Illusions

This is a short story I recently wrote based on an online prompt.

Illusions

We were standing in line at Uptown Café.  This building is normally my happy place.  This is where I retreat in times of trouble.  I come through the modern glass doors and am greeted by peppy caffeinated people who are joyous at the prospect of serving me the happy elixir that will warm my heart and melt away my cares.  But not on this day.

The contents of my purse were falling all over the counter as I fumbled through in search of the wallet that, I was beginning to realize, was still sitting on the coffee table at home.  But maybe there is enough change down at the bottom… 

This was just one instance in an incredibly long day of frustrations.  After waking up late, I had rushed to the car only to find that a plow had completely buried me snow.  It took me 45 minutes to dig myself out enough that I could get to work.  Of course, as soon as I arrived at the dreaded dungeon, I mean insurance agency, Margorie was waiting to pounce.   

Even my sweet Castle ’o’ Café let me down that day.  Just as my heart was beginning to sink with the realization that I was destined for disappointment, there would be no coffee for this poor soul, I saw an arm reach past me with a Citi Master Card attached.

I looked up into the eyes of my rescuer and realized that this was the day.    

Jack and Stacy were in high school when they found each other.  I remember thinking, who wants to be stuck at 16?  I am thankful to have at least made it to adulthood, but as 30 came and went I began to worry that the signs of aging would never stop.  That I would be one of the unfortunates that were destined to never find true love. Fated to grow old, alone, without love’s magic to stop the clock. 

So it’s 35.  35 is perfect.  I have lived enough life to feel that I truly know who I am and what I want out of life.  But still feel vibrant and healthy.  I am glad this is the age that true love’s magic has chosen to find me. 

That day at the coffee shop was 6 years ago.  Or was it 7?  When you stop aging, it gets difficult to keep track of the years drifting by.  As I look at this man that bought my heart with that Master Card all those years ago, I am surprised by what I see.  I think he might actually be getting younger. I remember when we met.  His hair had just a touch of silver in it, so little, it was only noticeable when the sun made it shimmer.  I loved when he would laugh really hard and the creases around his eyes would make it look as if his whole face was smiling.

Today we are picnicking at our favorite spot, Willard Beach.  I packed the basket full of the usual things.  I had spent the morning making sandwiches, slicing cheese, cutting apple slices, putting raisins on celery just the way the wee one likes.  I wanted today to feel as beautiful as looked.  Bright blue skies, tiny streaks of white.  Subtle breeze blowing warm air through the bare tree branches.  The last weeks of winter had taken their toll on all of us.  Being stuck inside everyday made us all want to climb the walls.  My weather app was set on my home screen so I would know the instant nice weather was coming. 

I had put little Tommy in charge of finding the perfect blanket for our adventure.  He was taking the task very seriously.  “How is this one, mommy?” When I tell him it is fine he says, “No, no it is not big enough.”  This one is too scratchy.  This one is too heavy.  Finally, he settles on the old quilt we keep on hand for snuggling.  “That’s perfect, Tommy.  A special blanket for a special day.”

All our work has paid off.  It is a fabulous South Carolina spring day.  We spend a few minutes setting everything out just right.  Frank starts laughing watching how meticulous Tommy and I are.  We both look up puzzled by his laughter.  Frank pulls himself together enough to show me the picture he took as we were working away.  In the picture, I am straightening utensils while Tommy is lining up all the dishes just so.  Our blonde hair is caught in the breeze and we both have a tiny line of concentration just between our eyebrows. 

Frank begins laughing again.  Understanding now, I begin to laugh with him.  Tommy pipes up, “I don’t know what’s so funny.”  Which makes us laugh even harder.  As the laughing begins to die down, I notice for a brief moment that the sweet crinkles next to Frank’s eyes aren’t there.  How is that possible? 

Just as the sun gets high in the sky I begin looking for the shimmer in Frank’s hair.  It is not there.  What could be happening?  I have never heard of someone getting younger.  The real question is, why wouldn’t Frank tell me what was going on with him?  Maybe I am going crazy.

