by Calia Read
My mom sighs and links her fingers in front of her. “I think that conversation went well.”
“Uhh...yeah. It did.”
She gives me a strained smile. “I can already see small improvements in you, Serene, and that’s good because if you keep this up, your father might relent and give you back your job.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
She pats my leg hidden beneath the comforter. “I know we gave you a lot to think about, so I’ll leave you alone.” She starts to walk out of the room but turns at the last second. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll tell the maids not to come in here today, okay?”
“Okay.”
She smiles and all but runs out of the room.
I stare at the open doorway. My so-called parents fully expect me to find a job and move on with my life. Those are valid expectations. However, my heart and mind are stuck in the past, and I can’t take a single step forward without them.
Twenty-six days.
In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t seem like much, but it is. Habits are formed in twenty-one days. Radical changes in your life can gradually become easier to bear. Friendships can be forged or dissolved. Lives are lost, and in the same breath, new ones are born.
Yes, a lot can happen in twenty-six days. I could find a new job, get an apartment, and focus on the present. If I focused hard enough, I could adapt to this new life. And everything would slide back into its natural order. But that’s the thing about habits—once they are formed, they are a bitch to quit. I’ve constructed a habit around Étienne and how I can get back to his era.
I don’t want to relinquish him. Every night, I go to bed thinking about Étienne. Every morning, I wake up, knowing that something is missing from my life. At first, I can’t place it, but then it slams into me all at once: Étienne. The pain is as raw as when I first arrived back home.
I’ve spent the past twenty-six days since I was reunited with my family researching my family’s history and trying to look up Étienne’s. There are no viable traces back to him. I’ve tried to be patient and wait for a reply from ATrimble91. After two weeks, I sent another e-mail similar to the first. But I never received a response back even though it showed the user was active on the site almost daily.
Part of me wanted to toss my laptop across the room for not having access to the Lacroix family tree, and then the other side feels a deep sense of relief. Do I want to see what his life is like without me? Do I want to know if he remained with Old Serene? Or what if he divorced her, fell in love with another woman, and went on to have a slew of kids?
I know I should be happy he’s lived a long life and hope it’s filled with love. But when I love, I love with every fiber of my being. That includes the good and the bad. My love is giving yet selfish. And selfishly, I want him to only be with me for the rest of his life. It’s unreasonable to ask, but it’s how I feel.
Since I’ve reached a massive roadblock with the Lacroix family, I’ve moved on to their companies. The shipping company was sold in 1919 to Charleston Terminal Company. By 1922, CTC owned nearly the entire commercial waterfront assets in Charleston. When I look up Étienne’s company, nothing shows up. I can’t imagine Étienne (or Livingston, for that matter) selling the family business only to do nothing.
Étienne can’t remain idle. In a lot of ways, he has a Type A personality. He likes to take control of situations and hates sitting still, and his mind is always running. Let’s say he also made the executive decision to sell his other company. I’m willing to lay down money he started another business venture. I just know it.
Frustrated for hitting, yet another roadblock, I open a new window on my laptop and Google Belgrave for the millionth time. Seeing that this beautiful plantation stood the test of time and didn’t succumb to the hands of my ancestors and Mother Nature never gets old for me. It makes me smile and feel so proud.
In the present day, Belgrave is now a private residence. As happy as I am that it stood the test of time, I also feel a bit hollow as if someone has scooped out a part of my heart, ran away with it, and left me with the scar of where it once was. All because I know, deep down, my beautiful Belgrave no longer needs me.
There’s no instruction manual on how to fix a broken heart, so I do what everyone else who has had one before me. I pick up the pieces, take one day at a time, and pray the fragments find a way to fuse themselves together because time heals all wounds. Right?
Exhaling a shaky breath, I look at my reflection in the mirror and do a quick once-over. I have a job interview today. To appease my parents, I’ve stuck with our agreement, to quote my father, “not sit on my ass and be online all day.”
Today’s interview will be my fifth one since I’ve been in Champaign, and I’m not placing much stock in it. I can’t blame these businesses—small or large—for passing on me. My answers to their questions are brief. My smile is forced and never reaches my eyes. I’ll be the first one to admit my heart just isn’t in it. I’m miserable.
I know it. And the interviewers know it.
But the interviews get me out of the house, and for an hour, I forget just how convoluted and fucked up my life is. When I walk downstairs, I pass the black and white photos that display the Hambleton’s stores and try my hardest not to look at them because when I do, I find myself doing double and triple takes before I stop altogether and thoroughly inspect each picture.
I keep looking for Emmeline in each image. It’s stupid because I have no idea what she looks like. But it’s hard for me to believe Emmeline’s last name was used for such a wildly popular department store, yet her image is nowhere to be found.
I broached the subject with my mother two weeks ago, and when I did, she became as stiff as a board before she said, “I’m sure the Langley family had photos of her, but they got lost in the shuffle of family members. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if she was a good person.”
