Harmonious Hearts 2018--Stories from the Young Author Challenge, page 10
THAT NIGHT, lying in bed, my mind too busy to sleep, I managed to find the real her. Well, her real digital self—thanks to social media.
Her Twitter profile was a part of her, her life, laid out in pictures, and I devoured every single word she sent out into the world like I was starving. And I was—starving to know her, to reach in and pull her out, but reading each tweet over and over again would have to do.
Not that she tweeted much or very often, only sporadically over the past two years, but for me it was more than enough, especially as it was better than nothing.
@catherineishere: @hettieisthere 143
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: 143
@catherineishere: All You Need Is Love, Love Is All You Need
Liked by @hettieisthere
@catherineishere: Family might let you down. But it’s the family you find, and who finds you, that’s the truest and most loving.
Liked by @hettieisthere
@catherineishere: Blackbirds make the sweetest sounds! Beautiful, my favorite sound and my favorite bird.
Liked by @hettieisthere
@catherineishere: While I love to sing, I never could do so as well as the King. I wonder if I can dig out those old LPs…
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: I’ll help you look, and then we can see if our old bones are still up to the job of dancing the night away. Save me the first one, though?
Liked by @catherineishere
@catherineishere replied: Always. 143
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: 143
@catherineishere: A wonderful day was had today. I hope the same can be said for you, Twitter. I hope if you haven’t today, you have a genuine reason to smile very soon.
Liked by @hettieisthere
@catherineishere: Roses are the most beautiful flower is the entire world. They’re so beautiful they almost surpass @hettieisthere in terms of beauty.
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: <3 You are my reason to smile <3
Liked by @catherineishere
@catherineishere replied to @hettieisthere: As are you, love. How do you make those heart things, by the way?
@catherineishere: @hettieisthere 143
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: 143
There it was again, that “143,” repeated each time to the same person, who gave her name as Hettie on her profile and who would always tweet it right back. A message in a secret code, over and over again—but it was getting too late to decode it then, so I decided to shelve it, with a mental note to figure out its meaning as soon as I could.
I also found something else during my search—a tweet near the beginning of Catherine’s timeline that seemed to be part of a thread, though the earlier tweets looked to have been deleted—that piqued my interest just as much as the code did.
@catherineishere: That said, despite everything that happened, he once randomly left me a letter telling me he was sorry that he abandoned me and told me that he loved me. I always appreciated that.
Liked by @hettieisthere
@hettieisthere replied: I’m sure he knows you did, love.
Liked by @catherineishere
“He?” Who could “he” be? My mind instantly thought of my dad, mumbling about his sister in his sleep, the tears that fell silently down his face as he tried his hardest to hide them from me. To hide it all from me…. But it was late, and my brain was too tired to successfully put these puzzle pieces together.
So instead of using up the dwindling brainpower I had left, I scrolled through her Twitter profile, focusing on her obvious love for Hettie—who, I assumed, was Heather. (I couldn’t be sure because, unlike my aunt, her Twitter profile was quite bare apart from tweets from Catherine, a link to a YouTube video of someone doing tricks on a skateboard, and an impressive sketch of what looked like someone sitting, head bowed, beneath a tree. To top it off, she didn’t even have a profile picture.) However, Aunt Catherine expressed her opinions very openly on her profile, including her love of the Beatles, Elvis Presley, and Vera Lynch, not to mention art.
As I kept scrolling, my eyes grew heavier and heavier. In the end I had to give in, replaying the video of a blackbird singing, chirpy and joyful, to lull me off to sleep. And when I woke up, I had a smile on my face for the first time in a very long time.
I BLINKED at the bright blue sky above me, as it took me a second to remember I was in the cemetery, caught in the memories that played in my head like the “Previously on…” segment before your favorite show starts. I shook my head slightly and made my way carefully down the path to what I guessed was my aunt’s eternal resting place. My legs were stiff and aching slightly, from all the standing around, but it was fine. I could manage, work through it. I just had to find her….
The trees rustled gently as I walked past them, as if they were willing me on in quiet applause. In one tree, quite far back near the gate, sat a bird. Small and black, it stood out from the green leaves surrounding it like a carefully sculpted piece of onyx perched precariously on a branch. It regarded me for a moment and then looked away, as if judging me okay to be there, or at least not dangerous enough to try to scare away with its song or by flying straight at me. I nodded at it, a silent sign of my thanks, and kept on walking. A thought in the back of my mind niggled at me, almost as if I recognized that bird from somewhere, but it soon disappeared as I concentrated on the tombstones until I finally discovered hers.
