Part 4 ~ Dear Rian

Sidonie’s room had once been an office, when once The One and Only had been a theatre, but she would hardly have known this if Autumn had not told her.  Inside it was a futon with a red blanket, a white pressboard bedside stand, and a massive old wardrobe and dresser of some dark polished wood.  This was all crammed together against one wall, with a little space in the middle for standing, then against the other wall was piled a multitude of odd junk.  A bicycle, cardboard boxes, a rack of old clothes, a dressmaker’s mannequin, other things.  Sidonie paused to wonder why every old attic or storage room had a dressmaker’s mannequin, but let the wonder slide away without much effort.

“Sorry about the mess,” said Summer.  “We just used this room to store old bits till Dan decided to come get you.”

“He sent Alex and Bobby,” Sidonie replied quietly, running her fingers across a dusty stack of books.

Summer seemed to ignore this correction.  “Are your things in the car?” she asked.

Sidonie paused in her inspection of the room to turn round and look at her.  “My things?” she echoed without understanding.

“Things.  Clothes.  Stuff.”

“This is all I have.”

Summer opened her mouth and shut it again, clearly nonplussed.  Sidonie supposed it was a little odd, turning up with nothing.  But she offered no further explanation, finding herself too tired of it all to discuss it.  She didn’t want to think about things, about the remnants of her life in Rivalie; they would be out of place here.

Summer recovered from her shock with a huff, setting her hands on her hips.  “I suppose those idiots didn’t think to let you pack your stuff before you came?  Well, that’s okay, we can go back for them.”

“Can we?”  Sidonie felt a prick of relief at this.  If they were not worried about letting her go back for her things, perhaps there was no danger of being lost here, never to be found by Aunt Megae.

“Sure.  We’ll take care of it.  You just rest.”  Summer turned and rested her hand on the doorknob.  “The letters are there,” she pointed with her other hand toward the bed.  It was unnecessary.  The shirtbox full of letters was sitting on the center of the red blanket and there was no missing, or mistaking them.  Sidonie felt her hope die into resignation again – by “we” Summer clearly meant the broms; she would not be going back to get her things.

“Thank you,” she said, and sat on the edge of the bed, letting her purse fall to the floor by her feet.

Summer left with a wave, padding out on her bare feet, the tiny swath of denim over her rump the last thing Sidonie focused on.  She looked down at her pleated school skirt and imagined what she’d do if they didn’t get her things after all.  Keep on wearing her school clothes?  Borrow something from Summer?  God forbid.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered a reminder.  It was an old habit, a bad and a silly one, to fret over how she compared to other girls.

Twisting a little, she looked back at the box of letters.  Sideways she could read who they were addressed to – Rian Maianzel 2239 Shady Lane, South Rivalie.  “South Rivalie” was the proper name for the Ghetto, which no one besides government institutions ever used.  There was no return address.  But she recognized her mother’s writing – small and neat with soft little turns at the edges of the letters.

Sidonie slid the box over beside her and picked up a letter, turning it around in her hands a couple times before sliding the paper out from inside.  More of the motherly handwriting spread itself across the page, and Sidonie found her eyes weak and unfocused when she tried to read it.  She brushed the weakness away with the back of her hand.

Dear Rian,

Sidonie broke her wrist last week.  Don’t get overanxious about it, it was a clean break and easily set.  She was on a trampoline at a friend’s house and landed wrong on it; I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop her from getting on that thing, I don’t know what the parents were thinking getting one for their children.  It’s a lucky thing all she did was break a bone.  She dislikes the cast but at least it will teach her to think twice before going on one again.  I will never understand why she can be the most cautious person all the time and then decide to be adventurous in a stupid way, on a whim almost, and all just because other kids are doing it.

I’m sorry to have to tell you again that her grades are not well at school.  The teachers say the same as they always have, that she’s bright but doesn’t apply herself.  I’m at my wits end in that regard.  Both of us are.  Cal thinks I’m too hard on her, as he always does, but even he gets frustrated when all his “encouragement” results in nothing.  She laments all the time that she isn’t smart, it’s such a ridiculous excuse to use when everyone can see otherwise that she’s just being lazy.  I blame the brom in her.  Don’t look at the page that way, I can tell just what you’re doing.  You know it’s true.  It’s like the Ghetto whispers in her ear, even here.

For her birthday this year (I know, it’s hard to believe it’s almost here again, isn’t it?) I can tell you she favors red.  I don’t know what brought it on but she want to wear nothing but red and she even tried to get us to paint her bedroom red.  We are redecorating the house and I asked her what color theme she wanted, but now I see I will just have to decide on one myself.  I know she’ll tire of something as bold as red and complain about it later.  Red is entirely unlike Sid and I suspect she got the notion from somewhere that she should like it.  For now however feel free to send me something red for her.  It will make her happy even if it doesn’t last.

I miss you.  I don’t know why I wrote that.  I shouldn’t have, but it’s in ink so there it will have to stay unless I want to rewrite the entire letter.  I don’t know, I just got an overwhelming tired feeling when I sat down to write to you today, as if I’m nearing an end.  An end to what I don’t know, but I suddenly felt I wanted to see you.  Don’t take that too seriously.  You know it’s impossible, and I know it better, but perhaps you’ll be happy that I get these funny moments.  Don’t take it as encouragement.  I can’t help myself letting you know that I miss you, otherwise I really would start the letter over.

The world is not ending, Love Fey

Sidonie looked at the postmark on the envelope, and it was dated two weeks before her birthday three years ago.

