Section I, Next Section
And so the Day, about to yield his breath,
Utters the Stars unto the listening Night
To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of light
Said on the verge of death~Sidney Lanier
Night falls upon the day like a curtain at the end of a glorious play, or as so many authors and poets in the past have said. And I do not disagree with them. Morning is the beginning. Day is the middle. Dusk is the warning. And night is the end. Night is an ending. A beautiful ending to an occurrence equally astounding. It is a slow, magnificent change in nature. The darkness covers the earth as the mighty sun slowly descends. The moon glows, shedding a soft, mysterious light upon the quiet stillness. It is the only source of light that penetrates my dark surroundings tonight. I look up at the sky. Gigantic gray clouds loom above me, and I can see no stars out tonight. I remember a time when use to look up to the stars for guidance - when I was a young, foolish dreamer. But I, Elizabeth Bennett, am no longer a dreamer and there are no stars.
I approach the bank of a peaceful river. It is too calm. Too different from my confused mind and my disconsolate state. My eyes catch my reflection on the still water.
Although many have considered the Bennett girls to be quite beautiful (my sister Jane is the image of a goddess, no matter what she thinks), I have never seen anything too appealing in my own features, especially on this dreadful night. I do not know myself. I look so much older than I am. I no longer see the witty twenty-one year old full of hopes and aspirations that existed what seemed like years ago. It really was only a matter of months. That cheerful person is gone. That person existed before I knew about his condition...before I and everyone else knew that he was deteriorating slowly. Meeting his end. Meeting his night. Unrecognizable eyes look back at me. Dark and tearful, they reflect the sadness and confusion that make my head spin. He will never return.
It is quiet here. Still. Someone once said, "Silence is golden." I have really come to appreciate the meaning of that phrase. Silence. It has given me something that even dear Jane could not today: comfort and solitude. Unsettling as it may seem to others, the silence is oddly comforting. It is what I need. I am usually not this afraid to talk to others...this is not my typical reaction. Closing up is new to me. But, the wall I have created gives me space. I need space. Here in my sanctuary, enveloped in the night, I can think. I need time to think and time to understand...to understand everything.
He is gone. Gone. Dead.
He is nothing more than a memory to some. A shadow.
But not to me. Never.
Call me Elizabeth. That is the name he chose for me.
Today I am one of life's most miserable members. Today I begin to understand one of the hardest lessons life gives us the opportunity to understand: letting go of someone you love. Letting go is too hard. Too painful. As Emily Dickinson once wrote, "Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell."* The past few months can only be described as hell. I am left afraid, scarred, and wounded. I am too vulnerable now.
Empty.
Fragile.
Vulnerable.
I need someone. I need more than comfort. I need hope.
The tears fall more steadily now. I feel that I could "cry a river and drown the whole world."** I tell myself to be strong, but my bewildered mind and my breaking heart dwell within a dangerous state of loneliness and blindness - where anyone can fill the void...even strangers.
*from Emily Dickinson's "My Life Closed Twice Before Its Close"
**from Nine Days song "Absolutely Story of A Girl"
For Crysty. Thank you for your help.
Today he was buried under the soil of the earth. I looked at him for the last time. His features were so old. His body was still visibly tired from the suffering he had to endure. My hand reached out to touch his face. It was so cold. I shuddered. G-d forbid I remember him this way.
It was so cold outside. The cold that touched me felt like the cold touch of his face. Dark clouds hung above us. I remember thinking that everything around me was dark and dreary. Our clothes especially caught my attention. All of us wore black. It is a tradition, or so they say. It is a sign of our mourning. Our sadness. I looked down at my black dress. This is depressing. Soon tears fell from my eyes once again. My face longed to be hidden, and I found myself staring at the ground.
It was a simple ceremony. Quiet. Small. Simple. The way he would have liked it. Those who gathered with us today were only close family and friends. People he touched and knew well. I dried my tears, and found the courage to look. I lifted my head as my uncle stepped up to speak. I did not want to listen but my ears captured some of his words of sorrow.
"I will never forget him," cried my uncle. "He was a wonderful man. I..." He looked at us. My mother. My sisters. Me. He looked directly at me, and failed to continue for a few moments.
I could not look at him as he spoke. Tears came and I did not want to face him. So, I looked around. But the site was not comforting. Grieving faces. All people I knew. My uncle continued, "When he talked about those who had died, Walt Whitman once wrote 'They are all alive somewhere; / the smallest sprout shows there is really no death; / And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, / And ceas'd the moment life appear'd./ All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, / And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.'* Death is not an end. Death has not taken him away from us. He is still alive. He lives in all of us...through memories, through the lessons he has taught us ...because of that he will live forever."
I listened to his words and reflected, then softly to myself I said, "Yes, he will never be forgotten. But, things will never be the same again."
My uncle once again continued and I could not face him any longer. I kept repeating in my mind "this is not happening," "this is not happening." But it was. My futile attempts to block out reality were failing.
I turned around and my eyes locked with another pair of eyes. I gazed upon this unfamiliar face. Wondering. Certain that I had never met this mysterious man before, I could not help but stare. His face was young and handsome. I was intrigued, but turned away. My mind drifted back to the ceremony.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
I could no longer hear the priest's words. I drowned out all the cries and sobs. I was so distant. Detached. Removed. So much was going on around me but I was not there.
Soon the service was over. The small crowd that had gathered slowly dispersed. My family waited for me. I knelt next to the stone that marked where he was buried. I placed a bunch of beautiful, vividly colored flowers in front of the cold, gray stone. I ran my hand across the simple epitaph we had chosen:
Loving husband and father
19__-19__
I started to cry again. I kissed the cold stone.
"Why did you leave us daddy? You told me you would always be there. I love you. I will miss you. I can't believe I am saying this...Good-bye."
*Walt Whitman's "What is the Grass?" from a Song of Myself
I have always been daddy's little girl. Always. Mother never held much interest in me. Papa did. Needless to say, we were very close. He was more than a father. He was a friend.
He was my confidante when Jane, my oldest and favorite sister, was away. He taught me so much about life. He read to me. He listened to me. Being an observant man, he taught me how to analyze people and think about what I could learn about them. We loved our playful conversations together. He was a remarkable man. Interesting and wonderful.
He gave me hope. And when they told me he died, my hope died with him.
Hope. It is so valuable and precious.
Father always said that nothing was out of my reach. He believed in me.
In my potential. In my worth.
He cheered me up when times were down. He taught me the value of hard work and dedication. He always told me that nothing could stop me from following my dreams as long as I kept my mind active and kept my feet on the ground. He supported me and listened. Papa.
I close my eyes in nostalgic remembrance.
He was my inspiration. My hope. He was my father. And, to put it directly, I simply adored him.
Mother is very different from my father. They had been married for over twenty years. Sometimes you must wonder how they survived together so long without killing each other. They always had their differences. Always bickering about something. If they stopped arguing that is when you would wonder if something was wrong. Of course, their arguments were usually petty, and their bickering was more affectionate then anything else. It was a consequence of my father's delight in "vexing" mother, as she puts it.
My mind recalls an image of my mother when we were very young. This image was repeated over and over again throughout the times they shared together. I can still see her running around the house telling my father: "Thomas," she would say, "Thomas Bennett you have no compassion on my poor nerves!" Then she would throw a fit and lock herself in bathroom until my father would come and get her out. My father would just laugh. They would kiss and make up. The memory made me smile.
A smile. My face had not smiled in such a long time. The gesture seemed so new.
