Blue Aspen Read online

  "Wow. Thanks for making breakfast." I said, sitting down at the counter.

  "No Problem. I hope you’re hungry, I think I made too much."

  "I’m starving, and pancakes are my favorite." I smiled broadly.

  We sat down together with our plates piled high, oozing syrup down the sides, like a pancake volcano. After we had eaten so much we were both groaning, Uncle Jack began to look like he was steeling himself for something, I waited.

  "I’m sure you have noticed that I’ve been a little withdrawn the last few days," he said seriously.

  I nodded.

  "I’m sorry about that. I’ve had some serious business problems come up. I’ve been trying to get it all cleaned up from here, but nothing doing. I’m going to have to attend to them in person." He took a deep breath and plunged on. "I have to go to L.A. in two weeks. I will take you with me if you want, of course, but…" He looked at me pleadingly. It was obvious that my coming along was a problem. "If you go, there won’t be anything for you to do. You’ll just have to stay in the hotel all day. I couldn’t let you out. I’ll be too preoccupied to look out for you."

  I gave my uncle an incredulous look and was just about to assure him in no uncertain terms that I could look out for myself, when it hit me like a freight train. All this trouble might be about Vivian. And it was because of what happened to Vivian that had made my uncle so paranoid. He had to go to L.A., which was where she had been murdered. He would want me under lock and key in that city. There was nothing I could say that would change his mind. Uncle Jack blamed himself for her death. He wouldn’t run the risk of losing sight of me in such a large city. If I was here, at least he would feel I was safe.

  I swallowed the insolent retort on my lips and adjusted my attitude. So, my choice was solitude in a hotel or solitude in the house. It was a tough call.

  "How long will you have to be there?" I asked. This was what I really needed to know to make my decision.

  "I can’t say for sure. I think about three weeks, maybe less. But, when this trip is over, I will have to make another one, a longer one. I don’t know how long that one will take…I’m so sorry to put you in this position." He honestly looked very sorry.

  I was curious at what could be so pressing but I wasn't going to ask. He looked like he had enough to think about. I didn’t want him to have to worry about me too just because I was a little afraid to be alone in the house. Uncle Jack had already been so good to me. I didn’t want to add to his problems.

  "Don’t worry about me," I said, trying to sound off hand. "I’ll be fine. There is so much for me to do. And, I rather enjoy the peace and quiet." I smiled reassuringly at him. I think he bought it. He hadn’t been around me enough to know when I was lying. He looked suspiciously at me, so I kept smiling at him until he smiled back.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "Because if you want to go with me, the sooner you let me know the better. I will have to make arrangements for you."

  "Okay," I said, still smiling. "I’ll make up my mind about it by tonight."

  I left the kitchen, feeling sulky. Uncle Jack shut himself in his office again. I tried hard to be positive about the situation, but I was a little mad. Why did something like this have to happen now? Nothing good ever happened to me.

  "Oh shut up!" I said aloud to myself. "Stop being so dramatic."

  I spent most of the morning exploring the parts of the house I had carefully avoided the last few days. I was determined not to ask Uncle Jack for help if I got lost. I needed to be able to find my way around without help. Much of the house seemed to lay under a spell, a sleeping deathlike spell. The more doors I opened, the more bizarre the house became to me. There was nothing so out of the ordinary, most of the time. But I kept wondering why my Uncle would have built this house. Did he plan to have other people live here? And if so, who? I just didn’t understand.

  I made progress after a while, with my aimless wandering. I got lost a few times, but it was getting easier, more familiar. I turned a corner I hadn’t been around before and gasped in awe. I had wandered into a large open area with a huge stained glass window at the end. The window was so large it could have been in a cathedral. The noon sun was hitting the glass full on, sending countless bands of rainbows across the walls and floors. The entire window was infused with prisms. The designs and pictures in the stained glass were vivid, in rich, dark colors with the exception of two areas on either side of the window. These areas were identical in size and shape and both carried a message. Their light colors made them stand out amongst the backdrop of dark hues.

  The one on the left read, "wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts" the one on the right, "these same thoughts people this little world."

  I knew these windows, I knew these words, I had seen them before, but for the moment, I could not remember from where. I stood starring at the window, trying to remember. I had contemplated the meaning of these words before, a long time ago. But for as long I stood there, thinking, the only thing that came to me was the two different phrases had come from different sources. Though they somehow fit together, they weren't even closely related.

  The fact that I couldn’t remember made me so irritated I couldn’t even enjoy the beauty of the window or the refracted light. I left the room, noting carefully how to get back to it, and tromped down to the kitchen for lunch.

  Uncle Jack was a no show to lunch, so I ate alone, again. I slowly chewed each bite of leftovers, still racking my brain over the windows, but to no avail. When I was finished eating, I decided to go to the library for a distraction. I peeked into the solarium on my way, and grieved over its empty state. Maybe I would continue my plant research.