She remembered the broken wrist.  She had been at a birthday party for a girl she was not friends with; she was only there because the girl had invited the whole class.  They were playing a game where you had to sit in the middle of the trampoline with your legs straight out while several kids jumped up and down around you, and you had to keep your position even as you were being violently bounced up and down.  Sidonie had so wanted to last a long time and not be one of those who turn into a noodle and flop about helplessly – all she had done was break her wrist and end the fun for everyone.

That wrist still hurt sometime.  When she used it too much, or when it was damp.  Or cold.

She remembered the red phase.  Her mother had been right; a girl in junior high (not the one with the trampoline) whom Sidonie had wanted to be friends with had an odd quirk about the color red and Sidonie had thought somehow that by copycatting her she would work her way into her circle of friends.  They always dressed in outfits predominately of red.  Red and black.  Red and blue.  Red and green.  Red and yellow.  It seemed rather silly now.  Sidonie had given up on liking red when it became clear that the girl would sooner wipe her bottom with sandpaper as acknowledge her existence.  Lucky thing her mother had not let her paint her room red.

But she had gotten a pair of dangly red earrings for her birthday that year.  They were silver with a cascade of little red beads.  She’d thought they were from her grandmother who lived very far away and always sent a present through the mail for her mother to wrap.

Or not.

It occurred to Sidonie that Grandma always knew just what she most fancied that year, and that her mother always took her “thank you” letter to the post office for her.

She turned a hand back to the box and shuffled through the envelopes, not opening them but looking at the postmarks.  As she went down through the layers of the box the dates on the postmarks went backwards in time.  The one she’d picked off the top seemed to be the most recent; the last.

She’d seen on the news when Piotor Maianzel died, six or seven years ago, but she had no idea when Rian Maianzel died.  It sent a cold, shivery feeling through her when she read her mother’s last paragraph over, wondering how she had known it would be the last, without really knowing.  Probably there were no more letters because there was no more Dear Rian to write to.  How long after he sent the earrings had he died?  Was he dead when she unwrapped them on her 14th birthday?

Sidonie carefully folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope, dropping it back in the box.  Then she folded herself up on the bed, not bothering to take off her black buckled shoes.  The world is not ending, she told herself in her mother’s voice.  It was an old Bromian saying, she knew.  Something said in parting, so her mother had written in her book.  It had something to do with their exile, something to do with hope and reassurance in the face of doubt.  Something to say when the world really was ending.

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Later she heard a knock on the door.  Almost as soon as she heard it, the door opened and Summer came in, smiling brightly.  She pulled something into the room after her, and Sidonie sat up, looking to see what it was.

It was a large traveling case on a roller, like people used when they went to the airport and walked around looking important and purposeful.  At least, on TV and in movies.  Summer tipped it to sit next to the wardrobe and drawers.  “Here you are,” she proclaimed.  “I can’t vouch that it’s everything, but it’s what Alex and Bobby could all fit in the trunk.  I told them to take clothes mostly.”

Sidonie blinked back something, she didn’t know what, disappointment maybe.  “How did they . . . did they talk to Miss Smith?”

“Nope.  They said there was a flurry at your house because you’re missing, but they took your things without anyone seeing.”  She smiled, or rather, continued to smile, only larger.  “They’re good like that.”

They must be, Sidonie thought, since her room was on the second floor and they would have had to climb up the side of the house to get in without being seen.  Unless they had the power of invisibility, which Sidonie doubted, especially since her clothes floating down the stairs would certainly cause a disturbance.

She unzipped the case and peered inside, seeing her clothes shoved about in a jumble.  They’d packed her underwear as well, which she was not sure she liked the idea of, but in the end she was glad to have it after all.  “Thank you,” she said quietly, remembering politeness.

“D’you feel like eating?  It’s past dinner but I can get you something.”

Sidonie shook her head.  “I think I’ll put my clothes away.”

“And then?”

She glanced at Summer’s waiting face.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.”  Summer hooked her thumbs through her belt loops and shrugged indifferently.  She looked at the shirtbox for a moment but didn’t say anything.

“I read one,” Sidonie volunteered the answer to her unasked question.  “Do you have a place to shower?”

Summer blinked at the abrupt segue, but replied, “I can show you the bathroom.  It’s fixed up with a tub and a shower.  I can show you all around the theatre if you’d like.”

“After I put my clothes away.”

“Okay.  I’ll be out in the living room then when you’re ready,” Summer nodded, rocking back and forth from heel to toes.  “That’s the stage.”

“I remember.”

“Splenderiffic.  See you later.”  She left with another wave, trotting out.

Sidonie turned to the wardrobe and opened it, sniffing at the lingering scent of mothballs, and passed her hand along the row of hangers, clacking them together.  She set about the task of hanging up her hanging and folding up her foldeds, dividing them up amongst the wardrobe and the dresser, losing herself in the organization.  She didn’t own lots of clothes, so Alex and Bobby had pretty much been able to dump everything into the large trunk-on-wheels.  Even stuff she didn’t really like to wear.  But they had not packed her toothbrush or haircomb or other things she would have liked.

She left her room when there was nothing more to arrange or rearrange, and carried a change of clothes over her arm.  But her feet lagged on the way to the main auditorium, and she found herself standing in the shadows by the doorway, looking in but not stepping in.  On the stage, lit up like a play was going on, she could see Summer but also Bobby, Alex, Dan, and the rest.  She thought of Alex and Bobby going through her underwear drawers and sneaking past Miss Smith and she thought of Summer telling Dan that she had read one letter.  The shadows seemed like a nice place in contrast to the glare of stagelights.

It would be difficult to get lost in the theatre, she thought.  How many rooms and hallways could there be beyond the big main room?  Her office bedroom was not so far away from the foyer, itself.  She turned back down the hall, duskily lit by the half moon bowls, and went softly to find the bathroom by herself.