I love my mother. I really do. Despite the fact that we fail to get along. We are very different people, mother and I. Mother enjoys gossip, and criticism is her forte. She loves to boast of her daughters' gifts and she constantly compares. Her captious comments are less then pleasant and often get us into embarrassing situations. We disagree on almost everything. From fashion to employment to men. "I do not dress well." "I should not work here." "I should get married." I even say "to-ma-to" and she says "to-mah-to." Sometimes I wonder if she does this purposely...Nonetheless, she is my mother despite this, and I love her. I have made efforts to learn how to deal with her antics and behavior. Gradually I hope to overcome her "match-making ways." Her behavior does not irritate me... No, that is not true. They no longer irritate me much as they once did.
"Oh Girls! What will become of us!"
My mother was crying hysterically in the background. I really felt sorry for her. Even if they did not seem to get along, mother really loved my papa. I could see apprehension and melancholy in her blue eyes. Jane tried to calm her down. "Mama I am sure things will be better. Papa took care of us. I am sure that he would not leave us alone with nothing!" Just like Jane.
What will become with us?
It was a question that racked my brain ever since father found out about his illness. For once I understood why my mother was acting so hysterically. We did have cause for worry. Troubles lay ahead.
None of us know much about Papa's past. He never mentioned it. He came from England to the United States in the late 1950s. When he was settled and married, he started his own business. A bookstore. He loved books, and spent a lot of time in the library when we were at home. He enjoyed the silence, especially when Mama was running around the house getting all of us together for dinner. He would now have silence forever.
The library. It was his favorite place. I remember Papa reading to us as children. Those days seemed so simple. Complexities just did not exist. I felt so safe on that big leather chair on his lap as he read me fanciful stories about damsels in distress, knights in shining armor, and princes and princesses. Princesses. I was his little princess. He always called me that. He would read until I fell into a deep sleep full of dreams.
Bennett Books. That was what he called the bookstore. Father was so proud of it. It was in this bookstore where father made his living...our living. Father was our primary provider. Mother stayed at home and took care us children. We were never really in need of money because the bookstore always seemed to make enough money to take care of us. But with father gone, I knew we were headed into financial trouble.
Money. It is nothing but paper. A materialistic object. A green thing. I really do not care for it much, but we need it because it is the way the world operates. Money meant we could live. Money is security.
Mama could not work. We could never let her work. She is exhausted. Caring for papa had taken its toll, and I fear for her health. Jane and I must take care of everyone. It is our obligation. Sweet Jane. She is my greatest friend. At 23, my eldest sister has pursued her passion and has dedicated her life to serving others as a nurse. We are only two years apart. I am studying to become a lawyer, but this goal of mine may be put on hiatus for a while. Our careers were second to our family, and going to all our personal affairs, would not get the money we needed right now.
Money. I detest the word.
We needed money to put my three younger sisters through school. Along with the everyday pressures from school and friends, father's death added to the stress for all of them. He loved all of us so much. Mary, 18, finished started her last year of high school this fall and she must think about college and graduation. We have to find a way to pay for tuition. Kitty, 17, and Lydia, the youngest at 15, are both young and naïve. I worry about them. I am concerned about their behavior, especially Lydia's lack of decorum. She is immature and spoiled, yet she is mother's favorite and rarely gets punished for her actions. Father kept her in line but now, father is no longer here to discipline her.
Money. Its green color rules the world.
Stress. Too much of it.
Help. We need it.
Bennett Books. A problem. But I am determined that the store will not close down. No. Father worked too hard to keep it alive. He spent long days and hours for this store. He put his heart and soul into Bennett Books. I am not going to lose it. I will not let father down. I will provide for the family. I will carry the burdens. I will make my sacrifices. Sure, I am only making my way into this world of ups and downs, but I owe him this and I am determined.
Yet...a feeling of hesitation and uncertainty exist. I think I can do it but there is no feeling of certainty...that I know I can do it. I am so anxious. Worried. Scared.
Could someone help me forget these problems? Help me overcome this unwonted insecurity?
I lay Vulnerable still.
Oh father...
Author's Note: The poem that is started in the beginning is by Emily Dickinson.
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
Jane's gentle voice calling my name brought me back to reality. To the reality I just could not justify or believe just yet.
"Lizzy." She was worried. I guess I had given her cause for it. I had not spoken many words to anyone lately. "Lizzy." She came and touched my shoulder gently.
"Yes, Jane. I am here." She looked at me tearfully. I must smile for her sake. I ventured to form one from my mouth but I could not. It would be best if I did not live deceptively. I might as well face the truth. Facing the truth is living is it not?
"Lizzy, I think it is best if we go home. It is getting late. Almost everyone has left and Mama needs her rest."
Dear Jane. Ever caring and kind.
"Jane." I looked at her again. Her usually blue, playful eyes were dull and full of grief. "Jane, I would like to stay here for a little bit longer. I have the other car anyway, so I can drive home later."
"I don't want you to be alone. Please let me stay. I am so worried about you. Please don't let me leave you here. You haven't said anything to me since he...Papa...Lizzy, don't do this! Don't close up. Let Aunt Julia take them home and let me stay...please"
She was crying. I knew how much Jane did not want to see me like this, but I was filled with the need to hide away behind that wall I had built. I did not want to hurt her. I did not want to be selfish. I did not want to cause more pain, but I just needed to be by myself.
"Jane, I am sorry. Please. I need time by myself. Please understand."
She held my hand and squeezed it tightly.
"I understand. I just don't want you to go through this by yourself. We are always here for you. "
I nodded.
"Promise to come home soon. It is getting dark."
"Jane, I want to thank you. Thank you for understanding me. And, I am sorry Jane."
"What are you apologizing for?"
"I know that I have been very distant lately. I promise that I will be my old self again." In my heart I knew I would never really be the same Lizzy again.
"Don't hide behind that wall for too long, Liz. Daddy would not have wanted it that way, you know." She hugged me. I felt the dampness her face as she embraced me. I handed her a tissue.
"Jane, please go. I will be home soon. Take care on the way home."
"Okay. I still don't want to leave you..." At looked into her eyes with determination and stubbornness. She knew there was no way to change my mind. I was resolved to stay.
"Goodbye, Jane." Slowly, she walked away from the place we had ventured off to and collected my family to go home.
I turned and walked in the other direction. I followed the path back to the place where my father now lay. The cemetery was desolate. I was alone.
Solitary.
Thinking.
I looked at the stone again.
Unbelieving.
G-d had taken him away from us. He was gone. Truly gone. How can I bear this pain?
I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
Memories flooded my mind.
Recall & Remembrance.
The good times and the bad times.
I felt the emotions that we had felt once again.
I remember a character in a book that I once read say, "Feeling is not selective, I keep telling you that. You can't feel pain you aren't gonna feel anything else, either. And the world is full of pain. Also joy. Evil. Goodness. Horror and love. You name it, it's here. Sealing yourself off is just going through the motions, get it?" *
I have had my share of joy. Emotions evoked all through out my life. Pride. Anger. Sadness.
Love.
Now, I am having my share of pain. Grief. I am feeling it more then I ever had before. And it is hitting me hard.
Why was he taken away from us? Why?
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,--
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There 's grief of want, and grief of cold,--
A sort they call 'despair;'
There 's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
~Emily Dickinson
I wept. Not able to think about what was going on around me. I felt the tears. Everything was a blur. Nothing seemed to make sense, then...
Suddenly, I heard footsteps treading on the ground behind me. I was unaccompanied in a cemetery during the dark hours of the day. I was frozen. Frightened. Trepidation. Foreboding thoughts registered in my brain. A wave of fear surged throughout my body. A voice came from behind me...
*from Ordinary People by Judith Guest.
I shivered.
The frigid November weather made the affecting atmosphere harsh and bitter. Hitting my tear-stained face insensitively. It was cold, to be sure, but my shivering at the moment was not be caused by the weather conditions. No, my body shook from fear and dread.
