Letters in the Attic Read online

  LETTERS IN THE ATTIC

  By: Talea Botha

  Copyright © 2013 Blue Ribbon Books

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  CHAPTER 1

  He pushed the wide door open and it creaked under its own weight. Dust came up in small clouds around our feet as if the house had awaken and was shaking itself up for its visitors. I pulled up my gypsy skirt a little, hoping the hem wouldn’t drag through the dust. It was my favorite skirt, and there was a lot of dust. My pink satin shoes were visible now, they’d been hidden under the skirt before, and they were a splash of unexpected color against the array of browns and grays of neglect. I looked up at the agent, but he was standing next to me, turned away with his arms straight by his sides as if he was waiting for an order, and he stared into the house without much expression. He seemed to be a bit of a dull man, even when I shook his hand. His eyes had swept over my bangles when I’d dropped my arm and they’d rattled a bit, but even that was without interest.

  I decided to ignore him as much as I could, and looked around, breathing in the old smells that hung in the air. My gaze followed some worrisome cracks up to the unusually high ceiling, but then I saw the intricate carvings at the corners, proving that this place was not a mass-produced box for humans to live in, like so many other places I’d seen. I shook my head a little to get the stray strands of hair away from my eyes, and felt the bounce of my curls settle back onto my shoulders. There was care in how this house was constructed; time and affection had been dedicated to giving it a life of its own. Art breathed in the very structure of it faintly, like it had withdrawn out of neglect, but it was there. I imagined the love and sorrow this house had witnessed with generations passing through. Whispers of what once was still hung in the corners of this house, a place that had long been forgotten.

  The estate agent shifted uncomfortably, and when I glanced over at him his shoulders were resolutely set. I felt bad for being so late - he'd complained about only having a few minutes left to walk me through - but I’d gotten so lost in my work, and now the magic of the walls around me were drawing me away from him, so I let the house scoop me up and take me away from the ridiculous pressure of time.

  A curved arch opposite the front door led to a large front room, and the moment I stepped into it I got drenched in the splendor of yesteryears. The wooden floors stretched wall to wall, and were worn down to a silver-gray with human traffic as well as neglect and decay. An old carpet, unsure of what color it was supposed to be anymore, stretched itself out battered and gaping in front of a spectacular fireplace, as if still trying to soak up some long lost heat. A filthy mirror suggesting remnants of grandeur covered the wall space above it, reflecting through its dim glass the sorrow of the room around it. It was a stranger now, cut from all ties of family bonds, a house instead of a home.

  I closed my eyes and saw the house as it should be. Warm rich colors in the front room, pastel yellow walls and a plush red carpet sending an invitation to lounge in front of a log fire, the fireplace gleaming and looming over its visitors with a protective air. The mirror shining, its silver paint restored, and reflections of guests in fine eveningwear – cocktail dresses and black bow ties perhaps – huddled in small groups at the foot of the grand staircase that curved to a balcony on the right side of the room, discussing the weather, the people, the house. Paintings against the walls, perhaps something I’ve painted myself, and a bright chandelier from the ceiling casting crystal reflections on everything within reach. There was so much potential in these rooms, so much heart left in the old house. The house had slowly fallen apart at the seams without the right attention, or the right affection. It was like a forlorn lover, lost in its misery at the prospect of spending eternity alone, missing the rays of the sun that once beamed through it, as it laughed and lived and loved with its owners.

  I turned to the agent, who looked away quickly, almost like he had been watching me.

  "It's perfect.”

  He hesitated for a second, looking at me with that face which didn’t show anything at all, and it made me wonder for a moment if it ever did, or if this mask was the only mask this dull estate agent ever wore. It was getting on my nerves; I was used to color, and this man had none.

  "You're taking it?" he asked flatly.

  "I am. Will you get the paper work to me as soon as possible?" I was determined to speak to him as little as possible, give him some dose of his own medicine.

  "Don't you want to take a look at the rest of it?" he asked after I’d turned my back on him. It made something in me spring to life.

  "Oh no, Mr. Wright, I've seen everything I need to see, felt everything I need to feel.” I waved a hand at him, trying to convey the air of superiority I felt over him, and my bangles rattled softly again on my arm. “There's nothing I can see in this old house now that will tell me anything different than it already has."

  I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to catch some reaction, any reaction, but he was looking around the old room, his hands pushed deeply into his pockets. It seemed an oddly casual gesture, not matching how straight and upright he was being. I tipped my chin up a little, and walked back through the front door and out onto the porch. He followed behind with a determined stride.

  The sky was an impossible blue, possibly the last before the gloomy clouds would dim the San Diego skies, and both ways from the wide, cracked drive the street was welcoming in the bright light it offered. I could live here for a while. I pulled out of the drive, waving at the agent when I turned down the road, but he didn’t wave back.

