What Hides Within

Secrets

"Did they give you an option?"

Eric looked up quizzically at the old man in front of him.

"What do you mean?"

"She can't live like this forever. This is not life." the old man said.

"No." Eric snapped. "There is no question."

He felt a surge of anger at the old man. How could he want something like that for his only child?

"He never did care." Carrie had told him. "He was too busy with his own life." She had said bitterly.

Her father cleared his throat. "It's up to you."

"Yes, it is." Eric said coldly.

"All right. I will drop by again  tomorrow."

Eric didn't respond. He kept his gaze on Carrie.

The old man hesitated, looking sadly at his son-in-law. "Can I get you anything?"

"No." Eric replied curtly.

The old man turned slowly and started walking away.

"Did Carrie ever keep a journal?"

He stopped and turned.

Eric didn't look at him.

"She always had her journals. Since school. She wrote in them every day."

Eric felt a nagging throb in his head. He looked up at his father-in-law.

"Where are they?"

The old man looked at Eric curiously. "I don't know."

Eric rubbed his temples. "Surely there must be a lot of journals. That's 15 years you are talking about."

"There were a lot of journals. A whole shelf in her closet would be filled with them."

Eric stared. "So where are they now?"

"She took them all with her when she married you." the old man said bitterly.

Eric thought of their closet back home. There was no way she could have kept them there. There was absolutely no space.

Where did she keep her journals? And why would she hide them to this extent?

Surely she knew he wouldn't read them. He respected her space. He trusted her.

He had never seen her write a journal in the one year they were married.

She always claimed she was swamped at work.

So where did she write them? And when?

"Is there a problem?" He suddenly realised her dad was staring at him.

"No. Not at all." he said.

The old man hesitated. Then nodded and walked away.

"She's a writer, isn't she?"

He remembered the nosy old woman who asked asked him that, after church. She lived in the building next to them.

He remembered the annoyance he felt at the violation of their privacy.

Giving her his best fake smile he had said, "No, she's a manager. Marketing."

"Oh, I thought she was a writer." the little old woman had said. "I see her writing sometimes."

He had forced another impatient smile and muttered that he had to go. He hated gossips.

Now, he wondered.

He thought of the red book that he had kept back in her bag. Not wanting to invade her space further.

He looked at the woman breathing silently on the bed.

So she kept journals. Big deal.

But a sense of unease pervaded him.

Because this was not her.

Carrie... who would tell him every detail of her day...

Carrie... who would spend 5 minutes canoodling the dog as soon as she got home from work...

Carrie... who would plug in her earphones and listen to music as she did the household chores, humming softly...

Carrie was an open book. She wouldn't keep secrets. There were no secrets to keep.

Or were there?

He got up abruptly.

He would go home. Find the red book. And read it.

He had to know.