When I asked her what she meant by that last part, her voice became rigid. I knew I was pushing my limits. “She didn’t treat her son well. Let’s leave it at that, all right?”
If I can’t receive information from my family, that’s okay. I found myself on Findagrave.com. It sounds morbid, but I discovered the site through Ancestry.com. You can go there and find graves of your ancestors or someone you’re doing research on. In some cases, it’s the perfect way to cross-check information to make sure you have the correct person you’re looking for. If the site doesn’t have the person you’re seeking, you can put in a request, and someone in that area will take a picture of the grave you’re searching for and notate the cemetery where it’s located.
In a lot of ways, it’s like sending a friend request and hoping the person accepts. I tried to go off the sparse information I had of Emmeline and sent a request a week ago, but I’ve yet to get a reply.
Asking my dad any questions wasn’t a possibility. The man was a workaholic and spent most days at work or in his office. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken to me since I’ve been here, and each time, they were one-word replies. It cuts me every time I see him because I remember the amazing conversations and memories I had with my old father.
Ian rarely comes over. I’ve learned through eavesdropping on other conversations that he’s in his last year of law school, doesn’t have a girlfriend, and keeps to himself. However, Bradley is the exact opposite and comes over frequently with his wife and child to have dinner. He’s the head of communications for Hambleton’s and has been for some time, which honestly doesn’t shock me. What does is his upbeat personality and kindness to me. In the ultimate role reversal, he’s become the golden child. The one with a halo above his head. I’m surprised little cherubs with harps don’t float down from heaven every time he enters the front door.
Bradley was never cruel to me in my past life in McLean, but he was indifferent. With such a large age gap between us, we never really connected on any sort of level. But the way he acts around me and asks how I’m d
oing leads me to believe we have a close brother and sister relationship.
It’s almost as if Ian and Bradley have switched personalities.
I’m waiting for the moment for this new life to suddenly make sense, but I’m still in a daze. I don’t know if I’ll ever accept what I’m seeing. It was easier to adapt to Étienne’s family and his era because I had nothing to go off. But this is different. This time, I have a Rolodex worth of memories of the family I once had. My mind keeps spinning the knob, only to pluck a memory and then mourn the loss of it.
It’s going to take longer than twenty-six days to get over my old life.
My heels echo down the hall as I walk toward the garage. There was one kind gesture my father did while I was “away” and that was making sure my car didn’t get towed after I was evicted from my apartment.
I stop to put on my green pea coat, grab my keys, and click the garage door opener on the side of the wall. The light slowly spreads across the cement and over the black Mercedes Cabriolet convertible. I looked up what the salary is for bookkeeping. While it’s decent, it’s certainly not enough to pay for this car. Apparently, my parents helped with this. Hell, they might have bought it for me altogether for all I know.
When I turned sixteen in McLean, my parents got me a Honda Civic because it was practical. They said all the other kids my age were too spoiled and driving cars beyond their means. I didn’t mind. I was just excited to finally have a car.
I slide into the luxurious seat, inhaling the strong leather scent, and start the car, blasting the heat.
While I rub my hands together and wait for the car to warm up, I mentally build myself up for this interview.
If I can do the impossible, such as time travel, then finding a job should be easy as pie.
“You got this,” I tell myself in the rearview mirror.
After a few minutes, I glance at my watch and sigh. It’s time to go.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to myself before I buckle up and put the car into reverse.
One hour later, I get back into the driver seat, slamming the door shut. Instead of pressing the keyless ignition button, I tilt my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. It feels like every time I have a moment of silence, my thoughts remind what I should really be doing, which is finding a way back to Étienne.
If I could, I’d gather my thoughts in my arms and console them. “I know, I know,” I’d say. “I’m trying to find a way to him.” They’re just as scared as my heart that we’ll never see Étienne again.
That isn’t a possibility. But then again, neither is time traveling, and I was able to do that. I press the heel of my palms into my closed eyes and groan.
I know I didn’t get the job. I just know it. Like all the interviews before, this one did not go well. I think of the conversation I had with my parents. With only two months to find a job, I was quickly exiting month one and entering the second with no leads on a job or apartment and no clues on how I can go back to Étienne. I was at a stop gap.
My options were quickly starting to dwindle. I briefly thought about asking to stay with Myen and Bradley. Because best friends help best friends, right? But she was due in a month. I’m sure the last thing she wanted was a houseguest. I could ask Ian, but I knew that relationship was gone. He might let me stay with him, but it’d be so awkward.
As awkward as staying with your parents? my mind whispers.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask Ian. Starting the car, I headed back to my parents’ home, feeling dejected as ever. Sooner than later, I pull into my parents’ driveway. I still haven’t accepted that this ostentatious mansion is theirs.
Whenever I step inside, my body becomes tense, and I feel like a guest at someone’s house. Half the time, I’m tempted to walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell instead of walking through the garage door into the mudroom.