It was quite grand, all things considered. I mean, I wasn’t quite sure what I expected, but when I first saw it, I was kind of surprised that it was so… elegant. I didn’t know that tombstones could look like that. It was a slab of shining black, engraved with a faded gold that made it seem almost timeless. On it was written in an elegant, swirling font:
Catherine North
1950—2017
I sighed, releasing my anxiety about not finding her or Dad being wrong about where her grave was located, and admired the place where she was laid to rest. It was nice—quiet and quaint. It reminded me of the countryside, with its few trees and its large patch of lush green grass. The sun was so high in the sky that its rays landed perfectly on her tombstone, so it shone beautifully. When I looked around, no longer entirely absorbed in her, I realized that her neighbor, just to her right, was a woman named Heather.
Heather! It had to be her. The times of birth and death correlated. Even the stone itself was similar. The same dark, shiny black, engraved with the same dull gold. Even the font mirrored my aunt’s.
Heather “Hettie” Abbott
1950—2017
The fact that they remained together in death warmed my heart. I realized that on my first glance, I’d missed the small verses that were inscribed on their gravestones, Catherine’s first, and then Heather’s.
One day, my love, we will find Four wheels and travel together to someplace and stay there awhile. Three days, a few weeks, who knows or cares; as long as we’re together, I’ll stay forever. Yours…
With you, One year feels like days, Four weeks a second, Three days a moment. Eternally we stay. I stay. Yours…
My eyes filled with tears as I let what I read sink in. It was a beautiful promise, even if I could sense that there was a meaning behind it I didn’t quite understand. Because there it was again, that One-Four-Three repeated over and over, this message they were determined to convey as eternally as their names on their tombstones.
Quickly, I fished my phone out of my jacket pocket and finally asked the internet—What does 143 mean?
I love you replied the internet, in pixilated ink on the softly glowing screen.
If I wasn’t on the verge of crying before, I definitely was now. The tears built up, and I just let them fall, watering the bunch of roses I held in my hands and the blades of grass below me as they dripped off my cheeks, because I wasn’t even bothering to wipe them away. The mixture of emotions swirling through me at that moment was enough to sweep me away completely. Surprise, admiration, love, but mainly and mostly—pride. I felt indescribable pride as I stood there opposite the everlasting declarations of love two women had made to each other.
The fact that I finally understood the code made me feel proud of myself, but that wasn’t it. It was that my own aunt, someone living before me in a much more difficult time, so unabashedly and proudly loved another woman. There was nothing, I decided at that moment, like the feeling that you weren’t alone in the world, and that someone else was just like you. Something about seeing them both there, and seeing it spelled out in their own words, made it so much more powerful and so much more real.
My aunt Catherine had loved women, just like me—and she found a woman she loved for the rest of her life. And that woman loved her too, and that love was so strong that they made sure it existed beyond their deaths, in a way that was meaningful to them.
Just witnessing and realizing all that, on that cold, quiet day, was enough to make another emotion unfurl within me, stronger than the others before—hope.
Before that moment, I’d never really considered my own future, not really, not beyond university, and certainly not marriage, and a house, and kids. It was too scary and so far away—but now, seeing that someone just like me, a member of my own family, no less, had beaten the odds and found such a true, everlasting love in a time when she was ostracized, meant that no matter what, I had this hope that I could one day find the same love, someplace, somewhere.
Sniffing and finally wiping away the tears, I carefully placed the bunch of roses on the ground. I hadn’t thought to bring two, because I didn’t realize Heather was here with her. So instead of splitting the flowers up, I simply placed the bunch between them so they could share in the love the bunch showcased. I hope if they were watching from wherever they were, they understood the gesture, as silly as it was. Resolving to bring two bunches next time, I stood up straight, my back twinging with the pain of moving a little too quickly, and I became even more aware of the dull ache in my legs, stronger now because I’d been standing so long. Dammit. I really should’ve brought my cane. Never mind, you live and learn. And anyway, it was more than worth it.
I checked the time and realized I’d be late for class if I didn’t leave soon, but before I left, I traced her name with my finger—Catherine North—feeling the cool faded gold, almost amber now.
I wondered if she had been a hugger, or what her smile looked like. I wondered if she had a particular scent, maybe a perfume she liked. But I didn’t have any memories like that, nothing that could evoke some deep-seated sensory signals to remind me of her. I guess the cool sensation of her name engraved in stone on my skin was one, and the smell of fresh roses was another. I realized that though I’d never met her, I missed her. I missed her presence in my life and what she could have changed about me or helped me with. My homework, visits on the holidays, coming out to her first, confiding in her, advice about girls… all of that gone and never existing in the first place, all at once—and I felt the loss deep down in the depth of my heart.
But, I thought as I turned away, at least I had now. At least I knew her at all, and I could visit her whenever I liked. And whether she was here or not, she still made a difference in my life, because even if I couldn’t see her, I knew that no matter what, I wasn’t alone anymore. She had come before me and fought battles I could only have nightmares about or read about in history books, and for that, I’ll always be thankful—and I’ll always have her near, because she shaped the way for me to even be.
