall.”

  “How do you know . . . ?”

  “Woman, please!”

  “I’m so sorry. How rude of me to keep interrupting you! Please continue.” There was the slightest tone of sarcasm in her apology.

  “I am going to share something with you that is little known in your world. As authors of the most beloved books, we are allowed, in the afterlife, to visit those who are reading our books. It is a little loophole. Because of our contribution to the world, we are allowed to witness the impact of our works on those who enjoy them. It's the same with composers, artists, and the like. Anyone who leaves something of lasting beauty to the world when they leave enjoys this privilege.

  “So I came to you when you were a child, and I must tell you that your love of our stories was the most fulfilling thing in my afterlife. I have witnessed the reactions of many, many fans, but yours were the most precious to me. I became your devoted servant from those initial moments on.”

  “Really?”

  Maggie was spellbound. This was so much to take in. Not only that she was conversing with a spirit of some sort and beginning to make sense of it all, but also with the fact that someone had noticed and appreciated something that she had done. Maggie was a little overcome and began to leak tears.

  “Yes, my dear. You were my most dedicated fan and your love of my stories, as you know, spurred in you a love of literature in general. Wouldn’t you say that was accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, to continue, that should answer the question as to my vernacular. I have been with you for 50 years and have picked up the language, most of which, I must confess, I find to be rubbish.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have watched painfully as others have used and abused you and left you for dead, figuratively speaking. I have seen you climb out of holes that others would gladly have occupied and might have even pulled the soil in over themselves. I have adored you for so long, but had to hold my tongue until it was time.”

  Finally, Maggie was able to utter something other than “yes.”

  “Until it was time?”

  “Yes, dearest one, until you were ready for me and the possibility of what I have to offer.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Love.”

  “I am afraid you are a little late. I no longer believe in love. Not in the sense that a middle-school girl with her first broken heart gives up on love before she actually knows what it is. It doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in love at all. I love my children and they love me and I have love for my fellow man, but not romantic love. I don’t believe in romantic love. Not for me, anyway. No. Absolutely not!”

  Maggie spoke this not as a powerful statement, but rather as an exhausted resignation from a life filled with romantic failure.

  Jacob looked at her. The magnitude of his stare caused a stirring inside her that made her feel as though she were reuniting with him rather than meeting him for the first time. It was at the same time familiar and uncomfortable. He waited for her to say something else until the pause became a near estrangement. Finally he broke the silence with quiet assertion.

  “Margaret Naomi Austen, I adore you. I hold you in the highest regard. I esteem you to be a beautiful woman of strength and integrity. I have been waiting for a very long time to manifest myself to you. Please give me some inkling that there is hope; that I have not waited in futility.”

  “You need to leave,” was all she could whisper.

  Chapter 7,

  in which Maggie confers with her feline friends, recalls a slightly embarrassing Pink Floyd moment, and resumes the dull routine of her life with just a hint of newly found enthusiasm

  Maggie looked around. There was no sign that anything had even happened. Was this real? Did she send him away? What was wrong with her?

  She made her way through the bleakness of the workday and headed home with no more sign of the great and terrible Mr. Grimm. She had no idea whether to feel relieved or sorrowful.

  “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, Colonel Brandon, you will not believe what happened to me today. Mommy lost her ever-loving mind. And here’s the saddest part. I am perfectly comfortable with that fact.”

  The cats were a great sounding board because they never passed judgment. They just listened and commiserated, almost always taking her part.

  As Maggie nuked her usual low-calorie frozen dinner, she fed the kitties and recounted the events of the day to them. They ate with no more astonishment than they had ever expressed when their mistress filled them in on the comings and goings of her life.

  After her dinner, Maggie sat at her computer and looked up as many articles as she could on the Brothers Grimm and on Jacob Grimm in particular since he had been the one to intrude on her solitude. All the while, she wondered if he was in the room with her and just not showing himself. Had he really been with there with her for her entire life? He seemed to know things about her; of that she was certain. Why would he do that? Could a child really captivate an author so much that he would desire to be with her? She recalled the creepy stories about Lewis Carroll and Alice. But as Jacob had waited until now to show himself to her, she could only imagine that he meant nothing untoward in her youth. His motives must be more pure. Was she actually having this conversation in her head about a ghost? It must surely have been her mind playing tricks on her. It was oxygen deprivation from the apnea, right? She had hallucinated the entire thing. Yes, that must have been it.

