I reach for the doorknob the house, it seems so inviting and I don't bother to knock on the door. The knob rests in my fingertips.
"Celestia, you can't just barge in," Echo scolds. But, I ignore his remarks. I continue to push the door until it shyly swings open. The air inside smells like warm vanilla and fruit. The interior is darkened, the curtains only allow in a speck of light, but all the furniture is neat and dusted. I allow myself into the house, Echo grabs my wrist and warns me not to go in. He eventually gives up because of my damned persistence and follows me into the house. I wander around the living room for any sort of clue the decor can give me. My eyes fixate on a photograph: a family. The mother has her arms around her two children, her husband leans on her shoulder, the two children are cuddled within their love. I sigh at the beautiful portrait. It, unfortunately, looks old and worn. The edges are yellow and fingerprints stain the glass from where someone has touched the daughter's face. She has curling, blonde hair, bright eyes and a beautiful smile. Her cheeks are rosy and her skin is fair. She is elegance and grace.
"Hey, Cel," Echo whispers.
"Yeah?" I reply back.
"That girl kind of," he begins, then I hear a crack of a bat. He collapses into the ground.
"Echo!" I cry out.
A gruff man stands behind him, sweating, with the bat held firm in his hands. He breathes heavy, glancing with worrisome wild eyes. A woman peers behind a doorway and watches us, she catches my glance and becomes bashful. She swings herself back into the adjacent room. A tuff of her grey hair sticks out the frame. I throw my arms up, prepared to testify that I am innocent. I do not mean any harm, I'm just curious. The man catches his breath and wipes his sweaty chin against his bicep. His eyes bug and bulge.
"Helena?" he asks aloud.
•••
"I'm sorry," I apologize, "We didn't mean any
harm, really. I just had this relic and it was a picture of your house. My curiosity got the best of me," I wince and the woman sets down a tray of tea in front of me. I sink my back into the couch, Echo has woken and rubs his swollen head. He lays his head against my lap and cuddles into my abdomen for warmth.
"I'm sorry I clobbered your friend," the man says, softly.
"It's alright, he's okay," I say in place of Echo, "I got this relic and it had your house on it. I thought it was a clue and had to come in," I explain.
"I think it is," the woman whispers to her husband. He nods his head.
"Excuse me?" I interrupt.
She tucks a lock of grey hair behind her ear, "Dear, what is your name?" she asks.
"I'm Celestia," I start, she bites her lip in anticipation, "Vandenberg."
The woman gawks out a cry, "Oh! It's you! We finally get to see you again!" She lays her face in her hands and looks up, through a mess of her tears, a smile. "I'm Diana, that's Harold. It's just that, we're Vandenbergs. We're your grandparents! The moment you mentioned the puzzle, I knew it. I'm so happy to see you. You look just like Helena!"
"I'm so happy to meet you!" I cry out and set Echo off my lap. I pull both Harold and Diana into my arms and feel their warmth on my skin. Their skin is soft, hearts beat along side with mine, my happiness pours out of me. They both cry a little bit, I don't mind. The sleeve of my blouse is soppy and wet. "I want to know about my mother. Do you have any pictures?" I ask.
"Oh, yes, yes!" Diana responds and runs her finger over books stacked neatly in a bookshelf. The retracts a framed photo, blows dust off the surface.
"They look exactly alike," Harold says as he examines the photo. He passes the photograph to me. My parent's wedding day. My father looks happy, in love, but all at the same time in his happiness, he looks sad. He looks worried as he holds her waist and smiles into her eyes. Her eyes are emeralds that hold an eternity of secrets. She smiles back at him, like he is all she has. Her stature is small, the same corset I gained from the dress, sits primly and new on her. Her face is like mine, now that I see it, and not like Gina's at all. Gina is not Helena.
"She looks so young," Echo observes, "You're the spitting image," he adds in agreement.
"Yeah," I smile.
"Oh, and look at this photo. Your Uncle Artemis and Rei when they had their baby," Diana squeals.
"I haven't seen Uncle Artemis since just after they had the baby," I sigh and shake my head, "Had to have been twelve years ago."
"Ah, I remember how mad your father was at the time; he regretted disowning Artemis right away. Him, Rei, and their baby ran away together," Harold says, "Artemis and Rei went their separate ways. Four years back, Artemis went looking for Rei and his baby. Only to find that Rei had passed and he assumed his daughter passed, as well."
"What did they name their baby?" I ask.
"Maude. Maude Pluto. I never understood her middle name, Pluto is the keeper of time, seemingly. I think it somehow suits Maude and Rei alike," Diana recollects, "Oh, she was a beautiful baby." Echo looks at me, our thoughts are exactly the same. I decide we should not tell them, the moment is fragile and finite. My goal today was not to find Uncle Artemis, but to explore who my mother was.
"Do you have anything else of my mother?" I ask. Diana and Harold both shoot each other a look. A sad, cringe look. They know what Echo and I don't.
"Excuse me, I can't be in the house if I show you, it just breaks my heart," Diana apologizes and excuses herself from the house. The door slams outside and she sighs on the porch, her face in her hands, tears stream down her cheeks.
"Did I do something wrong?" I ask.
Harold brushes his face with his hands, "No, Celestia, you're fine. Listen," he sighs and pulls a heavy set of keys from his pocket, "Here, these are the keys to Helena's room. We usually keep it locked because we can't bear seeing it or touching it."
"Thank you," I say and accept the keys.
"Her diaries are in her room. I have to go check on Diana," Harold informs us and follows Diana's path out the door.
The hallway to my mother's room is dimly lit, the wallpaper begins to peel back and turn dusty as we inch closer to her room. The carpet is a different color, a definite line has not been crossed since her death. I slide the keys into the lock, it clicks, and the door sits just ajar. I fixate my fingertips on it and push it ever so slightly open. Inside is darker then the hallway, the curtains are drawn, so Echo takes it upon himself to open them up all the way. A flood of bright white winter light pours into the room and highlights the specks of dust. The dust glimmers like tiny stars in a closed-off portion of the endless galaxy. The quilt on her bed is cold from never being touched, all her books, figures, and painting are dusted over from years and years of neglect. Echo and I crouch next to a box near her closet.
He opens the box, "It's her diaries."
"Let's read them," I suggest.