I upbraided myself for carelessly deciding to be left alone. I was so stupid! Was I out of my senses to think it would be safe here alone in a dark, secluded cemetery? Why did I isolate myself? Why did I not have Jane stay with me? Another mistake. I have made too many.
Now it is too late. If something was going to happen. It would. There was nothing I could do anymore. The person moved closer to my body and a sound traveled to my ears.
"Are you okay?"
It was soothing. Smooth. The deep, masculine voice was foreign to me, but its tone and approach allayed my fears. It seemed sincerely concerned. I was oddly relieved. I had no knowledge about the stranger behind me, but from his voice I felt that he would not harm me. Ever.
But, as soon as I breathed that breath of relief, I rapidly felt invaded. Those fearful thoughts I felt just moments ago vanished, and I wanted to be alone again. I wanted the man behind me to leave. I willed it. I hoped it. I wanted to retreat behind the fragile shell of my imagination, but my wishes were in vain because he did not go. His worried voice. It asked once more.
"Yes. Yes, I am fine. Fine," I snapped at him. In my mind I knew I was far from fine.
As I said this, I finally turned around to look at the owner of that unique voice. My eyes met his. Those eyes. Recognition slowly descended. Eyes that I found so fascinating earlier. Eyes belonging to the mysterious man that attending my father's funeral. I could not tear my eyes away. My mouth felt like it had separated from my face and dropped to the ground.
"I am sorry to have bothered you. I just wanted to make sure..." That voice again. It was so rich. Clear. Gentle.
He muttered something else, but I was not paying attention to what he said anymore. I was so intrigued by his person. Captivated. With everything.
His body.
His expression.
His gestures.
His face.
His eyes. They sparkled in the clearest of blues.
G-d, he was so gorgeous. I found myself staring. My brain was not functioning properly. I had lost my motor skills and verbal capabilities for moments. Why was I so abrupt? Somehow, my brain decided to form a reply and I found the courage to speak again.
"I...I am sorry I was so rude, its just...I mean..." I was grasping for the right words. I was rude and abrupt because I did not want to talk to anyone about father. I had no right to be. But I could not explain myself. Is there an easy way to pronounce, right out, that the father you loved is dead? I did not want to say it. I hesitated. Uncomfortable. Yet, Mystified by him.
Flustered. No one else has played with my emotions this way since...that fateful day when stars still guided me...another unforgettable mistake... Other memories return, but I turn away from them as the voice speaks again.
"I understand. I am so sorry."
He understood.
I looked at him again. He looked so gentle, and the way he offered sympathy seemed so genuine. I started to cry again.
"I am sorry. I hate it when people see me cry."
"No. Don't be." His hand held out a handkerchief.
"Thanks."
He still did not go. We sat in silence for a long time. Or maybe what seemed like a long time. I had lost all sense of time. So I could not tell. I caught him staring at me. I looked at him. Baffled & Curious. Finally, it occurred to my brain to wonder "who was he?" He was just a stranger out of the blue who "understood." Questions flooded my already confused brain. I wanted answers. I did not have answers to many things of late and this man had better supply me with information I wanted to know. Someone should tell me the answers to everything and anything. Soon, filled with the absolute need to get answers, my mouth shot off a barrage of words. My voice, long lost, was found.
"What were you doing at the funeral today?"
"Who are you?"
"Did you know my father?"
I bombarded him with questions. His eyes emoted a feeling of astonishment. Despite the tediousness and length of my spiel, he listened carefully. When I had finished, he spoke again. He looked at me and smiled slightly.
"So you are finally going to talk to me! Now, let's see if I can answer your questions. Yes, I knew your father. Not directly though. My father knew your father, the late Mr. Bennett, when he lived in England. He visited my father last a very long time ago. They were friends. I read about the death of your father in the local obituaries and decided to pay my respects. My father used to tell me about him. Father admired him very much. He was a wonderful man...I am sorry."
I was stunned and even more bewildered. This was just a little too bizarre. Why would the son of my father's friend even want to see us? A family that had never met him in his life. He had probably never even met my father.
...But, I accepted what he said. I believed him. I believed every word.
"You looked very surprised. I guess your father never mentioned his friends across the Atlantic." He smiled at me. I felt my knees go weak.
"He corresponded with my father until recently of course." That would explain father's letters from England every month.
I could only nod my head. Just absorbing this new found information like a sponge.
This man was different. I could tell. Suddenly, I remembered that he failed to introduce himself.
"I am sorry, sir, but you neglected to mention your name."
"Pardon me. I should properly introduce myself." He flashed me another one of his handsome smiles.
"My name is George Wickham. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennett."
He just looked at me and smiled. I just did what I thought was polite, and smiled back.
Whoever you are-I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.
~Blanche DuBois from Tennessee Williams' play "A Streetcar Named Desire"
I came to the cemetery for my father's funeral depressed and miserable. I felt empty and distant. When Jane left me, I wanted to be all by myself. An island. Desolate and isolated. Yet, I found that I could not hide from the pain nor ignore what was true. I found that I needed to talk to someone. I found that I could not be an island. I had to make contact with somebody before I burst with all the emotion pent up inside. So, here I was, only a few hours later, sitting under an old, knotted tree near my father's tombstone. Was I alone? No. I was no longer alone I was joined unexpectedly. Yet the meeting, I found, was not unwelcome. Under that entangled tree, I opened myself up to another person. An unfamiliar person.
A man.
A man with a handsome countenance and a heartfelt look.
A man who I knew nothing about except a name.
A man who was a perfect stranger, and yet despite this, a man who I allowed to sit besides me on a day I had turned away all my closest relatives and friends.
This man's name was George Wickham.
My smile disappeared as, I suppose, pathetic fallacy decided to kick in. The weather began to fit the dreary situation. As we sat under the tree, rain fell from the gray skies above. The tree was large, huge. I looked up and spotted a few red and golden leaves among the dead, withered brown that sheltered us from the cold, gelid drops coming from above. My eyes wandered onto his face. He watched me, and we stared at each other for a few minutes in silence. I was Curious. Analyzing.
Then, something he said broke the protracted silence. His smile had not disappeared. It was refreshing to see a happier face.
"According to my father there are five beautiful Bennett sisters. I must say he was not wrong in that judgment from what I have seen. " He looked directly at my face, and I felt my cheeks glow. "Now that you know my name, may I know which Miss Bennett are you?"
"My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennett."
"Elizabeth is a lovely name." Again, I felt myself blush.
"Thank you."
Thus, my affinity towards this mysterious stranger began.
He made an effort to make interesting conversation. Soon, he was able to talk to me. To pull me out of from behind the wall that I was determined to hide behind.
We talked.
We conversed.
He even told a small joke that made me laugh.
Talking.
Conversing.
Laughing.
I shocked myself.
These things felt so wrong to do. Was not my father just buried? I should be grieving not laughing. These things felt so new to me, just like the smile. I felt guilty, but I welcomed them. I learned what it felt to be happy again through his small talk and cheerful character.
Then I let it all out.
I do not know why I opened up to him.
Why I told him how I have felt in the past few days.
Why I told him how I missed my father.
The matter confused me. I could not speak to Jane, but I could speak to him.
He was a complete stranger. Why him? So suddenly?
Maybe I felt that I could tell this kind and willing stranger about the pain- describing how it really felt as it happened- how it really affected me. I could freely say what I felt without consequences to my family. Without causing more pain. Maybe it was the need to express the bottled, repressed feelings I had kept in me for so long.
The need to say something.
I am not sure of much these days, so I cannot tell why I opened up to him so easily. But I did.