  “Sourpuss,” I grumbled when he’d turned away, but I was determined not to let him ruin my mood. The California sun baked through the windscreen, washing sleepy warmth over me, and I reached for the little button to switch the radio on. Music filled the car and swirled around me as I hummed to the melody, not even trying to hit the right notes. My mind was full of the house, full of the smells and colors that begged me to realize its potential. I already had an array of color swatches in mind, running them over the walls, thinking of contrasting colors, playing around with pastels in my mind’s eye the way they’d taught me to do at art school. It didn’t matter where I was now, my mind was an empty canvas, ready to splash colors all over it, and brush strokes and highlights repainted the house in different shades.

  The road in front of me stretched out, and I didn’t have to think about it anymore. Instead, I let the music lull me further into my daydream, and my foot eased off the pedal a bit. This was something I wanted to stretch out, relish for longer. And then suddenly I was pulled out. The warm colors turned into their awful twin shades; butter yellow became harsh mustard, spring green became moldy, greys blurred over everything, and then it all dropped and I crashed onto a cold stone floor. I felt my mood sink, and I tried desperately to pull it back, to reach down and yank it up, but something was dragging me down and I couldn’t fight it. I looked at the radio, the source of my pain, and willed it to spontaneously combust. It was the song. That wretched song and they had to keep playing it over and over again, refusing to let me forget the creases around his eyes when he smiled, the way his hair met with the back of his neck, the way his hands were a work of art all by themselves. I wanted to turn it off, but it had already done the damage. I was transported back to another time, another city, a memory that
I never wanted to call my own again. I was back on that balcony overlooking the city, still frosted with Christmas lights, dusted with a light layer of snow. I had an empty wine glass in my hand, and the rustle of the rich scarf around my neck was a pleasant whisper on the breeze. He had appeared at my side, out of nowhere it had seemed, and held a glass of champagne out to me. His hands were beautiful. I could still remember every crease, the way the muscles pulled taut when he moved them, and his skin rippled over them in tan waves. Was he one of Reggie’s friends? My friend from art school knew so many people it was almost impossible. Since we’d met in first semester we’d been so close, and I’d known so much about Regina’s life, but it had been hard to keep track of all the people she knew, all the names she flung around. I hadn’t seen this mystery man in the small living room when I arrived.

  He’d leaned on the balustrade with his elbows, taking in the view, and I’d felt the liberty to stare at him without feeling like I was imposing. His shoulders were broad, clad by a tan leather jacket, and dark straight hair dusted his collar at the back. Then he’d turned to me, and he’d smiled a smile that had made me forget where I was, and how to breathe. Or had it been the champagne? Difficult to tell, I’d never been good with either of them. He had sapphire eyes, a blue that you could get lost in, drown in. I’d duplicated that exact color so many times after that, sickeningly so often, now that I thought about it.

  “Only an artist would wear a red shawl to match those fiery curls,” he’d said, and twirled a few strands that had come loose from my updo around his finger. I could still recall the deep hum of his voice, the way the sound of it quieted off at the end almost like he’d never intended to say it out loud at all. I hadn’t even known how to reply then, but we’d both known he’d wrapped much more of me around his finger than just a curly strand of hair that night.

  Finally I gathered the strength to fiddle with the channels, but it was too late. I knew even before I tried, it had resurfaced. He had resurfaced. I switched off the radio, angry at how an innocent song could create such havoc. Then I noticed where I was, and turned left at the next traffic light.

  Reggie buzzed me in immediately, and had her arms draped over my shoulders before I’d even gotten through the door properly.

  “Serena, It’s been too long!” she crowed in my ear before she pulled away from the embrace, “Come sit down, we have so much to talk about. Come, sit!” she grabbed my hands and pulled me to the couch where we sat down together, her strong fingers still wrapped determinedly around mine.

  “I was just about to ring you, you know, you have excellent timing. Gerald and I have been in a fight. Again. Insufferable man. Just the same old things, you know, but I can’t let him go, I love him, unfortunately, and that’s my downfall I suppose, but it is what it is. Oh you have to see what he bought me to make up for it, I can tell how guilty he feels, but he knows just how to get me, sly thing.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as Reg rambled on. I didn’t even try to say something; it was always a pointless struggle until she’d gotten everything off her chest. Then I could have my turn. It was nice to listen to her going on though; it distracted me from the horrible heavy feeling that had settled at the pit of my stomach. My dear friend, she was such a character, such a mess really. I struggled to imagine how she could be happy with that man. Gerald was so… average. There was nothing about him a woman could get excited about. He wasn’t handsome, nor charming, nor even understanding. He wasn’t creative, nor scientific, nor anything that would set him apart from other men and it was clear that Regina was the one wearing the pants, which was all backwards. Maybe it was the gifts, it seemed he managed to buy Reggie’s forgiveness every time, and it worked for them.

