Rosy Gillies

Letting some space grow between Mrs. Stevenson and I as she left my room, I waited at the top of the stairs and drew in a slow breath- my resolve to 'play by the books' growing thin. If she didn't have any information for me, why was I here? Wouldn't I be better off finding the home which took me in and bothering them for information? Autumn break only lasted for two weeks- and my break from university was only scheduled to last three months- any longer and I would be risking my savings paying for another year of tuition.

At the sound of rustling at the front door, I walked down the stairs to see them off for their excursion, the voice from this morning growing more and more tempting. Still, while I was upset, part of me was still conscious that Mrs. Stevenson did care for me. She wants me to grow old with someone, she wants me to sleep and eat well- with her own conditions. Ultimately, aren't those conditions also meant to show me she cares in her own way? Avoid sin, avoid eternal damnation- perhaps through her point of view, she's trying to care for my 'immortal' soul? Scratching the back of my head, I gritted my teeth and tried to look at Mrs. Stevenson as objectively as I could- as honestly and logically as I could muster within myself outside of my chaotic feelings.

Isn't she someone who chose to care for me? Doesn't that mean anything?

"Say Kayla, I just remembered something!" Mrs. Stevenson suddenly blushed, and somehow I felt as if she hadn't actually 'just' remembered something, if you know what I mean. With a quick glance to my expressionless face, her eyes seemed to be conveying a type of telepathic message- and though I wasn't exactly sure what it was meant to be, I caught the gist of it fairly well. The sound of her lips wetting served as a brief, silent song before she uttered another annoying, double-trajectory comment.

"Danny might come to church today too! Do you remember Danny? For such a nice boy I'm surprised he's single!"

...

Forget it. Little voice in my subconscious, you're right. She's a bitch.

"Really?" Kayla coughed awkwardly, her eyes squinted as she let out an anxious laugh. With a focused effort, I unclenched my jaw and pressed the bulging vein I imagined was on my forehead; my fingers tense in agitation. Smiling as genuinely as I could muster (which wasn't much), I helped Kayla slip on her jacket and instead pretended I hadn't heard anything. Trying to pass it as innocently as I could, I gave Kayla a quick hug as a goodbye before urging her to 'have fun'; as if it were actually possible in Mrs. Stevenson's presence. Feeling the reverberation of her surprised chuckle was enough for me to calm down despite the obvious jab from Mrs. Stevenson; and in my own way, hugging her was an effective counter attack.

Ignoring Mrs. Stevenson like she was frozen pre-baked pie, my ears twitched as I heard a barely audible 'Hmmph' sound before she urged Kayla to hurry so they wouldn't be late, an agitated hand pulling Kayla free from my embrace. Though, for a brief moment my arms felt empty; I recovered by following them onto the porch before offering them a relaxed wave goodbye, pretending (as I always did) that everything was okay. As if this last night's events hadn't happened, and as if this morning wasn't going to put me in an even fouler mood. I watched as the car turned around before going down the driveway, the dust rising off the gravel road like fish-scaled clouds.

After standing on the patio for a few minutes to make sure they weren't coming back, I felt a sly grin paint my lips as I casually strolled to the office. At the door, I paused for a brief moment, wondering if I would regret this. If I open this door and get what I want, will I really be happy?

The light reflected off the old ornate doorknob, and if I looked closer, I could see the luster from the metal knob beginning to tarnish like the antiquated object it was. Was Mrs. Stevenson and I's relationship like that? Something we used so frequently and thoughtlessly that over time, I only served one purpose to her? 'Special tea', special conditions, special love- shaking my head, I decided it was worth Mrs. Stevenson's wrath if I got one step closer to the truth. Because, ultimately, do I even want to stay here in the long run? Am I even happy right now?

With that thought in mind, as I opened the door, I decided to abandon logic and to instead listen to my own intuition; and it told me that Mrs. Stevenson was hiding something from me.

Starting at the back filing cabinets, I began the process of sifting through every file I could get my hands on, even if it seemed irrelevant. It would be an old woman method of hiding something by giving it a false label, so I couldn't be sure that what Mrs. Stevenson had organized as 'car information' or 'insurance' was really just that. Thumbing through all her private documents, I had the inkling to think that maybe going through those documents were illegal, but I decided playing the 'I didn't know' card would suffice if she found out. And if I needed to, I would go with church with her to pacify her anger.

Once I finished going through all the back cabinets, I directed my attention to her desk drawers, cracking my fingers excitedly. It was satisfying to rebel against her in this little way, and even though I was beginning to doubt if I would find anything, I considered it payback for what she had said this morning. Latching my hand onto the handle, I won't deny I felt a tad bit smug. That, however, was ruined.

Pulling on the drawer, an unamused smirk plastered itself on my face.

Locked.

Pulling on it harder, I tried to determine if perhaps something was just blocking it from opening it, but it was indeed locked. You know what that means? There's either something important or inappropriate in here. Or worse- both.

Shaking my head to get it out of the gutter, I searched around the office for keys before grabbing a butter knife and paper clip. Bending the paper clip into a pick and sliding the knife in the thin gab between the drawer, I tried my best to pick the lock though I had no idea what I was doing. After a few minutes of just scratching the wood, I decided it would be best to stop- after all, I was just leaving evidence that I had been poking around through her stuff.