The truth was, I was drawn to him. He seemed so kind and gentle. As I rambled on, I noticed that he did not just hear what I said; he listened. He paid attention. He seemed to understand. He made me feel comfortable. He made feel at ease. "At ease" was a state of mind that I had not been in months. I welcomed his attention. I welcomed his kindness. I did not think about consequences. I just let him into my problems, my worries, and my heart.
The rain had stopped.
Engulfed by the conversation, I did not notice the dark skies were getting darker. It was getting very late. Night had brought down its curtain upon day. Laying its blanket upon us once again. I stole a glance at my watch. Time had just flied by. Jane must be worried.
"I am sorry Mr. Wickham, but...."
"Call me George."
"All right then, George I should go. My family must be worried about me."
"I will not detain you any longer then." He smiled.
"Perhaps we will meet again, Elizabeth." I liked the way my name sounded it as he uttered it from his lips. It was the voice of a perfect gentleman.
"Goodbye."
We parted. He headed in the other direction, and I headed towards my own car feeling different.
Feeling lighter.
Of course I still felt the death of my father. The pain and sadness was still there. That feeling would always be embedded in my memory. It would never be forgotten. But, after opening up to this kind stranger, I felt them less.
I felt better.
"Perhaps we will meet again, Elizabeth."
I remembered his words as I walked the path to my car. His smile. His friendliness.
I wondered if we would ever meet again. Perhaps, next time we would meet in better circumstances.
Next time.
I almost laughed at this thought. Did I want a next time? I thought of the possibilities. I shook my head when I realized what I was doing. I was being so juvenile. Ridiculous and silly. I was acting like a young schoolgirl. Why did meeting with a virtual stranger again matter to me? I tried to be realistic.
Yet, a vision of the knight in shining armor popped into my head. Was he my knight? Was he going to carry me away from all this pain? Was he going to help me forget? My romantic side was unleashed, and I dreamt and I hoped. I looked up from my dreams and I saw a tall, brown...branch? In my reverie, I nearly ran into a tree. I have to pay attention to where I am walking. The vision was gone. I could not conjure it up again. Another crushed hope. I need to take a course in realism. I was being too much of a fanciful dreamer. I was probably never going to cross his path again anyway. It's a big city. I sighed and tried to put the thought of meeting George Wickham again in the back of my mind with much failure.
I finally reached my car. It was uncommonly cold for a November night. No moon or stars were out tonight. The skies were cloudy, and it looked like it was going to rain again. Absentmindedly, I started searching for my keys.
Nothing.
I could not find them anywhere. I went through my purse and my pockets once again.
Still Nothing.
In my mind, I retraced my steps. I had to have brought them here, my car was evidence of that. I remembered getting out of the car that afternoon, the funeral, talking to Jane, and meeting Mr. Wickham. But I could not recall what I had done with them during that time. I frantically searched but found nothing but frustration and anger.
Damn!
I found them. They were not in my purse or in my pockets. They were not on the ground. They were where I should have looked first.
I looked through the clear barrier that lay between my keys and myself. They were right in front of me. Right under my nose.
Locked in my car.
How stupid, dense, and dim-witted can I get? I berated myself for my foolishness.
The sight of them made the situation more discouraging. Soon, I wished that I had lost them where I could not see them. But there they were right in my view.
Dangling. Teasing me.
If only I had something to open the door...
Bloody keys!
The sigh of defeat and resignation.
Isolation. Isn't that what I wanted a few hours ago?
I sat next to my car in a deserted parking lot. It was dark and silent. It was too quiet for my comfort. I was left all alone in an abandoned cemetery parking lot without any way to transport myself away from these tedious surrounding.
Isolation. I got it all right, and I was scared.
I was shaking not only from the bitter cold, but also from fearful thoughts. I was far from home, and I had no way to contact anyone. Unfortunately, my cellular phone was locked in with my keys. What good is technology if you lock it in your car?
What was I to do? Walk? Ha! As much as I enjoy walking, it was too dark. Too far. Too cold. Too dangerous. Too dangerous for me, a young, single woman not yet two and twenty.
Suddenly the silence was broken. I heard a noise. It scared me half to death.
I recognized it. It was an engine.
Another car.
At first I was relieved, but then I was very afraid. I hoped it would be Jane. But, I could not be sure.
The sound grew louder and louder as it headed in my direction. Two bright lights emerged from the darkness. Headlights. They glared at my face, hurting my eyes. I heard the window rolling down. I was shaking. Slowly it revealed the face behind the wheel.
I looked at him in surprise.
"So we meet again, Elizabeth."
"Mr. Wickham! Hello!"
"As much as I wanted to meet you again," as he said this I blushed, " I did not think it would be so soon. Why have you not gone home?"
I rolled my eyes in the direction of my car.
"Car trouble, eh? May I be of any assistance?"
"Sure. If you can breakdown that door and get my keys!"
"Don't worry. It happens to everyone. I have locked mine in at least once or twice too. The main question is how are you getting home? It is not safe for anyone to be here all alone at night." There was pure concern in his voice.
"I don't know, Mr. Wick..." He stopped me.
"Please call me George."
"Oh, I don't know George. I was just trying to figure that out. By any chance do you have a cell phone with you?" When I said his name he smiled.
"No. I am sorry I do not."
"Oh." I was disappointed, and it must have shown in my face.
"I know that it is too late to call a locksmith and I know that you are probably stuck here too. I can't really help you get your car open, but I can offer you a ride home."
To this, I did not know how to respond. The phrase I had learned as a young child nagged at me. It begged to be listened to. It begged to be heeded.
Never trust a stranger.
A stranger. George Wickham was still a stranger. We had just met. I knew very little about him except for his name. I also knew that he came off as a very kind, caring man during our first meeting. At least he appeared to be. His kindness seemed suspicious, but I threw that feeling aside. Was I being paranoid by being hesitant to trust him? I do not usually trust people easily. I am cautious and careful. I have never really trusted a stranger...well, except for that one night in Annapolis a couple years ago. That had been a mistake. Trusting then had only led to a broken heart. Trusting has its repercussions. He taught me that lesson. Trusting can lead to hurt and pain.
But, trust must be bestowed or else everything would be at a deadlock...
I do not know why.
Maybe it was his seemingly sincere kindness.
Maybe it was my vulnerability at the time.
Maybe it was my need to be at home in the comfort of my family.
Maybe I thought it was the only way to get home.
The only solution. The only one to turn to.
Whatever the reason I accepted him. I don't know why, but I did.
My cautiousness had crumbled.
Never trust a stranger did not mean anything anymore because in my eyes George Wickham could be trusted.
I ignored the phrase and I trusted him.
"If it would not inconvenience you, I would be really grateful if you did give me a ride."
He smiled at me.
"Hop in."
I got into his car.
I got into the car.
I trusted him and I got in.
To trust is to have faith in. To believe in. To have confidence in.
In today's world, full of deception and dishonesty, getting into a stranger's car seems insane. In today's world, it is rare for a stranger to become a friend after one meeting. A stranger is never just trusted.
Trust must be earned and tested.
You just don't walk into a man's car believing that he will take you where you need to be out of the goodness of his heart. This is not the hitchhiker-friendly '70s. This is the fear-filled '90s. The growing violence and hostility taking place around the world, causes people to wonder if "the kind and generous stranger" still exists.
Fear.
Paranoia.
Suspicion.
The world we live in is dominated by those feelings. We have learned to bestow trust with caution and care because there have been too many incidents. Too many victims. Too many wounds. Too many scars.
Trust violated too many times.
A belief in a human potential for good has shattered and disappeared for many people. The world has just become too dangerous for one to trust without fearing harmful consequences.