  She covertly changed into her nightgown under her clothes just in case he was actually watching. Oh, how she hated her hips and belly. For years she had joked that the extra weight served as her “man repellent” but recently she had had the epiphany that it was insulation from the world. It replaced the excess pounds that she had divorced . . . twice. Maggie could not imagine, at this point in her life, actually changing her clothes in front of someone. She retired to her bed early, knowing she had sleep to make up for and soon she was in a deep and relaxing slumber. In the words of another of her favorite literary heroines, tomorrow would be another day.

  At around two fifteen in the morning, she sat straight up in her bed in a state of terror. She hated these night frights that sometimes overcame her and robbed her of the rest she so desperately needed. It generally only happened when she was the most exha
usted, which held no logic.

  She looked around the dark room, her eyes eventually acclimating to the point where she could see shadows.

  “Jacob? Are you here?”

  There was no response.

  These days, it was rare for Maggie to awaken with the longings for a man's touch. This was one of those times. To have some strong arms around her to comfort her back into peaceful safe rest would be such a welcome change.

  She had taught her children all the best music, which included a love for the now classic rock she had grown up with. They grew up sharing her love of Chicago, REO Speedwagon, Fleetwood Mac, Jimi Hendrix, and her favorite, Pink Floyd. She used to torment her teenage children about wishing she was David Gilmore’s guitar and that he would be touching her with that same calculated passion. They would “ew” and “gross” the thought. But deep down she knew they understood. To have someone care about her the way he must have felt about his instrument would be a first in her life.

  These random thoughts eventually led her back to sleep and the rest of the night was filled with uninterrupted slumber.

  Chapter 8,

  in which Maggie tries her best to compartmentalize her amorous specter, his presence is explained, and she has a very uncomfortable run-in with a rude customer

  When she arrived at the bookstore, she was not greeted by the resident feline.

  “That darn cat! She must have been locked in the back room again.”

  Maggie went back to the chilly, dark storage room and the minute she opened the door, Hemingway burst through with plenty to say on the subject. She ran up front to her food dish, leaving Maggie to clean up the inevitable mess. Maggie sniffed around and her nose finally led her to a small pile thankfully away from the antique books that were stored there. As she began to clean up, she heard a voice that was becoming all too familiar.

  “Margaret, you are above such menial tasks. It breaks my heart that you have to do that.”

  Maggie, still on all fours, crawled around to face the specter addressing her.

  “Jacob, what are you doing? It makes me a little uneasy to think of all the ways you must have encountered me. It’s like you’re a voyeur and I have no way of knowing what you’ve been seeing.”

  “Hitherto, I have only been able to visit you when you were reading me, and you always read me when you needed to escape. That is how I was able to connect the dots and know of what you had been through. But now that you have invited me . . .”

  “Wait, wait, wait! I have not invited you. Quite the contrary, I told you yesterday that you needed to leave. I didn’t mean for just a few hours. I meant I can’t have you in my life at all. It’s more than I can deal with.”

  “Do you not remember that I asked you if I may appear before you?”

  “Yes, but I meant right then. I didn’t mean from now on.”

  “I see. I thought you meant that it was more or less an open invitation.”

  “No, Mr. Grimm, my life is very complicated and I am, quite frankly, worn out. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to attach myself to someone at this point; and, especially not a spirit or whatever it is that you are. That makes it way beyond complicated.”

  “I don’t want to make your life complicated at all. In fact, that is the last thing I want. But Margaret, I believe that given the chance, I could make your life better. Please don’t think that I’m arrogant at all. But due to the length of time I’ve watched over you, I know you better than anyone. I see the tears you cry when you want no one to see them. I know what hurts you and I know what makes you laugh.”

  “Look, Jacob, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I need to get up front. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Maggie was laconic in her delivery of that brush-off. She just needed to forget that she’d ever met this spirit and get on with her lackluster life. It wasn’t glamorous. It was predictable and safe. And, that is precisely how she needed it to be.

  “As you wish, Margaret. But if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’ll be there. Just call me.”

  There was mournful surrender in his voice.

  Maggie just turned and walked slowly back up to the front of the store. She never looked back. She silently prayed for no customers that day so she could just work and contemplate a way to make Jacob disappear for good.