When I pull my car into the garage, I see Ian in the garage pulling boxes down from the shelves and digging through them. He lifts his head briefly to wave at me before he continues to rummage through the box in front of him. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he tosses the box to the side and reaches for a new one, creating disarray all around him.
I get out of my car and watch him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to find an important book I need for school. I thought I had it at my condo, but I think I packed it away in storage,” Ian says as he grabs another box from the shelf.
After overhearing another conversation, I learned Ian is going to the U of I College of Law. He still works part time for the family company.
I’ve lost all hope for the fun, happy Ian to come back, the one who was continually making funny comments and had me dissolving into laughter. Instead, he’s been replaced with a stressed-out, jaded Ian. Another interesting aspect I’d never seen before is the tension now simmering between him and Bradley. Sure, they’re cordial to one other, but I can’t help but notice that when Bradley is around with his family, Ian makes himself scarce, and Bradley’s smiles become strained.
Once again, I find myself asking the golden question. What the hell happened to my family?
“What are you all dressed up for?” Ian asks.
I glance down at my clothes and walk toward him. “I had an interview.”
He doesn’t look up as he speaks. “How did it go?”
“Oh, about as well as the first five.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a job soon,” he says with zero conviction.
“Doubtful, but thanks for the encouragement.”
He grunts in reply and keeps digging through the boxes.
“Do you want me to help you?”
Ian looks at me, momentarily shocked by my offer. “Oh, uh, no. I got it.”
“Well, let me know. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”
“If you’re bored, you could go through your boxes.”
Crossing my arms, I lean forward and frown. “What boxes?”
Sighing, Ian stands to his full height and places his hands on his hips.
“When you disappeared on us, Mom and Dad obviously had to clean out your apartment. Some furniture they sold, the rest went into a storage unit, but your personal belongings are in boxes over there.” Ian blindly flings a hand toward the opposite side of the garage where boxes are neatly stacked on shelves.
I stare at the boxes in shock. “I didn’t know that.”
“You never asked.”
I walk toward the shelves. Just as Ian said, there are at least five boxes with my name printed on the side. “I’ll be damned,” I whisper.
Twisting around, I face Ian. “I can’t believe this.”
Ian shrugs. “What did you expect? It’s not as though our family is big on communication.”
He stops digging through his boxes, then steps over them and walks toward me. “I was just thinking about something.”
“What?”
“If you’ve had six failed interviews, you have to figure out what you’re doing wrong because it’s evidently you.”
“Thank you for that,” I say dryly even though I know he has a valid point.
“No, hear me out for a moment. After college, you immediately got a job with the family company. I’m going to take a wild guess and say you haven’t updated your resume in a long time?”
“Uh...”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Even if you don’t think anything is wrong with it, it doesn’t hurt to look at an old resume from college and compare it to the newer version you’ve created.”
“Hmm...you know, that’s actually not a half-bad idea.”
Ian grins. “Glad I could be of assistance.”
The gesture is so characteristically old Ian that my heart aches at seeing his smile. Abruptly, I turn away from him and point at the boxes. “You think my old resume’s in there?”
“That’s my guess.”
Am I passionate about finding a new job being an accountant? No. But I am
dying to see what’s in these boxes. I want to know what type of life I had here. It’s painfully clear it wasn’t close to the one I lived in Greensburg, but there could be similarities. When I spoke with Myen, she mentioned I was an old soul. Does that mean I still gravitate toward antiques?
I make quick work of taking the boxes down from the shelves. I stack them one on top of the other.
My heart beats in anticipation as I look at them. I take off my jacket and begin opening the boxes at a rapid pace. The first few are nothing but books. One holds my yearbooks from high school. I flip through, marveling at seeing my smiling face on the glossy pages. I was in the National Honor Society and played volleyball all four years? I have no recollection of that. I find my degree from the U of I. There’s a photo album solely dedicated to my college graduation. More memories I have no recollection of.
“Find anything?” Ian hollers as I open the third box. He gave up on his quest for the law school book and stacked the boxes back on the shelves.
“Nothing.”
Squatting down, I get a closer look and find this one filled with paperwork. I see bank statements, taxes from the past few years, and a mountain of paperwork for student loans. I’ll be in my eighties before I ever pay that off, and what do I have to show for it? No memories from the moment or a job to take credit for.
My fingers flip through the pages until I finally come across my resume.
“Here we go!” I say triumphantly.
“Great. Now start putting the boxes back before Mom comes out here and has a conniption when she sees the state of the garage.”
“All right. All right,” I mutter. As I stand back up, the resume slips from my grasp. I bend down to pick it up, and when I do, I bump into the last two boxes next to my left leg. They wobble before they fall to the ground.
“Shit,” I mutter.
The contents of the second box have spilled onto the ground.
Once again, I squat down so I can put the box in the upright position and begin returning the contents back to the box. There are a few photo albums, DVDs, magazines, and some more books. I look at the titles. One is on the Romanov sisters, a stack of Paullina Simons’s books, another book titled June, and the one beneath that is called The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.