So, when I said, "I got into his car," imaginations in all probability began to create horrific scenes of what could happen next. Awful events that happen in nightmares. Kidnappings. Beatings. Rape. The situation did have potential for those things to occur. But, my senses were dulled to the fact that something like that could occur. I was blind and I trusted the stranger. Trusting that he would keep his word. Believing that he would drive me home and return me safe and sound.
It's a danger to be trusting one another.
One will seldom want to do what the other wishes.
But unless somebody trusts somebody,
There'll be nothing left on earth, except in fishes.*
I remembered this song as I climbed into his car. Attempting to find reasons to justify why I would trust George Wickham. I figured that there was a danger in granting trust to others, but I decided it was better than what is "inside of fishes." So, I took a risk. I trusted in a society where trusting strangers is not easily accepted. If I did not, I would be stuck in a deadlock. Left alone.
So, what happened next may seem odd to some. What happened next does not match the nightmares that one pictures or creates. What happened next?
Absolutely nothing of consequence. Nothing happened.
He did not harm me. He did not touch me. He did not take advantage of the situation.
We traveled the lonely highways and the empty streets together talking. Friendly conversation. Welcome conversation. He was so charming and polite. I was impressed and made no regrets about my decision to trust him. The drive to my mother's house on Longbourn Street seemed to pass by quickly in his company.
As George's car drove through the darkness of Longbourn Street, the only light came from our house. The house. A perfect sized house for a man and wife to raise their five daughters. The house I grew up in. The house I call home. I glanced down at the face of my watch. The hands pointed to ten minutes before midnight.
"Turn here. That's it. Number 1812." The wheels turned. The noises from the car's engine grew softer and softer as the car pulled into the driveway and stopped.
For moments, which seemed like an eternity, we sat in silence. Awkward. It was a strange feeling. I did not want to look him in the face. I did not know what to say. I decided to end the silence and do at least do something. I looked up, prepared to say my good-byes but my eyes caught his, and our eyes locked.
He had been staring at me. I felt his warm glare and I felt a blush come to my cheeks. Instead of looking away, I stared back at him, admiring his handsome features. I scanned his face and I fell upon his lips. I was drawn to them. They were red and alluring. Enticing. So close. My thoughts drifted, and I wondered how it would feel to have them pressed against my own.
I suddenly was embarrassed, shocked as I realized what I had just been thinking. I shook the thoughts from my mind, and turned away.
"So...I better go..."
Before I could say any more, a familiar form stepped out of the house. It was Jane. She ran to me as I got out of the car.
"Lizzy! We have been worried sick about you. Mama is having a fit!" As we parted from an embrace, she noticed that a man standing behind me and a unfamiliar car in the driveway.
"Lizzy," she sent me a questioning glance, "Are you all right? What happened? Where is your car?" She slowly motioned to George and asked, "Who is this?"
"I am fine, Jane. I will explain everything, but first, let me introduce you to someone." I smiled in his direction.
"Jane, this is George Wickham, my rescuer. George, this is my sister, Jane Bennett."
Jane looked at me concerned and whispered, "Rescuer?" before they exchanged their how-do-you-dos.
George looked a Jane and said, "Don't worry, your sister gives me too much credit. I did not rescue her from anything too atrocious, just offered her a ride home when she was having car problems." He smiled, and Jane was charmed by his easy manner.
"George," I liked saying his first name, "please come inside for some coffee. It is the least I can offer you for all your help."
Jane threw me a playful look and a sarcastic smile. "Yes, Mr. Wickham, I am sure our mother would also love to make your acquaintance, and, of course, to thank you for bringing Lizzy home."
"I would be honored and delighted, ladies. Thank you."
*From Rogers and Hammerstein's King and I. The song is called "Is A Puzzlement?"
The door.
When I was young, I longed for adventure. I was an ambitious little girl with high hopes and aspirations. I remembered how I hoped to come through that door again after I had graduated, or after I had come back from an exotic place, or after I met the man of my dreams, or after I had accomplished something spectacular. I was determined to one day walk through that door entering, not as an ordinary little girl, but a successful, famous woman. A woman that would make her family and her father, especially, proud. I feel for some reason that I have failed him.
Poets and authors marvel at children's abilities, writing lyrical sonnets and beautiful poems praising their fantastic creativity and wild imagination. Children and their uninhibited ideas. Children possess something that adults lose. As we age, life's hardships make us think more realistically. Children believe anything can happen. They can create who or what they want to be without realizing or caring that there are consequences and responsibilities. Children are free and inviolate. Dreams are possibilities to them, not floating wishes, as they are for a lot of adults. I belong to that pool of adults. I am no longer a child and I have lost that ability. I have lost that innocence. I have lost that hope.
My father never lost that feeling. He was young at heart. But like those vanished dreams, my father is gone.
The door.
We have welcomed so many people through it. Family. Old friends and new neighbors. Strangers who became friends. People whom we once did not know, but who, after entering that door were strangers no more. Standing next to me in the foyer, that night was another man who was to be added to that list of friends. George Wickham was a stranger to us no more.
The closing of the door and the sounds of our footsteps, caused my mother to stir from her room.
"Lizzy! Lizzy, is that you?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Elizabeth Alessandra Marie Bennett! Where have you been?" She bellowed from the top of the stairs. She came down the steps, formally attired in her bedroom clothes. She wore interesting blue nightgown with butterflies and bows popping out of it like pictures in a pop up book for children. To top it off she had pink curlers in her hair and green facial cream on her face. She stopped half way down and noticed the young man standing next to me.
"Good Lord! Why did you not tell me..." She looked down at what she wore, uttered a small swear, and stared at both of us with the infamous "death stare." We were in trouble. Then, in the best voice she could muster up, she muttered some excuse and flew up the steps back to her room. Jane and I tried to hold back our laughter, covering it up with a fit of coughing, but we failed miserably.
"Are you ladies all right?" George grinned.
"Yes. Thank you we are perfectly fine." Jane and I were able to mutter before we fell to laughter once again.
"George, that was our mother. You will meet her later." Of that, I could be very sure. "But for now, please come into the family room and sit down and make yourself comfortable. I will go prepare some coffee."
"No, Lizzy. Why don't you stay here with Mr. Wickham?"
"Miss Bennett, please call me George."
"I will, if you insist, George, but if I do you must call me Jane. I will be back in a minute with some coffee." Jane walked to the kitchen, leaving George and I alone.
Unfortunately, we not to be alone for long. The noise made by my mother brought my two younger sisters down from their room.
"Lizzy! Where have you been? I hope nothing is wrong," Kitty asked me with genuine concern.
"Thank..."
"Of course nothing is wrong, Kitty. Why would something be wrong? Lizzy is very capable of taking care of herself," Lydia blurted out before I could say anything. "Where have you been, Lizzy? Why did you not come home?" Her eyes wandered as she continued to speak, eventually falling on George. She hushed and then mumbled a soft and dignified (as dignified as Lydia could ever be), "Hubba Hubba..." She looked at Kitty and squealed. Then, she looked at me with wide eyes and said loudly, "Oh my, Lizzy, now you MUST tell us where you have been! Who is the cutie?!" She tried to be discreet as she uttered the last bit, but failed.
Oh boy.
"George, let me introduce you to my two youngest sisters. Lydia and Catherine."
"Nice to meet you Lydia. Catherine."
"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Wickham. Please call me Kitty. Catherine is too formal."
I was impressed with Kitty's decorum. But Lydia...Lydia was as thrilled as a teeny-bopper meeting a member of N'Sync or the Backstreet Boys. (author's note & personal opinion & add-in : at this time, author is totally against all dreaded "boy groups" and a meeting with them would be like torture.) I prayed for Jane to hurry back with the coffee. Yet before Jane arrived, my mother did, changed and free of curlers.