  She went through her day with no enthusiasm, and with a little irritation at the number of customers that chose that day to visit the bookstore and the insanely obscure books they wanted to order. Though it distracted her from her own craziness, it did not allow for any quiet reflective time to consider her predicament.

  Jacob honored her request and she began to feel a little emptiness in his absence. But it was for the best. She kept telling herself that—over and over again. Maybe, if she kept say it, one day it would be true.

  Just as she was getting ready to close up the shop, one last book lover came into the store. Maggie heaved a sigh as she heard the door chimes.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “What can you do for me? I’ll tell you what you can do for me! I ordered a book 6 weeks ago and I haven’t heard anything from you since. I’ve left several messages for you and haven’t heard anything back. I want my book!”

  “I’m so sorry. I never got the messages.”

  “Well, you had better get your act together. I paid for this book and now don’t have time to read it before the book club meets. What do you have to say about that? What good is the book to me once I finally get it?”

  “Look, if you’ll just calm down, I’ll call and see what’s going on. I know you must be frustrated.”

  It was taking her last ounce of energy to show courtesy to this irate customer.

  “You don’t know anything!” The woman could not be appeased. Maggie felt the little hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and was becoming more than a little uneasy with the situation.

  “What is the name of the book?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You don’t even know what book I ordered? What good is this place? Forget about it! Just refund my money and let me get out of here!”

  “Very well, but I still need to know the name of the book so that I can find the order and figure out how much to refund you. Will you please just take a breath and give me the title?” Maggie’s patience had been stretched beyond its capacity and she was now becoming as cranky as this customer.

  “Take a breath? That’s your answer? You owe me $31.99!”

  “That’s some expensive book,” Maggie uttered under her breath.

  “So, you have something to say, do you? So do I. I’m never coming back here again! You just lost a valuable customer!”

  Maggie had had enough and could hold back no more.

  “Promise?”

  She shoved the money onto the counter and escorted the disgruntled customer out of the door and locked it behind her, slamming the CLOSED sign against the window. She made her way back to her desk, put her head down on her arms, and began to sob without restraint.

  “Margaret? I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I want to do something to console you. You did not deserve that. I’m so sorry.”

  “Jacob? I’m the one who’s sorry. I think I’ve treated you the way she treated me—thoughtless and dismissive. Maybe not so nasty, but I certainly have not treated you with any respect. Please forgive me!”

  “Oh, dear one, there is nothing to forgive. I barged into your life without invitation. What did I expect from you? That you would accept me with open arms, mind, and heart? How could you? How could you believe in anything after what you’ve been through? And then to have to endure such horrible creatures as that woman for the paltry pay you receive? I marvel at how you have borne so much with such grace as you have. You astonish me. Truly, you do.”

  “I wish I could give you a great big hug,” Maggie spoke in little more than a whisper; half hoping he would not hear her.

  “I would give my life a hundred times to be able to ho
ld you.”

  Maggie could no longer hold back the tears she felt. So many diverse emotions were fighting for supremacy and none were winning the battle. She felt grateful for feeling something she had allowed herself to feel before, but never with such intensity and abandon. She felt frustrated with finally having this precious gift and not being able to physical express herself. She felt curiously unafraid of the consequences of someone finding out she was communicating on such an intimate level with a spirit. She felt anger for Jacob not being a tangible human being and for the fact that the two of them were born in such different times and circumstances. She felt exhausted from all of these and just wanted to crawl under her down comforter and claim some horrible disability so that she could spend her days and nights in and out of dreams of what might have been.

  “Jacob, what am I supposed to do with you?”

  Jacob felt her bewilderment and was filled with an overwhelming need to protect her. But did that mean continuing to watch over her or did it mean leaving her in peace? This he must ponder while she slept. As much as he wanted to be with her always, her happiness and peace of mind were paramount to him. He resolved to do what was best, whatever that might be.

  “Margaret, may I prescribe a cup of chamomile tea and a warm bath and you have my word on my honor that I won’t be in the bathroom while you soak. I worry about all the stress you’re under. You can sort out the logistics of what to do with me later after you’ve relaxed a bit.”

  “Alright, maybe I should do that. Thank you, Jacob. So, just to clarify, once I lock up and leave, you will not be with me. I’ll go home, alone, have a long soak, have my dinner and then sleep . . . and you won’t be watching over me. Is that correct?”