  I walked absentmindedly around the library, running my fingers along the spines, the way I always did. I was waiting for the book that would give me an electric charge when I touched it. Or for the book that would whisper to me, its message carried on the dust particles in the air.

  I stopped, hit with a sudden inspiration. I had to go to the other side of the library and up the ladder to get to the books I wanted. I grabbed three, dropping two of them on the way down. I laid the books in a row on the polished table, considering which one might give me the knowledge I was seeking.

  I opened the one about dream interpretation, but quickly set it aside. I didn’t want anyone to tell me what my dreams meant, no one could answer that but me. I was afraid reading such a book, would ruin the experience.

  The next book was about falling asleep. I wasn’t having that problem anymore.

  The last was about the science of sleep. There was a lot of information I didn’t understand, but my interest piqued when I came to a chapter on the stages of sleep, the layers. I was fascinated by the brainwave patterns, and how they change in the different layers, rolling like the ocean. I learned I had spent most of my sleeping life in Alpha waves, or light sleep. It seemed I was now crossing over into Theta waves, dreaming sleep. And if I could ever get really good at sleeping, I would be able to go into Delta waves, deep, recuperative sleep. I liked knowing these kinds of things. I liked having a name for it, Theta. I decided until I knew otherwise, the shadow’s name was Theta.

  I put the two others back, and left the library with the useful book. The evening was fast on its way. As I passed the office, I could hear Uncle Jack through the door, talking on the phone. He sounded tired and agitated. I didn’t want him to make me dinner, so I grabbed a bag of chips and a soda, on my way up to my room. I left a note for him on the fridge, telling him not to make me anything, just in case.

  I shut myself in my room and headed for the shower. I melted under the hot waterfall. My bathroom was still my favorite place. I changed into my pink flannel pajamas when I was done showering, even though it wasn’t even close to bedtime. I wanted to just sit by the fire and enjoy the evening reading.

  I turned on some music and nestled down in my reading chair by the window. I picked up the black, aspen-embossed book and opened it. On the inside of the front c
over was the name Vivian Sanderson, written in faded ink. This excited me. Had this been one of her favorite books? I lovingly fanned through it until I came to a dog-eared page. A small folded piece of paper fell out of the book onto my lap. I paused, wondering if it would be wrong of me to read it. But after a long moment of staring at it, I couldn’t resist the temptation. The paper felt like parchment and the words written with a quill, rather than a ballpoint pen.

  The first time I saw you, you brought spring to my bleak winter. –V

  It was so short, yet so beautiful. It must have been written for my uncle from Vivian. That made sense to me, signed "-V." V must be Vivian. I should have put the note back in the book, or given it to my uncle, but I didn’t want to. I felt so moved by it. I never wanted to forget what it said.

  I took it over to the wooden box on top of the mantle, and gently placed it inside. Sitting back down, I looked at the page that was dog-eared again. There was a passage that was underlined. It read, "She was sitting, reading his book. She didn’t know he was watching in the trees nearby. The note he wrote for her, fell into her lap. He could have chosen anyone, but no, he wanted her. He wanted to protect her, he wanted to love her, and he wanted her to be happy for the rest of her life. All she had to do was accept. All she had to do was look out the window."

  That's really romantic, I thought.

  I paused, thinking about what I had just read. I gasped as ice went down my spine. The feeling that I was not alone rushed upon me. I was being watched. Instinctively, I looked out of the window. It was dark now. The moon reflected on the water and seemed to light up every snowflake. I squinted, looking hard into the forest. There was no movement I could see. I looked and looked. Nothing.

  I shook myself. Stupid. What was I looking for? But the feeling would not go away. I pulled back from the window and for the first time, I shut the heavy drapes, blocking out everything that was not in my room.

  Trying to shake the chills, I decided to leave my room and seek out my uncle. Even if he couldn’t spend time with me, I would feel better just being closer to him. I found him sitting in the living room, staring at the fire, drinking a glass of wine. As I came down stairs, he looked up at me from his chair. He looked as though the events of the day had aged him ten years. The light from the fire cast shadows in the lines of his face. I could see he was utterly exhausted, but he gave me a smile as I sat down in the chair opposite his.

  "Hey there. What’s new?" he asked.

  I noticed that his eyes were watery and bloodshot.

  "Nothing much. How are you doing?"

  He sighed heavily. "Not very good, I’m afraid…I’m sure you are wondering what all my trouble is about." He raised his eyebrows at me in question. I nodded. He gave a quick sigh and cleared his throat.

  "It’s a huge legal mess. Vivian’s family thinks I set up her murder to get the money. They have been trying to prove it ever since she died. They were always unhappy that she married me, but they were livid when they found out we didn’t have a pre-nuptial agreement. She died and I got millions. That was the only thing that looked suspicious regarding me. There was no other evidence to incriminate me. They’ve pulled at straws, determined to see me put away. They’ve put their money to work for them, against me. They’ve even gone so far as to say that Vivian was not in her right mind when she married me, and I took advantage of her unstable mental state to get her money.