"Elizabeth, darling, where have you been? I was so worried. Something might have happened to you! I was just going to call the police when I heard you arriving." She made a wonderful exaggeration of everything. My melodramatic and maudlin mother. She noticed George "for the first time."
"Well, Lizzy who have you brought home?"
"Mother, I would like you to meet Mr. George Wickham." George got up.
"It is nice to meet you Mrs. Bennett. You have raised quite a lovely bunch of girls."
"Why, thank you. You are too kind!" Mama has always loved compliments.
"How have you come to know my Lizzy?"
"Mama, I will explain. I locked my keys in the car, and Mr. Wickham drove me home."
"Oh how can we repay you, Mr. Wickham, for bringing my Lizzy back safe and sound!"
"There is no..." He tried to say something, but my mother continued.
"I knew we should not have left her all by herself! It is not safe all alone there. Oh my poor nerves! When I think of what could happen to her. That is why I think you, Miss Lizzy, need someone to protect you. Someone should care for you. Lizzy and all of you girls need a man to be there for you...and Lizzy you know that biological clock is..."
Oh dear Lord. I was holding onto my patience as she uttered every embarrassing word. Don't let her finish. Don't let her finish. Then a heavenly voice came to my rescue.
"Mama! Would you like sugar in your coffee?" Jane. Thank you Jane!
Had she finished her complaints, I would have been mortified. Mother had spoken as if George was not there, and I was just red. I excused myself after Jane arrived, and as I left I heard mother say, "Of course I would like sugar in my coffee, Jane! I always have had sugar in my coffee! What a question to ask!" She soon drifted on to other conversation that I did not hear. When I came back, George had to leave. It was very late.
"I am sorry, but I must be going now. I have a long drive ahead of me."
"We understand. Thank you again for bringing Lizzy back home." My mother exclaimed.
"Yes, thank you, George." I smiled at him.
He soon departed.
"Well, what a gentleman! So kind of him to take you home, Lizzy."
"Yes, it was Mama."
"You know he would be a good match for you."
"Mama!" I walked up to my room. It had been quite a long night.
They say that you only have one chance to make a first impression. I believe that is true. The first impression is important. How a person views you from the time you meet them will be affected by it. If you asked me who I thought gave me the best first impression, George Wickham's first impression would be it.
He was such a gentleman. He seemed so kind. I admired him for his honesty and sincerity. He did not mind my mother's and Lydia's antics so much. I admired his willingness to put up with my family.
I liked him.
When my father announced that the doctors did not expect him to survive long, I was shocked and heartbroken. I stood there unable to process what he said. When I first heard it, I could not believe him. My mind wanted to think that he was just trying to scare us with one of his jokes. I kept thinking to myself that this was not real. Tomorrow everything would be just as it was before this announcement.
But it was real.
I could not believe that he was going to die. I did not think he would actually leave us. My mind feared that inevitable day too much, and I was not prepared for it. Though I knew that dying was a process in the "circle of life," so to speak, I guess I did not expect it to effect my family so soon. My father was relatively young. He could have had ten or so years more to live if he did not have to fight this bloody disease.
I guess I took his presence for granted.
I always thought that as my father would always be there. I thought he would never leave me. But I had to face reality. I was wrong to believe that he would never leave me physically. The announcement that day proved me wrong. And, the long, painful months that would follow proved me wrong.
I was so wrong.
I became aware that we only had a short time left with him. My eyes opened to the fact that there was still so much I wanted to do with him. I wanted to share so much with him. So much I wanted him to share with me. I realized how much I did not know about him.
I wanted to be with him. So, I stopped law school at Georgetown, and my part time job was put on hold. Jane did the same. We returned to where we were needed the most, back to our home on Longbourn Street, with our family. Jane and I left our apartment in Washington D.C. and we drove back to our childhood home outside of Baltimore.
Dad was glad we came back home. He enjoyed our company and was happy that someone was there to help Mama. He was glad that there was someone to soothe her fears.
Fears.
If anyone should have had them, my father was the one. But he did not show he was afraid. A lot of people could not tell what he felt.
I never really remember a time when my father was the one afraid, but I know he was then, as he faced the illness.
The fear showed in his eyes.
I thought my father was very brave to face this illness. He was optimistic. Physically he was fading away, but his mind and his spirit was not. Sometimes things would be so painful for him, and the situation was very discouraging. When his condition worsened, I was devastated. His body was so weak. But, my father did not give up easily. He fought. He fought for his life. It was a long, painful fight. He held on for as long as he could, but death was too powerful.
For a long time I believed that if my father ever died, the world would stop with him. But I was wrong again. The world did not stop. They say that, "Life goes on."
Sure.
Life went on, but I was not ready to go on with it.
A few days after the funeral, Jane and I returned to our apartment. We had to go back to work and school by the end of the month, after the reading of father's will.
Life was going on.
I spent a lot of time in thought and reflection. I was worried about our situation and problems. I usually spent time thinking alone. But often times, Jane would be with me. We tried to recall happy memories. Jane and I opened dusty photo albums and we looked upon the face we had just lost during our best times together. We often cried. Alone, I often spent time wondering what would become of the bookstore.
Yesterday, Jane and I drove into downtown Baltimore to check on Bennett Books. We wanted to evaluate its financial situation. We parked the car and walked to the quaint, old-fashioned looking bookstore located at a street corner across from the Inner Harbor. Freddie Collins, one of my dad's managers let us in.
Freddie Collins. What can I say about him? Nothing good. I will be truthful. He is a fat greasy blob that follows me everywhere. The man is like a plague. Mother is happy about this - a stable, working man, giving her daughter attention. I am not. She does not seem to realize that "Freddie and Elizabeth" is a phrase that never existed. It would NEVER exist that way.
"Hello Ladies. Hi Lizzy." He gave me an awful smile and opened the door. "You look wonderful, Lizzy...I am glad you are checking up on the store. It has been rather...lonely..."
Oh geez. Jane grinned at me.
"Not that I mind the loneliness...I love this store...serving for your father and your great family these past two years have been a wonderful experience..."
"Freddie, where did my father keep the financial records?"
"In his office, Lizzy. I could get them for you. I would be happy to get them for you. I haven't really looked at them myself. I thought it would be best to leave them to those who they belong to..."
"Yes. But, no, thank you Freddie. Jane and I will find them ourselves." I managed to be as civil as possible.
Jane and I walked into my father's office. I opened a drawer at his desk and pulled out the financial records for the last couple years.
I have always wondered how the bookstore ever provided enough for all of us. It was a very small store with usually only local customers. It was not like a Borders or a Barnes and Nobles. But somehow, it did manage to earn enough money. I scanned a few pages of the record book.
Everything seemed normal, until I fell upon a large sum. I gasped. $10,000. Next to the added sums were the initials C.B. Next to others was the letter D. C.B.? D? I motioned to Jane. Jane quickly grabbed more financial records from earlier years, and found large sums added whenever the store had experienced hard times with the same initials.
"Who is C.B.? Who or what is D? Do we know a C.B., Jane?"
"I don't know. I don't think we do, but that does not mean father did. Lizzy what does this mean? Who is this person? The last and largest donation was made quite recently."
Did my father ever get donations for $10,000? That was a lot of money. Where did it come from? The donated money is what obviously kept the store alive. Is anyone that generous? Jane and I were surprised. There were so many questions. The one question that racked my mind the most was: "Will this generous C.B. help us now - when we need it most?"
Jane and I decided to keep this information to ourselves for a while. Bennett Books was headed for trouble unless we learn more of these donations. We had to find out more about C.B. or D.
"Freddie, was there a customer who came here frequently by with the initials CB?"