  “Anyway, you know how it is, being stuck to someone with such a lack of imagination. I tell you, that man will be the death of my creativity, but you know the disposition we’re in as females, we make them think we need them, but we stay because we know they’d be nothing without us.” She laughed at her own joke, and then squeezed my hands again, finally pausing to gasp for air. She searched my face for some reaction.

  “But tell me about you! You’re being so quiet.”

  “I found a house.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful! Is it positively horrible? I don’t know how you survive in those wrecks you buy.”

  “Oh no, it’s magic, Reg! It’s begging me to fix it up. I’ve never seen anything so full of potential.”

  “That’s lovely dear. At least you’re enjoying yourself. How many houses have you done already? I keep having to change your address card, I swear it’s a scribbled mess by now. I’ll have to throw it away soon and start with a new one.”

  “This will be my fifth, but I love it. I don’t know how I’ll part with it once I’m done. The others were hard but this one is a gem. You won’t like it, of course, since you’ve always hated dust.”

  “It’s my allergies, hon.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But really, Reg, you should see it. It’s positively vibrating with possibility. I’m quite sure it will break my heart to leave it.”

  “So then stay in it.”

  “I can’t, it’s my job remember. My art won’t bring in enough money by itself. Besides, I love renovating these places, seeing how it gets a second chance, new value.”

  “Whatever makes you happy, dear, you know I love you just as you are. It will be nice to get out of that place you’re in now though. I imagine, you must be sick of the emptiness Mike left behind.”

  Great, she had to remind me of him now, just as I’d managed to get myself under control again. Tears unexpectedly threatened to well up in my eyes and I bit down hard, trying to will the lump in my throat to back down. I wasn’t going to discuss it all with Reggie again; she didn’t understand any of it. She was my best friend, and we really shared everything with each other, but she hardly blinked an eye when Gerald messed up. I refused to be the emotional case between the two of us; I really was the more rational one if you had to compare us.

  “It will be nice to move out, but I liked getting my space back when he moved out.” I’d tried sounding confident, waved a hand as I spoke, “I’m really more of an independent person, you know that.”

  “Oh that’s such a lie, you terrible thing, I know you hated every minute without him. But don’t worry, we all think you’re better off, even Gerald, and he misses nearly everything so that’s saying something.”

  I wished she would stop. She wouldn’t understand how hard it had been, how much the silence in the apartment echoed through my bones in the night, how I still waited sometimes for his key through the front door late at night, and then how stupid I would feel when I remembered he wasn’t coming home again. With Reggie going on like this, I just couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried, and I’d really hoped stopping by would cause a distraction. The truth was that I wasn’t nearly as independent as I would have liked, as I have tried to portray. I didn’t like being alone. When Mike found me I’d really thought I’d found my knight, someone who would share my space with me, share my dreams. And then he turned out to be… well, a disappointment. A heartbreak. And neither of those were something I wanted to make time for in my life. My days were all about colors and dimensions, not about nursing this horrible sorrow that had lodged itself somewhere between my ribs. It was such a waste of my creativity when I painted something in colors that mourned.

  The day of the move finally came, and it was hideous. It wasn’t the packing and the removal men, and the van. I was used to moving; I didn’t have more than I needed, so packing was quick and it wasn’t hard to find the boxes after I’d labeled them. It was leaving the place behind again that really got to me. I put so much of myself into these places. Hours of hard work went into them, into painting and fixing and carpeting, until everything was fresh and new and deserving of a second chance. And then it came time to move on, the house was done, new owners found, and the increase in price was my pay. But I had to break the bo
nd. Cut the umbilical, as Reggie had said the first time, and I couldn’t help but cry when I’d pulled the front door shut for the last time.

  But this time it was different. It was about more than that; I was leaving the last thing I had left of Mike. I was about to close the door to the space we shared, to the memories enclosed within those walls. I saw him again in the bathroom, his naked upper body as he stood shaving in front of the mirror with a towel around his hips. I saw him in creased pajamas, hair ruffled, spilling milk as he poured it over his cereal while half asleep. I saw him coming through the front door, smelling of aftershave and something that only belonged to him – a scent that only Mike smelled of – with bags of groceries in his strong hands. This was the last step in moving on. Even though it had been months now, it felt like I was finally closing the door on our relationship. It felt like I was going to evaporate without this anchor that held me down.

  The new house did its share in distracting me from the hollow feeling I’d tried, and failed, to ignore the whole morning. The removal men were everywhere at the same time, and it was impossible to point them all into the right rooms with my things. I’d only been through the rest of the house once that morning before the truck arrived, and I hadn’t even decided where everything needed to go, or which rooms needed desperate work first as they were unloading the furniture on the lawn. I ran around frantically, and most of my belongings ended up in the wrong room anyway. I had that heavy feeling in my gut that I would have to wrestle half the things up and down the stairs by myself later. I suddenly thought of how easy it had been for Mike to move my art room and the spare bedroom around. That familiar sharp pain that had lodged itself firmly in my chest after he’d left returned with renewed vigor at the thought and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to ignore it.