A Manifested Memory

Eleanor wasn’t sure what force it was that pulled her into that little east coast antique store that day. She had walked by it daily since she began working her job at the tiny bakery on the corner of a busy-for-a-coastal-town street and Princetown road. The windows appeared fogged up with the thick layers of dirt and debris collected as years worth of old chests stuffed with newspaper from the 60s, and long gone Grandmother’s teapots made their way in and out. The door stood not much taller than Eleanor herself, its old oak frame providing an entryway that anyone larger than 6’ would have to duck. At first, it was not Eleanor’s intention to go in, and when the echo in her mind insisted she stopped and did so, she even considered resisting it. The weather was cold and unwelcoming, and after an 8-hour shift in the back kitchen of the bakery, Eleanor indeed had intended to go directly home. However, some voices demanded to be heard— even if it was the echo that she so often ignored.

Eleanor twisted the tiny golden doorknob, its discolouration showing its age, and entered the antique shop. The bell above the door gave a high-pitched ding, and the owner peered up from under his glasses, muttering a humble, “let me know if I can help you with anything.” Eleanor gave the nod in agreement and glanced around the store, a feeling of uneasiness weighing upon her. Truthfully, Eleanor felt out of place. The shop had an overwhelming scent of antiquity, mixed with the smell that the east coast seemed to bear no matter which part you visited. The scent reminded her of old sunken ships and wet nautical rope. Her feet carried her where her mind wouldn’t— across the creaky floorboards and past the cases of delicate collectables. Eleanor found herself standing in front of a bookshelf made out of maple. Its edges carved into a beautiful and articulate design, making it look like ivy was climbing from the deepest roots of the ground blossoming decorative flowers around its border. On the old maple shelves sat a collection of books— ranging from classics such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. Eleanor’s eyes squinted between the novels and the top of the shelves, her eyes catching something hidden behind the old books. Her hand reached out to move the books aside. Eleanor grabbed the small black book, pulling it out from the shelf and examining it. Its cover cracked, causing thin gold lines to run up the leather, creating an effect that resembled veins under her skin, with blood flowing through the tangle of muscles and tendons. She flipped the book over, noticing that this book was the only one that didn’t have a title. Eleanor fumbled with the cover before flipping through the pages, noting the paper’s blankness and paleness. She turned to look at the clerk behind the front desk, only to notice he seemed to be preoccupied with the newspaper in his hands. She watched as his eyes slowly moved across the sandy pages, his lips moving in the slightest as he processed the information. Her feet slowly made their way over to the front desk, the floorboards continuing to sing their song until her pause at the front desk brought them to a halt. The clerk peered up again, taking note of Eleanor, before quickly placing his paper down.

“Sorry, Miss. I tend to get caught up in the news these days…” His eyes dropped from Eleanor’s to look at the book she was holding. His face washed over with a look of confusion. “Hmph,” he mumbled. “Never seen that before.”

“I, uh…” Eleanor muttered, a bit uncertain about what to say. She hadn’t even intended on coming in here, let alone purchasing anything. “I was just wondering how much this is. There wasn’t a price on it.” As she spoke, she extended her hand, passing the notebook over to the older man. His hands grasped the book and flipped it over a few times before giving Eleanor a friendly smile— the one that graced every face of an east-coaster. His wrinkled hands passed the book back over, the cracks reminding her briefly of the front side of the item they were discussing.

“Well, darlin’, like I said… I didn’t quite know we had this.” His speech followed with a slight intake of breath. “So for you,” he paused as if considering it once more, “how’s about $10?” Eleanor nodded and met the man’s smile with one of her own.

“I’ll take it.” She reached into the pocket of her bright yellow raincoat, a necessity for this weather, and pulled out a $10 bill. She placed it delicately on the front counter and reached for the notebook. “Thank you.” She headed for the door, gingerly walking as to make sure she didn’t knock anything over.

“Not a problem.” The man nodded. “Oh, and just in case… we, uh…” he paused, causing Eleanor to stop, her hand on the door, “we don’t quite do returns.”

Eleanor spent the next couple of days jotting down the occasional thought— from reminders to pick up milk at the store to a sentimental feeling regarding an interaction she had at the bakery. It became a habit for Eleanor to spend her nights doodling and writing in the little black notebook, filling up pages with thoughts and memories.