The house is dark.  There are 87 tiles on the ceiling.  I have lived in this house for nearly 10 years and have never made it past the 32^nd tile.  Tonight, I have counted to 87 five times before I finally crawl out of bed.  I slip on my robe and house shoes to shuffle down the hallway.  It is strange to see the house this way.  Lit only by the moon streaming through the skylights.  It appears everything has a glow.  I imagine it could be peaceful, but with my thoughts, it seems foreign and disconcerting. 

I set the kettle on for tea more for something familiar than a desire for tea.  I keep picturing Frank from earlier today.  After this much time, I should know every line of his face.  And I thought I did.  Maybe I am losing it.  That’s when it hits me.  There is a photograph somewhere of Frank at that very same beach.  It was from before we had Tommy and we were dreaming up crazy possibilities to future.  We were making up such silly stories like tree houses in Mongolia.  I remember snapping the photo just as joy was flooding his face.  That will at least let me know that I am a sane human being.

I typically keep it on the built-in book shelf in the family room.  I pad over to the shelf but it is not there.  What did I do with it?  Why would I have moved it?  Then I remember that Tommy hit it with a nerf gun dart.  It fell and the frame came apart at the corner.  I gave it to Frank when he came home that day to have it fixed.  He probably shoved it in his desk drawer and forgot about it.  I had certainly forgotten about it. 

As I walk back through the kitchen, headed to Frank’s office, I see the tea kettle is about to whistle.  I rush over and snatch it off the burner just in time to keep it quiet.  I take the time to pour the water over my tea bag and add the milk and sugar.  I stand in the dim kitchen holding the warm cup in my hands as I ruminate on how crazy I am getting myself.  But now that the thought is implanted I just can’t let it go.  Once I look at the picture I will feel better.

Now I am determined.  I splash the tea out of the cup in my rush to put all this nonsense behind me.  I just leave mess.  I scurry down the hallway to Frank’s office.  I sit down in the uncomfortably modern chair that I insisted matched the décor perfectly.  I try the big bottom drawer first, but it is locked.  That’s weird.  Why would a novelist need to lock his desk drawer especially at home.  I move on to the smaller drawer above.   I laugh at the mess in this drawer.  For a man who is so insistent on tidiness, he has never been able to keep himself organized.  I rummage through the pile and feel the hard wood of the picture frame poke my finger.

I turn on Frank’s desk lamp as I pull the picture out.  Careful not to disrupt the mess noticeably.  I hold the photo directly under the light of the lamp and squint hard to see all the details.  There in plain sight are his adorable laugh wrinkles, the slight shimmer of renegade gray hair.  I sigh with relief.  I am not insane.  I know my husband’s face.

But the relief is short lived.  If I wasn’t remembering wrong, then how is it that he no longer has these traits I remember?  Gently, I replace the frame.  All the while my mind is spinning.   As I am getting ready to turn out the light I recall the locked drawer.  What could be in there?  I think playing detective will help distract me from the fact that I obviously need to see a therapist.  If I were Frank, where would I hide the keys to the drawer. 

I rummage around the other drawers to no avail.  Too simple.  I look around the office.  My eyes land on the humidor box he inherited from his father.  It seems just inconspicuous enough to be perfect.  I bring the box over to the desk so I can see and open it.  I lift out the few cigars.  No keys.  But then I see a shadow.  There is a tiny hole.  I squeeze my index finger in and gently tug up.  It pops with just a bit of resistance.  Glistening inside are the keys. 

True Love’s Illusion ·         Are you aging when you shouldn’t be? ·         Discovered love but realized too late it might not be true love? We here at True Love’s Illusion can help! We will design a program just for you to hide the signs of aging.

I take a deep breath as I slide the first key into the lock.  Am I sure I want to see what he is hiding?  What will he say if he discovers I was snooping?  But how could I turn back now?  It would drive me mad knowing it was here and I didn’t look.  The lock clicks open and I slide out the drawer.  It just looks like work files.  I scan the labels and see one without a title.  I pull it out and set it on the desk.  A brochure greets me as I open it.

 

 

 

 

I gasp as the realization hits me.  He is not getting younger.  He is still aging.  But our love was supposed to keep us young forever.  That means…. I am not his true love.  How is that possible?  When did he realize?  Has he always known? Am I destined to stay 35 for eternity all alone? 

As this last thought smacks me in the face I look up to see Frank standing in the door way.  He doesn’t say anything.  He just stands there frozen with the knowledge that his secret is out.