Drained from my pointless efforts, I sat down in her office chair and tried to regain my senses. Perhaps I was underestimating Mrs. Stevenson. Would she keep something that she doesn't want me to see in such an obvious hiding place? If I really wanted to, I could use the knife to break the bottom of her drawer and take the papers out that way- but...

But if there was nothing there, Mrs. Stevenson would win. I could imagine it perfectly- Mrs. Stevenson feigning a wounded face at seeing her desk broken and things moved around everywhere.

"Typha, why don't you trust me? I'm your mother- if you just asked, I would always help you." I could picture her saying- maybe even crying. And then, I would feel like shit and still have nothing to go off of. Tapping my chin, I scanned the office once more; thinking what I would do if I was hiding something I didn't want someone to see.

Obviously, I would destroy it- that is, if I truly didn't want anyone to see it. But, let's say I needed it. I would prolly prefer to keep it near me so I can constantly make sure no one has taken it, and I would put it someplace no one would check unlike cabinets or desk drawers...

Wait... Didn't Mrs. Stevenson say she kept my 'special tea' in her office? I've gone through all the cabinets that I could and didn't see any tea- and since she had drugged it, did that mean she kept the pills in here too?

As if by fate, my eyes flitted over to the small trash bin which was pushed under her desk, an idea popping into my head. Getting up from the chair, I dragged the bin towards me before going through it- mostly seeing crumpled up papers and opened envelopes. Seeing a flicker of silver, my hear stilled in my chest as I found a used pill seal- half way convinced that this was what was holding the 'special' ingredient to the tea from last night. Holding it up to the light, the backing of the seal was broken from taking out the pill, and though I knew it could just be the backing for something else like headache medicine, my gut told me it was the one. Deciding to trust it, I put it into my pocket for Kayla to look at- after all, she was better at deducing things and putting things together than I was.

Sitting back on the office chair, I felt a little defeated. There wasn't anything I could get from the cabinets, the locked drawers (without facing some repercussions), or the trash. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something. If it were me... If it were me...

Nothing popped into my mind except for destroying the papers, and looking towards the door, I spotted Mrs. Stevenson's old paper shredder. My stomach hitched slightly as I looked at it, and I wondered why she would put it over there when there wasn't even an outlet to plug it in at. Did she need to empty it? Getting up, it repeated in my mind once more- I would destroy it. Though I wasn't sure if Mrs. Stevenson and I thought similarly, the desperation in my chest put me into action. Even if I had to look at little bits of shredded paper, I would find something. I have to.

Unlocking the heavy shredding top from the shredder, I took off the lid and began to pick through the small shreds, trying to look for anything resembling a part of my name. I felt rather stupid stooping so low, but where my pride would have normally stopped me, I now cared more about answers than anything. An ache rang in my back from crouching, so I decided to pick up the shredder and take a seat once again at the desk. However, that was proven rather difficult when I tried to pick it up- the weight significantly more heavy than I expected for shredded paper.

Somehow, I think I knew it was there before I found it- perhaps it was some sort of instinct? Because, without much thinking, my hands dug through the shredded paper before feeling something smooth and cool, my fingers swimming around and finding four pointed corners. Brushing off the paper on top, I didn't have it in me to be surprised as I pulled out a large metal billfold box- the size just perfect enough for a stack of papers to be kept.

Setting it on my lap, the little voice inside my mind was eerily quiet. In its absence, my phantom body felt before it touched and my heart beat before it thumped. Tracing the small metal padlock; mesmerized with how the light bounced around its metal curves much like I did with the very door of this office; I can't describe the strange, out of body experience I had while my right hand tightly coiled around it before giving it a harsh yank- the metal lock shattering into pieces like it were made of glass. Even that didn't bother me- because my hands already peeled open the box before freezing.

Though obscured by a film of grain, I could still note her wavy brown hair and void expression. She wasn't smiling, but looking at the color of her eyes and scrawny stature, she looked like a pretty normal kid. Holding the polaroid photo, I felt the thick suit of the picture between my two fingers, almost convinced it wasn't real and that I was dreaming all of this.

The mute elation I felt at finally finding something was quickly over shadowed by the intense need to devour everything which now rested in my hands- everything Mrs. Stevenson didn't want me to see. In a panicked rush, I quickly set to returning the office exactly to how it was as I had found it- as I had never been here. Picking up the shattered pieces of the lock from the carpet, I stuffed them in my pocket rather than throwing them in her trash, the shock not registering in my flurried mind that I had crushed it so easily. After all, the thing which mattered most to me now was the billfold box, and the picture delicately yet firmly held in my right hand as if it would vanish if I risked setting it down.

Shutting the office door, my gaze was once again drawn to the photo and the gratifying sensation of holding such a heavy box filled to the brim with the information I desired. In a type of daze, I flipped over the picture before my throat tightened- my bones tremoring like frail autumn leaves.

There, in Mrs. Stevenson's ribboned handwriting, was a comfortable five-letter name.

"Typha..."

Next to that, however, was an unfamiliar phrase crossed through with a dark line; as deliberate and foreboding as smoky, thunderous clouds which gather on the horizon of an inky, bottomless ocean.

---"11 years old"---