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| Island of Lost Stories |
Sometimes, we needn't look any further than the tip of our nose for a good mystery. For me, it's as easy as perusing a file I keep. I call it, "The Island of Lost Stories." And in that file are the beginnings of many stories I've yet to pursue or finish. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. For whatever reason, these stories of mine are in book limbo.
Here's one. If you have an idea for where the story should go next, leave a comment. And maybe, just maybe, I'll pull this story from the file and finish it...
Sliding Doors
By Linda P. Kozar
Home
at last. Stephanie Hudson threw her purse and keys on the round entrance
table, kicked her shoes off and carefully placed them on the stairs to take when
she went up to bed. The coolness of marble flooring felt good on her tired
feet, as she made her way to the library.
She opened the vintage French
doors, admiring the artful inset of curved glass. A fire usually burned in the
massive stone fireplace, but not tonight. It was late. The room was dark with
the exception of two small lamps at either end. Each gave off a pale, low
light, more for mood than practicality.
The house seemed unusually quiet
now that the girls were both off to college. Her husband Mark was probably
asleep by now, even the dog. She slipped behind the curved mahogany bar. Not
that they needed one. They didn’t drink. It had come with the house. However,
the bar was convenient for football seasons and parties. The fridge underneath
held soft drinks and water, and a bottle of cool water was what she needed. She
twisted the cap off and drank half in one long gulp.
After carefully pulling the doors
shut, she walked over to the kitchen to check the lock—a nightly ritual. Before
going to bed, she had to check all the locks in the house. Sometimes her
husband forgot to lock one of the doors. And that fact was enough to fuel the
ritual indefinitely. Still in the kitchen, she moved to the mudroom door. They
almost never used it. The front door was more convenient.
She noticed with a smile that her
husband had not forgotten to place the little Asian statue of a lion in front
of the door. They won the ugly thing as a door prize years ago and found that
it made an excellent doorstop. She always placed it in front of the mudroom
door at night before going to bed—an added security measure.
Reaching to turn out the light, she
was startled by a movement in the shadows. Heart thumping, she drew closer to
the glass-framed door.
Her gasp became a scream. A little
girl rose from the floor, rubbing her eyes. Panicked, she kicked the statue out
of the way and unlatched the door.
Chest heaving,
she commanded. “C-come in. It’s cold out there.”
The girl shivered, stepping lightly
into the room. She was thin, wearing a light blue sweater over a cotton dress
with socks and loafers. A worn teddy bear nestled in the crook of her right
arm.
Dressed
for summer in the dead of winter.
“What are you doing here, young
lady? Who are you?” she asked while fastening the locks and looking for signs
of anyone else. “Are your parents around?”
The girl
smiled. “My name is Theresa Éclair and,” she hugged the stuffed animal close,
“this is Theobold.”
She managed a nervous smile and
bent down to eye level with the child. “Well, hello Miss Theresa Éclair. Is—is
that your real name or a made-up name? I’ve never known anyone with a name
quite like yours.”
The girl shook her head up and
down. “Mommy says it’s not my given name, but I don’t like that one, so I made
a name for me that I like better, ‘cause I like Éclair’s. I named my teddy too.
“How did you
get here?” She glanced behind the girl to the outside door. “Is anyone here
with you?”
She shook her
head from side-to-side. “No-o-o, ma’am.”
Her husband, still half-asleep,
robe askew and slippers half on, stumbled into the room. “What is it, Stef? I
thought I heard you—were you screaming?” He blinked three times when he saw the
little girl, as if he were still dreaming, and knelt down unsteadily on one
knee. “Who is this?”
“I found her in
the mudroom.”
The little girl
extended her hand to him. “Hi mister, my name is Therese Éclair.”
Mark’s face
blanched white. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Therese Éclair.”
“And,” he paused to swallow, “About
how old are you? I’m guessing you’re about eight years old, maybe?”
“That’s right mister. I turned
eight last December, so I’ll be nine before long. I’m going to have a party
with all my friends.”
He stood up quickly, now fully
awake. “Honey, I’m going to go and make a phone call. Why don’t you sit down
with Theresa and keep her company?
“Sure. She leaned in close to his
ear and whispered, “You’re going to
call the police, I hope?”
He nodded, “Don’t worry. I’ll take
care of everything.”
Turning to Theresa he said, “I’ll
be back in just a minute. Can I bring you anything? Are you thirsty? Hungry
maybe?”
“I’m both, thank you mister. A
peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk would be nice.”
He smiled. “Not a problem. I’ll get
it for you.”
“Theresa?” Stephanie motioned to a
couch in the adjoining room. “Why don’t we sit down in here?”
“Okay,” she answered and followed.
She sat down and rocked her bottom
from side to side. “This sure is a comfortable couch, Ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath
to calm herself. “Do your parents know you’re out by yourself in the middle of
the night?”
Her eyes widened, tears glistening
in the corners. “Ma’am, I don’t know where they are.”
She kept her voice calm and even.
“Well, let’s start with your house. Where do you live?”
She tilted her head to the side as
if puzzled. “Where do I live?” “Oh, you must be joking me.” She giggled.