"No, I believe there was not. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. Just wondering."
We called our mother, and she could not think of anyone either. We had to find out who this person was, and soon.
I was baffled.
The phone.
It is a wonderful invention, really. It is a friend to all teenage girls and a foe to all fathers who pay the bills. The ring can be a welcome or it can be an annoyance. What I love about it is the surprise involved. You never know who will call. I ran to reach the phone in time. I picked it up.
"Hello."
"Hello. May I please speak to Lizzy Bennett?"
I smiled. It was that voice again.
"Speaking."
"Hi, Lizzy. This is George. George Wickham."
I was surprised and delighted. This phone call was very welcome. We exchanged our hellos and how-are-yous.
"George, may I ask how you got the phone number to my apartment?"
"Um, yes...Your mother gave it to me before I left."
"Oh."
I cringed with embarrassment. So, my mother was handing out my phone number.
"I hope you don't mind, Lizzy. You sound a little disappointed. To tell you the truth, I am glad she gave it to me." I blushed.
"Really?!" I hit myself for sounding like a giddy school girl. "I don't mind at all. I am just a little upset that she would give it out like that, but I think I should have expected it." I mumbled the last part to myself.
"I hope you got your car."
"Yes, I did. Jane drove me there and we opened it up."
We talked and exchanged pleasantries. Then, he started to ask me a question.
"I called because I was wondering if..." He hesitated.
In my head, I was screaming: "Yes! Yes! Wondering what? Go ahead! Ask me!" I tried to calm down.
"I was wondering if you wanted to go out for dinner with me?" He said rather hurriedly.
My mind screamed "Yes!"
I tried to hide my excitement. Play it cool. "I don't know. Maybe. I have been kind of busy."
"Oh." He sounded disappointed.
"But...I think I am free on Friday night." I could feel him smiling on the other line.
"Can I pick you up at 5:00 on Friday?"
"Sure." I was so excited.
I gave him directions to our apartment.
"So it's a date."
"It's a date."
"I will see you then."
"Bye."
I wanted to burst from excitement. I had a date with George Wickham, and I was happier than I had ever been in the past few weeks. I could not wait to tell Jane.
I have sort of a request to make before you read this post: I need all my readers to picture Wickham as a very handsome fellow...someone like Ewan McGregor or something like that...not that ugly rascal who plays him in P&P2, okay...hopefully that would make this less...disgusting to people. *g* Just don't hate me, please. ~alethea
Fretting Over Friday
Monday.
He asked me on a Monday. And, Friday was four days away.
Four long days.
Friday.
A day that marks the end of the weekdays and the entrance of the weekend. Usually, I eagerly await its arrival with great anticipation (what student or working person does not?). It is the end of five days of work and school. To me Fridays are always welcome but, this Friday was more welcome that usual. I longed for Friday. I was counting the days down. I wanted to see him again. He called me a couple times during the last week, but I had an urge to hear his voice in person.
Impatient.
I don't know why I felt this way about him, a person I had just met, but I liked the feeling. For the past few months, the world seemed so dark and dreary. I did not think I would ever laugh or be as happy as I was before. After meeting George, things seemed brighter. Here was a man who had made me laugh again, who had made me feel so much better after such a hard, difficult time in my life.
I had told Jane, and she was very happy for me. I was also very pleased to hear that I would not leave her all alone on Friday night either. She also had plans. She said that her date was a doctor whom she had met at the hospital she was working at. I forget his name.
Somehow, Mother found out that Jane and I had dates on Friday night. (I wonder how she learns these things. Jane and I told no one about our plans. I think I should check our apartment for a hidden microphone or recorder.) In any case, she called.
"Hello."
"Lizzy! I had heard about your plans for Friday night. It is wonderful that that nice, young gentleman is taking you out..."
"What!? Where did you hear that?" (I must really remember to check for that recorder. Hmmm...the plant, maybe?)
"Don't mind how, dear! Mother knows all!" Oh Lord! What a terrifying phrase! "Anyway, darling, this is absolutely wonderful! Oh! What are you going to wear? You must look good Lizzy, and don't be afraid to show skin dear! I am so happy! And Jane, too. Now I have heard that her date is a rich man! Oh, I am sure he will be a great catch..." She giggled in delight.
"Mama! They are just going out! They are not getting married, they are just going out for dinner!" I winked at Jane.
"Oh, but they might dear, they might! Now let me speak to Jane!"
I handed Jane the phone as I rolled my eyes. Jane took the phone from my hands and gave me faces. Amusing. It seems that Mama gave Jane the same giddy speech.
For the rest of the week, I tried to keep myself busy. I did a few errands. I went to the bookstore often (to Freddie Collins delight) and visited Mama and my sisters. When I was not working, I was left to my thoughts most of the time. I dwelled upon C.B., D., and the bookstore. I could not think of anyone with those initials...if they even were initials. Jane and I just assumed that they were, but they could stand for something but what? I hoped that more would be revealed about this puzzle when Papa's will would be read next week.
Papa's will was to be read. A will reading. The thought that that event would occur made me depressed again. It has happened. It reminded me that he was gone. I tried to keep myself busy, like I said. I tried to keep my mind off of those things, but I failed. They were constantly in my mind.
Jane noticed my melancholy and tried to cheer me up.
"Lizzy, you need to go out. It is just the thing to liven your spirits! Come on! I know let us go shopping." When I nodded hesitantly she said, in a voice that sounded very much like our mother's, "Plus, Lizzy, darling, we must find you an outfit for your on Friday that shows off your gifts to our best advantage! Don't look at me that way, Elizabeth. Mind you, of course that those gifts are from my side of the family! Oh! Wickham what a handsome fellow! An agreeable man! A fine catch..."
"Stop it, Jane! Stop it!" I attempted to holler as I fell to the floor laughing.
"Come on." So we bought casual dresses for Friday night. I was feeling much better after the excursion and thanked Jane for taking me.
Soon the four long days turned into three days, then two days, then one day. I was anxious. The waiting was over and Friday had arrived. Finally.
The sound of the doorbell. The sound I had waited for all day.
Jane was still dressing, so I went to get the door. I quickly glanced in the mirror to check my appearance. What will he think of me? I decided it was now or never as the doorbell rang once more. I stood in front of the closed door excited and nervous. I took a deep breath, reached for the handle, and eagerly opened the door...only to be disappointed.
The man standing in front of me was not George. He held a large bouquet of colorful flowers in his hands. I had to admit he looked gorgeous with his wavy blond hair and his crystal blue eyes. I presumed that this handsome gentleman was my sister's date for the evening. He stared at me with a look of confusion and then laughed.
"Hello. Is this Jane Bennett's apartment or did I just make a complete fool out of myself by coming to the wrong place? With my luck today that could happen! " I laughed. He was nervous.
"Don't worry you are in the right place." He looked relieved, and I smiled at him.
"Hi. I am Jane's sister. Please come in. Did you have a hard time finding the place?"
"Um...a little. I must have made a wrong turn somewhere...All right, I admit it, I was lost," he stuttered through his confession with a smile. A man who can admit he was lost.
No wonder Jane likes him.
"Well, I am glad you found the place. People always seem to miss that turn at New Hampshire Avenue. Jane has been waiting for you, but not to worry, you did arrive."
Unlike other people.
"So...Is she ready?" It is always so amusing to watch Jane's dates. They are always so anxious; as I realized that I was pacing the room, I decided that I have no right to criticize him. Poor fellow!
"I am not sure, let me go and check. Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable while I go get her."
"Thanks."
As I went to get Jane I could not help feeling disappointment. How I wished that George was behind the door when I opened it. Despite my frustration, I was happy for my sister. This man seemed different from the others she had dated before. I entered her room and called for her. She was finally ready. She stepped out of the bathroom and smiled.
