Tag: Poetry

Author’s note: Thank you, Lauren for providing the first line of the story.

The letter contained the most unexpected news I could imagine. For the hundredth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. The paper is of the finest quality, worthy of a person of means.

My dearest,

I wish we had more time together, but I cannot undo the turn my life has taken. On the verge of death, I see you, and you alone, as my closest relative. This estate now belongs to you.

Love,

D. F. Allistor

I hazard a look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed—the mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with mirth. I avert my eyes trying to ignore the portrait—the proverbial elephant in the room. D. F. Allistor died recently, leaving this estate to me. His attorney had mailed me the letter after his death along with the documentation of inheritance.

When I first received it, I had instantly sent a letter back letting him know that there was a mistake; that I was an orphan with no living relatives and didn’t know any dead ones; that I had never been to the estate before, and neither did I know the last owner nor did I ever hear of him; and hence, I could not be the person in this will.

But the attorney was sure, “I know it sounds improbable, even to me. But while I am unaware of the nature of your relationship with the late Donovon Frederick Allistor yet, the details provided to me by him match you exactly, down to the last letter of your name, address, parentage and work history.”

This reply had rattled me. I am not a public figure, and I have no social media account. Researching about me from across the country must have taken a lot of time and resources. Yet, this relative had never approached me while he was alive, not even when I was abused by foster parents and turned into a servant of their household. All those years, I had waited for some relative to come forward and claim me. Now that I was out of that situation, inheriting this obscene amount of money and the sprawling estate seems meaningless. Well, almost…

Two years back, I had left my foster home at the first opportunity and started working at the hospital in the Hospice ward. In return, I received weekly paychecks and had a small quarter to live in. It was a tough life. The people I took care of were waiting to die and death was a frequent visitor. It isn’t fair to have to work in a place that reeked of death just to be able to survive.

I tried to stay aloof most of the times—tears were a luxury for meant for people with means. But it was difficult when some of the patients cared so much for me. They often offered words of care and caution like family. Charles had even offered to adopt me—I had to remind him that I was too old to be adopted. And Martha had offered me a job at her home, but, of course, the job was only until Martha was alive, which wasn’t long. And that place was right next door to the Cancer ward, where I had met Eric…

He used to make me laugh—even declared his “undying love” and “married” me by twisting his ventilator tube and slipping it on my finger as a ring, joking that I would soon be a rich widow! He died last month with his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine. I had stayed with him until an ambulance came and took him back to his city to be buried. That was the only day I had allowed myself to cry.

It isn’t fair at all!

All this while, there was a someone with means who knew about me and could have supported me! But he had waited until his death.

Initially, I was angry, confused and unsure of the stroke of unusually good luck. But there was no point declining the opportunity this estate presented. It came with a lot of money and no debt. It could set me up for life and help me start over, attend college and, maybe, become someone I could be proud of. The place came with a housekeeper and a gardener who were paid through a trust fund—I didn’t have to be alone here. So, I left the job at the hospital and moved here.

*****

I love the place. It is beautiful and not very old. My resentment towards late D.F. Allistor is gradually dissipating. But even after being in the house for two days, I’m still unsure of my relationship with him. I always keep wondering if someone will come and make a claim for the estate, calling me a fraud and usurper.

I can’t put it off anymore. So, I broach the topic with the housekeeper about the previous owner without making it look like I didn’t know him. She seems very fond of him, “Oh! He was a fine man, ma’am. A little mischievous but he had a good heart. Always helped me when I was in trouble with my husband. Even in his death, he left a trust fund, so I don’t have to go back to him. Taken too early, I say! Twenty-four is not the age to die!” Tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes.

24? “When did he commission this portrait?”

“Just two years back when a local artist was unable to pay her mortgage. He gave her enough money without making it sound like charity.”

How can I hold a grudge against such a person? Earlier, I had assumed he was older. But taken at 24? For the first time, I look properly at the portrait with the twinkling eyes, looking for a similarity in his face and mine—some family connection I never knew of. The face feels faintly familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Thinking of something to say, I pick the most obvious topic, “How did he die?”

She looked at me with doubt in her eyes, “Cancer. You know all about it, of course. By the time doctors diagnosed it, he only had a few months left. He got chemotherapy and radiation done in a facility close by. The poor boy lost all his hair, eyebrows and lashes, and he was so frail in those last days—it was impossible to recognise him! And later, he went to that big hospital in your city all alone, for his parents were both dead and gone. He wouldn’t let me come because my youngest is still only 3. When he met you, he was finally so happy. He told me all about it over the phone…”

Her voice trailed away, as she read the doubt on my face, “You did know him, didn’t you?”

I could picture him in the hospital, mischievous blue eyes framed by a frail, bald face and a charming smile, slipping the twisted ventilator tube like a ring on my finger, his bald head in my lap and wrinkled hands holding mine…

Frederick…Eric…

*****

For the millionth time, I reread those ragged, cursive words written in a weak hand on a paper with roses printed on it. I look at the life-size portrait hanging behind my bed.

The mischievous blue eyes seem to twinkle with love…