“Joking you? I can assure you, I’m
not. I really want to know where you live.”
“But that’s a silly question,
Ma’am.”
“Why is it silly?”
“Because.” She focused on Theobold,
poking his raggle-taggle stomach.
“Because, why?”
She looked up. “Because I live
here, maa’m.”
A chill ran through her. “What? I-I
don’t understand. Maybe your house is similar to ours.”
Theresa glanced around the room.
“The house does look a little different.” She pointed to the doorframe. “But
see that notch? That’s how big I was when I turned six. You can read my name.”
Stephanie turned her attention to
the frame around the French doors. How could she have missed that? They’d lived
in the house now for five years. She squinted. There was a mark on the
doorframe, faint, but something that did resemble lettering.
She grabbed her purse and pulled
out her reading glasses. Crouching down by the doorframe, she examined the
lettering. Theresa/6 years was
plainly visible.
She pulled off her glasses and
stood, stunned.
Her heard Mark’s footsteps before
his voice. “They’re on their way.”
“Stef, did you hear--?”
She turned and nodded. “Who? Oh . .
.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Could you, would you take a look
at this while I talk to her?”
A puzzled
look on his face, they exchanged places. She noticed his beige bathrobe was
straightened and sashed, his hair combed.
Stephanie
looked at the girl in a new light. Hair, the color of warm honey cut just below
her ears. Blue eyes. Dimples.
“Now tell me honey, how could you
possibly believe you live here?” She pointed at Mark. “Do you see that man over
there?”
She looked over at him. Mark stood
very still against the wall, his skin pale.
“He’s my husband and we live here.
We have two grown daughters.” Stephanie smiled. “And as far as we know, we
don’t have another daughter.”
Theresa raked Theobold’s fur with
her nails. “I didn’t say you were my
mommy and daddy. I know who my own parents are.”
“Well then--who are your?”
The girl interrupted to look up at
Mark. “Is my sandwich ready, mister? My tummy is growling like a lion.”
He smiled. “Someone else is
bringing it.”
A series of headlights lit the room
from the driveway outside. Doors banged shut outside. Voices.
Mark moved quickly to open the
front door.
Two men in black suits entered the
room and looked around, their eyes settling on the girl. A woman’s voice in the
hall questioned, “Where is she?”
Mark answered, “In here.”
The woman entered the room. Dressed
in a plaid skirt and cream blazer, Stephanie knew who it was in an instant.
She’d seen her on the news. Senator
Randall Cook.
Shocked, Stephanie rose from the
couch and moved to stand next to Mark. Her eyes locked on the girl. As the
woman walked forward, her body crouched in stages until she matched Theresa’s
height in a kneeling position in front of the couch. Eyes pooled with tears,
she asked, “Is it you, my darling? Is it really you?”
A revelation flashed across the
girl’s eyes as she studied the face of the woman in front of her. “Mama? Mama?”
Tears flowed from the senator’s
eyes, “Yes, baby. It’s me.”
The girl reached to stroke her mother’s face.
“But Mama, you’re so old.”
The senator nodded, her entire face
wet with tears. “Yes, darling, I know.”
“But how did you get to be so old?
You-you look like grandma.”
She sobbed and put her arms around
the girl. “All in good time my sweet Theresa. All in good time.”
“Mama-a-a!” Mother and daughter
clung to one another, sobbing. The senator reaching up at times to stroke her
daughter’s hair or kiss her cheek. Locked in embrace, the senator finally
looked up at one of the suited men. “Bring her some food.”
He immediately left the room.
Stephanie
turned to her husband and whispered. “I-I don’t understand. How could she
be Theresa’s mother? She’s got to be in her seventies and the girl’s only
eight. Is she adopted or something? And how did she get in our house?”
Before he could answer, a man’s
voice interrupted. “Your name is Stephanie Hudson, isn’t it? The senator’s aide
had crept up from behind us.
“Yes, it is.”
“What you’re about to hear is a
matter of national security. You are not to reveal any of it to anyone. Do you
understand?”
“I-I’m not sure what you mean by
that.”
“The penalties for revealing any of
this information will be quite severe—for you and, he paused, for your family.”
He stared at her. “Do you understand now?”
She gasped, looking to Mark for
support. There was something about Mark’s eyes, as if he were trying to tell
her something. Was it fear?
Her throat tightened. “Y-yes, I
understand.” Why didn’t the aide instruct
Mark as well?
A commotion at the door drew their
attention. More people had arrived, this time with equipment and computers.
Why?
A man approached, but instead of
asking the aide, went straight to her husband. “Where should we set up?”
Mark pointed to the mudroom door.
“Cordon that area off and set up a command post in the library.”
Mark?” She asked, incredulous.
He drew her aside near the
fireplace and held her arms. “Stef, listen carefully. That little girl, her
real name is Therese Fairhaven Cook. She’s been missing now for forty years.”
“The senator’s daughter? What are
you talking about? She’s only eight.”
He paused. “She was eight when she
disappeared from this house in 1966.”
#
Leave a comment if you have an idea where the story should go next!