"How do I look, Lizzy?"
She looked absolutely stunning. She wore a sky blue dress that brought out her clear blue eyes and complemented her perfect figure. She left her beautiful long, blond hair down, and was the vision of perfection.
"You look fantastic, Jane. I suspect that good-looking guy out there will think you look breathtaking."
"Oh my gosh, he is here? Has he been waiting long?" She quickly made her way into the room where I had left him. She was jumpy; so, she stopped before she entered the room, composed herself, and took a deep breath.
"Hello, Charles." So that was his name.
"Jane!" He stood up and turned around to face my sister. His mouth dropped as he beheld the sight in front of him. He was awestruck. I grinned at his reaction and my sister turned a little red.
"Jane. You look absolutely lovely." She blushed as he handed her the flowers.
"Thank you. You don't look that bad yourself, handsome." It was his turn to blush, and she laughed. "I must introduce you to my sister." Then, she turned and looked at me.
"Lizzy, I would like you to meet Dr. Charles Bingley. Charles this is my sister Elizabeth Bennett." My sister glowed.
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Bingley."
"It is nice to finally meet you. Your sister talks about you all the time. Please call me Charles or Charlie, Miss Bennett."
"Then you must call me Lizzy, Charlie. Now, I hope that my sister tells you only good things about me." I smiled at Jane.
"Me?" Jane said innocently, "I would never tell anyone those bad secrets that you hide behind that angelic face of yours, little sister," she laughed mockingly, throwing me a sarcastic smile.
Charlie laughed. "Sisters," he said as he shook his head. "Mine are very much the same way...well sometimes."
"How many sisters do you have?"
"Two. Lana and Carina."
The three of us talked and discussed different issues. But I decided to leave them to themselves for a little while, so I went to put Jane's flowers in a vase. When I came back, the two were chatting like best friends. I was so happy for Jane. She seemed to like him a lot and he made her laugh and smile again. Father's death took a toll on her too. Charlie seemed to be just what she needed to raise her spirits. From my observation those few minutes together with them I could tell that Charlie may be the right one for her. He was truly her perfect pair, in both looks and personality. I sighed with contentment, hoping that they would not face any trouble as they journeyed down love's rocky path. Looking into Jane's sparkling eyes as she talked to him, I could tell she was falling for him. I prayed that Charlie would never break her heart.
I looked at my watch. It was already quarter after five. George was not here yet. I was starting to worry. Was he ever going to come? Did he really say five? Maybe he said six and I remembered wrong. I looked on the calendar on the wall and on today's date, Friday, it said 5:00 pm circled and underlined. Where was he? I paced for a while and then decided to take a drink of water, calm myself, and return to Jane and Charlie. They did not want to leave. Jane did not want to go until she knew that I was also going out for the evening, but soon the fifteen minutes turned into thirty, so I told them to go out and have a good time.
"Don't worry about me Jane I will be all right. Maybe he had car trouble. I am sure he will call soon. You and Charlie should go out and have a nice time."
"But Lizzy..." She was worried and looked at me sadly.
"No, Jane it is all right. I will be just fine."
"If you are sure, Lizzy."
"I am sure, Jane."
"Have fun. And Charlie take good care of my sister, okay?" I smiled at him.
"Yes, Ma'am of course I will!"
"Goodbye Jane."
"Bye Lizzy." They were hesitant, but at my persuasion soon departed.
I was alone again.
I looked at the clock on the wall again. It was quarter to six.
Quarter to six. Forty-five minutes. He was forty-five minutes late. Where was he? I made excuses that allowed me to wait a little longer. I kept telling myself that maybe he locked his keys in his car, or maybe he was stuck in traffic and was unable to phone me. I kept telling myself that there was a reasonable explanation for his delay.
There has to be a good reason for all of this, Lizzy.
A hour. A full hour. It was six o'clock. I was running short on patience. I was getting frustrated and angry. Angry at George for promising a wonderful evening out, then not even calling to tell me he would be late, or even worst, not showing up at all. And, I was angry at myself, for trusting that he would keep his word and believing that he would actually go out with me. I was so silly for thinking that George would be better than all the other men I had met. I kicked myself for being so foolish, and I was filled with disappointment. I was angry with him because he disappointed me. I was fuming because of his need for a good excuse. The other experience I have had with a man that I have felt this strongly for ended without a good excuse. There was no excuse. Nothing at all. I knew nothing that I needed to forgive him for. I did not forgive him. He hurt me, and I am bitter still. That was the real disappointment. So I continued to search for excuses and alibis. But, reasons and justifications were never found.
I looked at my watch. It was six-fifteen. 6:15.
I was going to give up. This was so ridiculous in my mind. Why do I have to search for alibis? For once can I find someone who will not make me have to find reasons and excuses for the disappointment they cause in my heart?
The evening had reached an anticlimax...or so I thought.
Just as I was going to change and grab a very large bucket of chocolate ice cream to consume while I wallowed in my own self-pity, the doorbell rang again. I debated whether or not to open the door, but I decided to open it. I opened the door, not with the eagerness I did and hour and a half ago, but with irritation and discontent. I looked straight in front of me, expecting to see tardy George's face, but I saw no one.
Great, I thought, a practical joke to brighten up my day.
It wasn't a practical joke.
"I am so sorry, Lizzy." It was his voice. "Please forgive me. I will understand if you don't, but please Lizzy, I am truly sorry."
I wondered where he was. I looked down and to my amazement there was George Wickham, down on his knees pleading for my forgiveness with a bouquet flowers in his hand. It was a rather amusing sight. He looked so apologetic with his brown hair disheveled from his fingers running through it. Tousled and pleading.
Did he have to look so good?
Ohhhhhh....of course I was still angry! Right? "Yes, you are angry at him" Or so I tried to keep telling myself as I looked at those baby blue eyes. Lizzy do not be tempted to forget all his lateness because he is on his knees! Get with it! Compose yourself and be angry at him!
So he finally decided to show up! I was not going to let him off easily. I was not going to be easily swayed. He held the lovely arrangement of flowers for me, but I just pushed them away.
"First, Mister, you better have one hell of an explanation to give me! Where have you been? If I remember correctly you were to pick me up an hour and a half ago! You should have at least had the decency to inform me that you were going to be late!"
"Lizzy, I am so sorry. Please believe me when I say that I was stuck in traffic! There was an accident on the way here. And I left my cell phone at home, so I could not call you"
"Sure." I stared at him.
"I am not lying, Lizzy. Please believe me. If you don't want to go out with me tonight I will understand, but I really wish you would reconsider, if that's your choice! Listen, Lizzy, I have been looking forward to this night all week. I really would love to get to know you better and I would hate to have lost a chance to get to know one of the sweetest women I have met in a long time. Please reconsider." He was still on his knees with those blue, persuasive eyes. I turned away.
"Please." He was tugging at my heart with that word. "Please." He took my hand, stood up and looked me straight in the eyes with a gentle look. I smiled.
"All right, George. I will let it go." How could I not let it go? Maybe forgiving him like that was letting him off too easily, but I did forgive and forget. I had been looking forward to this night too long to just let it go.
"I'll make it up to you. I have planned to take you somewhere special tonight."
"That sounds wonderful. Where are we going? What is this special place, George?"
So, I let him take me out. He was going to take me out, like he said, to somewhere special. Somewhere special, indeed.
Annapolis.
A city I love for its beauty, for its history, and for so much more. It has left me with so much. It is a city I hold close to my heart. It is a city I will remember forever as the place I first fell in love. It is also the city where my heart was first broken. I touched the pendant that hung upon my neck remembering one beautiful night like tonight and longing for yesterdays.