On a particularly dreary night, Eleanor found herself opening up to the pages of her book, finally getting down some concrete and emotional feelings. She found herself illuminated with vulnerability as her hands, ink-stained and a little swollen, struggled to write as fast as her mind-created thoughts. She wrote about her small desires, what she’d hoped would come of living shortly and what she would change if she could. On this night, she wrote,

Is it common not to know where your purpose lies? I find myself wondering about the future and what I’m meant to be doing so often. I value the importance of human life and its impact on the people we interact with regularly. I worry about if I say too much, or maybe if I don’t say enough. In particular, I worry about the small interactions I have daily. How would my life be different without them? I think about the woman in her late 70s that comes to the bakery every day and orders a warm apple croissant and always asks for extra napkins. I interact with her almost every day, and yet… I know so little about her. It’s evident that we’ve established a connection, and true, she does mean quite a lot to me. But why don’t I tell her that? Why don’t I compliment her on the emerald green necklace she seems to be wearing every day? Why don’t I ask her about her grandkids? Her children? I would be devastated if anything ever happened to her. In fact, the thought of her dying upsets me to such lengths that I can’t even bear to think about it.

Note to self: go further with your connections to others and ask the questions you ponder— even if it holds up the line.

The next day, Eleanor walked into her shift, the bell over the door reminding her of the one over the door of the shop she had walked into just last week. Her coworkers greeted her with a smile and a wave as she shuffled into the back room. Placing her belongings on the brass hangers, Eleanor tidied up her hair and prepared for her shift. The shift went by just the same as any other day— the mundane tasks feeling second nature to her. At about 3:30, Eleanor noticed that her favourite customer was late. Marjorie, who was always in the bakery, ready for her warmed apple croissant by 3, was late. Eleanor furrowed her brow as she worked the pastry dough, a feeling of uneasiness rushing over her. The thought of greeting Marjorie and striking up a conversation had just come over her the night before, causing part of Eleanor to wonder if maybe there had been a few times Marjorie had been late, and she just hadn’t noticed. With every ring of the bell over the door, Eleanor’s eyes shot up to see if they would meet the warm brown ones of Marjorie and yet was left with disappointment each time. About 15 minutes before closing time, the sky grew darker, and the rain clouds that hung around the eastern skies this time of year covered any trace of light. A man stepped into the cafe, an envelope in his hand, and walked to the counter where Eleanor was standing.

“May I help you, sir?” Eleanor smiled, meeting the eyes of the stranger. There was something familiar about them.

“Are you Eleanor?” His eyes flashed down to her name tag.

“Sure am.” She nodded, wiping the flour from her hands onto her apron.

“I uh… have some news for you.” The man nodded back, his eyes dropping to the envelope in his hands as he passed it over to Eleanor. “It’s come to my attention that my grandmother expressed a certain fondness of you. She passed away this morning, and she left this for you.” Eleanor’s heart sank immediately as her fingers slid into the holes on the side of the envelope. Inside was the emerald necklace that had once sat on the veiny chest of her favourite customer.

Eleanor’s unhappiness and desolation hung over her for weeks. Every time she went to write in her notebook, she was met with the reality that she would have to see the last entry she had scribbled and acknowledge, yet again, her yearning to have one last conversation with Marjorie. She also couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that in writing about Marjorie’s death, she may have somehow accidentally caused it to happen. After almost two months of putting it off and wrestling to understand and collect her emotions, Eleanor sat down to write again. This time, she wrote,

My sadness for this town and the loss of Marjorie is inexplicable. The lights at the bakery feel a little dimmer, and the sea feels a little rougher. I can’t find the joy in the little things anymore— not the red-coloured pebbles of the rocky coast, nor the quiet buzz of the city on a Saturday afternoon. I want to escape this city and go somewhere new. I want to come into a large fortune. I want to disappear into a greater unknown.

The following day was unlike any other for Eleanor. Her morning began in a hazy fog as her phone rang with urgency. Upon picking up, a demanding and robust voice greeted her. The voice sounded uncomfortable and yet still so familiar. It asked her if she was sitting down. It regretted to inform her that her uncle passed away. It acknowledged its duty to inform her that he left her with $20,000-- part of the divided will. Along with that, he left her the estate and farm along the western coast. For Eleanor, it seemed some unknowns were greater than others.