The Charm Bracelet

Moonlight

Weeks had passed without a sign of Mr. Luxington. Mom casually dismissed my inquiries, by trying to settle my worries that he was probably on a business trip. Her words failed to ease me.

This man was a complete mystery to us. The lack of information about him—no photos, not even a first name—began to gnaw at the edges of my curiosity. My attempts to unravel the mystery led to countless Google searches, each yielding nothing but frustration and exhaustion. The internet, usually a wellspring of information, offered no clues about the elusive Mr. Luxington. It was as if he existed in a realm beyond the reach of search engines, leaving me with nothing but my own imagination to fill in the blanks.

Throughout my search, I questioned my own sanity—was I simply overthinking? His team, including Lucindo and Mr. Griffith, seemed more attuned to our needs than he was.

As I assisted Mom with her cleaning tasks, my lingering curiosity prompted me to explore corners of the house where perhaps I shouldn't have ventured. After all, I reasoned, I was living there, and my curiosity felt justified. Clearly, Mr. Luxington made a lot of money—the house made that evident. Was he from Norway? Did he move here from another country? My head spun with questions as I set aside the vase on the coffee table. I frequently looked out the front window, as if expecting something. Clouds rolled across the vast sky, making it look ethereal.

I took a small towel to wipe off any dust particles. As my eyes wandered, I noticed drawers I hadn't seen before. I glanced around the room; Mom was upstairs, and I couldn't hear anything except Lucindo in the kitchen. He sometimes played jazz music that carried throughout the house.

I opened one of the drawers, and to my surprise, I found a small collection of novels: Dracula, The Grapes of Wrath, and Lord of the Flies. All books I had read during the mourning of my father.

I soon realized that these were not regular books. They were all first editions, not the cheap stuff. My fingers traced the embossed letters. These should have been displayed on a bookshelf for everyone to see, yet they were hidden in a drawer. I could see why, though—it was a better option to avoid dust. Another clue to add to the mystery of Mr. Luxington. Did he read these? I assumed he was well-educated.

I briefly flipped through Paradise Lost and I placed it back in the drawer, I placing the vase back, making sure it looked as if nothing had been moved. My eyes started to search for more drawers.

In another, I found nothing of importance: tourist maps for Norway, a paperweight, and empty notepads. I didn't know what I was expecting to find—perhaps a personal artifact, something that would offer a glimpse into who this man was. Nothing. 

We worked tirelessly throughout the day, navigating the house—it was like a maze! The sheer scale of our cleaning duties meant enlisting additional help. A professional for the windows was would be necessary ; their size posed a challenge beyond our 5' 2 statures. The floors needed sweeping, shelves and tables dusting, and sheets cleaning. It almost felt like too many things needed to be done. Mom and I would rush through the halls, occasionally meeting with each to mark off things on a makeshift list she had. Mr. Luxington had never officially told her what needed to be done around the house.

As Lucindo was hard at work with dinner. I told Mom that I wasn't feeling very hungry and that I was going to head to bed early. I needed some alone time. All the rapid changes felt like a whirlwind, engulfing me in a fever dream. My surroundings, once familiar, now seemed surreal and distant. With all the unpacking and organizing, my brain was fried. 

Mom reassured me that once we were settled, I would resume my education. The idea of going back to school for my senior year felt bittersweet. I couldn't shake the feeling that Cassie and Madison should be there with me. The uncertainty of navigating this new place for my senior year added an extra layer of complexity. Just picturing myself wandering through unfamiliar hallways and classrooms triggered me. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in middle school, dealing with the same old worries—would I make friends? Would I fit in?

How could I possibly make friends when the harsh truth was that, by the time I managed to build those connections, I'd be gearing up to head back to America? It hit me like a ton of bricks. 

With a sigh, I rummaged through my nightstand drawer and retrieved my  journal. The pages were somewhat weathered as I had been absent minded, and the Oregon rain got to them. I used to put my journal in my bag and carry it with me everywhere I went, a sort of safety net for me.  My journal doubled as a small scrapbook at times. I had taped old concert tickets inside and polaroids. I sat down at the desk facing the window and started to write, only to feel overwhelmed with how much I wanted to say. I sometimes would write so fast the words jumbled and I would have to go back scratch out words, replace them and by the end of the page it would look like an incoherent mess of words that only I could understand. I stared out the window, I tried to look for stars, but the clouds were a barrier. I guess Oregon and Norway had that in common. At least there was some consistency.

After showering, I untangle my hair from the towel, the strands still damp and cool to the touch. Opting for comfort, I slipped into a pair of sweatpants and adorned a large shirt featuring our school mascot—an eagle. Very original.

I dimmed the lights in the room and sat on the bed and reached for Anna Karenina on the nightstand, hoping the weight of Tolstoy's words would lull me into a peaceful sleep between the pages, but that wouldn't happen.

Just as the sweet embrace of slumber began to envelop me, I was jolted awake by an unexpected noise. The distinct creak of a door opening and the hushed footsteps echoing down the hallway shattered the calm of the night. My initial assumption was that it was Mom, but the sound didn't align with her usual movements. Her steps were familiar, soft, and muffled, originating from the opposite end of the house. I listened intently. There was an eerie precision to each footfall, a rhythm foreign compared to my mom's footsteps.

A shiver of unease crawled up my spine, and I squinted my eyes in the dim light, furrowing my brows as I strained to discern the source of the sound. The air in the room felt charged with tension, and a sense of disquiet settled over me as the mystery of the wandering footsteps lingered. I got out of bed with the book still in my left hand, trying to be still. My breath caught in my throat as I approached the door, my hand bracing against the frame for support.

The world outside my door seemed to hold its breath as I stood there, an unwilling eavesdropper in the darkness. The dilemma of whether to open the door gnawed at me.

What if it was him?