  "I have been in and out of court with them, ever since she died. I truly hope this will be the last time. As I’m sure you can imagine, they have the best lawyers in the country. But, as you can see, I’m no pauper, either." He croaked out a loud, dark laugh. "You should see the way these lawyers get at each other. They are all just too good at what they do, but anyway…"

  He looked away from me and back into the depths of the fire, his eyes sliding out of focus. I sat frozen in awe, gazing at him in silence. One tear pooled at the corner of his eye, and then slid down his face, making its way through the crevices of his skin. He downed the wine he had been sipping.

  His sudden meditation almost made me feel worse than his words had. I just sat there, rigid, trying to think of something to say, when he started talking again. And it seemed he was talking more to the fire than to me.

  "I've never been able to mourn her, because of them…I never cared about the money. I would have given it back to them, if only that action didn’t look like the admittance of guilt…I loved her, even more than I can express. I still love her…I can’t go on with life, like others do. I am incomplete now." He slumped forward, hanging his head, and wept.

  My uncle, whom I hardly knew, was broken before me. I felt a hot flame of indignation flare up inside me, on his behalf. He was my family, and he was a good man. I was beginning to feel love for him and they were plaguing his soul. It ripped my heart out. This was the first time I felt hatred for someone I didn’t even know. I knew there was nothing I could say to ease his pain. So I just sat there. It wasn’t long before Uncle Jack composed himself.

  "I’m sorry," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Are you planning to go with me, or are you going to stay here?"

  "I’m going to stay. And I don’t want you to worry about me at all. I’ll have a grand time. Just focus on what you have to do, and beat those suckers at their own game." There was so much fire in my voice that he looked at me in surprise when I spoke.

  Then he smiled. "That’s my plan. Look, I’m really tired. I think I have to go to bed now. Are you planning to sit up for a while?"

  "Yeah. I’m not tired."

  "I’ll leave everything on for you. If I put it on a timer, to go off at twelve, will that be okay?"

  "Sure. I’ll be in my room long before that."

  "Okay. Goodnight, Dulcee." He set his glass down, and heaved himself upstairs.

  "Goodnight."

  The fire crackled beside me. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, now I was alone. I was feeling sorry for my uncle. I started to think about the things he said about Vivian, and the way he loved her. How much he still loved her. I decided to go to the gallery.

  As I walked down stairs and through hallways, I felt very anxious. This was the first time I had wandered away from my room at night. I was getting my first taste of what I would soon be going through when Uncle Jack left. The way it would be, alone at night, in the house. It was a helpless feeling, exposed, vulnerable. It took all of my conviction not to let my imagination run wild. It was a talent I would have to perfect to stay sane. Every shut door I passed had a monster behind it.

  Finally, I reached the gallery and I didn’t get lost. I entered into the round room and began trying to unlock its secrets. The door at the other side of the room made me nervous. I kept glancing at it. I wanted to know what was behind it, but at the moment, I didn’t have the nerve to look. I decided to try ignoring the door and focus on the art.

  As I stood staring into a watercolor of the desert, it occurred to me why this room existed. He didn’t want to get over her. He wasn’t trying to heal, he didn’t want to. He continued to open his wound because he liked to bleed. He felt closer to her that way. People say that life goes on, but he was trying his best to prevent it. He shut himself to the world so he couldn’t feel its revolutions. Time had less meaning here. And in this room he could almost make it stand still.

  I was moved by this notion and felt that if I ever fell in love I wanted it to be that intense. If my lover lost me to death, he would never get over me, never love again, never even look at another woman. I wanted to be what Vivian had been.

  Irreplaceable.

  I found a scrapbook and sat down, looking at it slowly. I was sure I was gaining in understanding every minute. And as luck would have it, in the scrapbook was an old postcard, with a photograph of a Victorian Manson I recognized. I slapped myself in the forehead, as the memory that had evaded me all day, resurfaced. The Winchester Mystery House! That was where I had seen those windows before. I had been on a school field trip there when I was in s
ixth grade. It was all coming back to me.

  In spite of my joy at having remembered, I felt bewildered. The connection disturbed me. I remembered some of the history about the Winchester Mystery House. They called it, "The Manson designed by the spirits."

  I looked back at the scrapbook. There was nothing else in there about the Winchester Mystery House. Did my uncle believe in ghosts? Had Vivian? Maybe it was just a place they had visited, and liked. Maybe there was more to this house than I knew, and not in the way of square footage. Did Uncle Jack build this house because it was the house Vivian would have wanted?

  My uncle and I were more alike than I knew. I had my snow globe. Uncle Jack had the house. The house was his snow globe. I bet he talked to the house, to Vivian, the way I talked to my dad, to the snow globe. It was the same thing. Looking at it in that light, the house, at least in one respect, made sense. Grief can cause people to do some strange things.