When I closed the gate as I left, I heard the bird from earlier chirp at me, a short cheerful tune. I recognized it instantly as the song from the video I was listening to last night—a blackbird. And I wondered if, maybe, that could be Catherine, wishing me well. But despite another sensory trigger to remind me of her, it would’ve been nice to actually speak to her, all the same.
AS I checked my phone on my way to class, I saw a very interesting advert pop up in the “suggested posts” of my Facebook feed. I read it eagerly, only slightly worried that whatever algorithm was running behind this site could somehow read my mind now and wasn’t just basing ads on sites I’d visited or things I’d searched.
Tonight only: Visit Felicity Mort, medium, in a rare live show! Want to join the audience and get tickets? Click here.
A medium, huh? Just the idea of hearing from Aunt Catherine was enough to dispel any doubts I had about it being some kind of hack. After all, there was nothing about her this Felicity could somehow get from me—considering that I knew next to nothing about her! And she’d have no chance to ask me anything either. Plus, there’d be a packed audience, based on the number of comments from people saying they’d be there. After a quick Google search of her name and reading a few very positive reviews about her and her shows, I didn’t take me long to be completely sold on the idea. Within seconds I’d tapped my screen a few times and secured my ticket. After all—what did I have to lose?
When I got home, Dad sat in the living room watching one of his favorite comedians performing stand-up, and laughing so genuinely that I was caught off guard for a moment. When he asked where I was that afternoon, I felt that telling him the truth would dampen his good mood, so I lied.
“I was just visiting a friend,” I said quickly.
“Oh really? That’s nice, sweetheart,” he said, still looking at the TV.
“Yeah,” I replied, “and I think I’m going to go and see them again later. But I’ll be back tonight. That okay?”
“Sure thing. Just call me if you need me, okay?” he said, and I nodded, thanking him before retreating to my room to make preparations for who I was hoping to meet tonight—if I was lucky.
THE ROOM itself was hot and sticky, thanks to the crowded audience and my heart pumping blood so fast that I felt ill. I hated to admit I was nervous—but I was. What if Aunt Catherine didn’t “speak” to me? What if she did and I didn’t really want to hear what she had to say? My breath quickened as the medium scanned the crowd, looking for an audience member and trying to match them up with the relative she’d gotten through to. My heart stopped as her eyes landed on me and her gaze lingered for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, and I thought I might actually faint, only for her to start talking to someone whose grandma had a message for them.
I breathed a shaky sigh of relief as the man being spoken to behind me burst into loud sobs, and I tried to think of what I would ask her, if I actually had the chance.
What made Nan and Gramps so mad at you? Are you upset with your family for what they did? Do you regret not being closer with my dad? Or not meeting me? When did you and Heather meet? Where did you meet? Were you happy? When did you realize you liked girls? Did you know I do too?
Dozens of questions flew around my head, making me feel even more nauseated than before. I tried to block the feeling by focusing on what was happening around me, as the medium had finished delivering her previous message. The man behind me, the recipient, thanked her, choked up and happy. Suddenly, despite not focusing on what I’d ask Aunt Catherine, a single question popped into my head.
Are you proud of me?
I started to wonder what prompted that question to appear like that, out of thin air, before the medium spoke a name that made me actually jump out of my seat. Her name.
“Catherine North,” she said, looking around for a reaction, seemingly missing my momentary flight from my seat. “Do we have a relative of a Catherine North here?”
“Yes. Me,” I said, raising my hand, my voice shaking a little. “I’m her niece.”
“Ah yes. Penelope,” she replied, but it wasn’t a question. She already knew my name.
“How do you—” I asked, shocked.
Even from where I was sitting, I could see a smile spread on her face.
“She speaks very highly of you. She says you have great Twitter posts that make her smile, although she still doesn’t get some of the memes. Thanks for liking a few of her tweets, she says—and she so wishes she could have met you before she passed, because she wants nothing more than to give you a big hug. She and Heather love the roses, though—and they both say thank you. Thank you very much.”
A smattering of confused laughter broke out around me, but I remained frozen in my seat, stunned. If I had any doubts about whether this woman was a fraud or was genuinely able to talk to the dead, I was absolutely sold on the latter. How else would she know that I’d liked a few of Catherine’s tweets when I was scrolling through her profile the other night? And that I’d brought roses to her grave? There was no way this woman could have found that out before I arrived, as she had no idea I’d even be in the audience. I felt a chill run through me and tears sprang to my eyes as I imagined my aunt and her kind blue eyes and red-lipsticked smile big on her face, no longer a profile image on a screen, but real and speaking real words to the medium. I wiped the hot tears away quickly, not wanting to embarrass myself, before the medium commanded silence again and continued to speak.
“She tells me that she would love to stay and answer all your questions, but she doesn’t have the time—however, to answer a few of them, we were friends in our teens and met when she moved into a house on the street where I lived. And yes, we were very happy, no matter what. We still are.”
