A Pair of Hearts

The book wasn't much to look at, it was something she found in a little old thrift store off of I-80. It was simple and cheap enough that when she took it home, she didn’t feel guilty. A nice cozy corner of the universe where she could sketch and write as she pleased.

She took the worn, bound, but hardly written in pages back home -- where home wasn't really home yet. She’d been renting from a frazzled old woman who came by a little too often but by all means was very sweet and considerate. It was what she could afford, and that was fine. $749 a month was wildly cheap for a house rental in the Poconos in this economy --- nothing better could have possibly come her way.

Sure, she was renting alone, save for her cat. The place was quaint and tired-looking, maybe a bit dusty, but it was a warm and dry roof over her head. The south facing windows were bright; she could keep painting on and studying the world as she saw fit. Her plants were happy, her cat was happy, and she was...getting better.

Somehow, her life was busy. Work didn’t follow her home in a way where she had to do overtime, but it did occasionally bog down her dreams at night and made her wistful for a different path.

She had wanted, longed and struggled to be an artist. Well, she still was, despite how she had felt lately. She had skills tucked under her belt and constant thoughts of color and texture in her mind, whispers of unfinished drawings pulling her to her shabby desk late at night.

This did not help her in the waking hours.

The residents at the assisted living home she worked at were a great joy in her life but also much stress. As a programming assistant, it was her job to help keep the elderly occupied, happy, and attempt, attempt, at delaying the progress of their dementia through cognitive and physical activities. Crafting with them was sometimes a struggle, but it typically worked out and fed her creativity. This aspect of her full-time job felt like the bare minimum of sustenance for the artist struggling to keep afloat within.

Being alive felt difficult. She was waking up, showering, working, helping residents, coming up with project ideas, driving, eating, but living?

The weekend was all she longed for, and when it was time, most of it was spent doing laundry and feeling listless. She still drew, painted on occasion, but when was the last time she made a huge, big and complicated artwork? One that filled her heart with life and purpose like nothing else?

Oh, it had been so long.

Sighing, she shoved her new (old?) book into her nightstand and turned out her lamp; she drifted off soon after.

***

Bright splashes of yellow and orange blurred in with deep dark reds and shadowy greens to create the landscape of her studio space. Several paintings were out, most on easels but some leaning against supply shelves. In actuality, the space was just a spare bedroom not really meant for an artist, but it was bright and airy, and frankly, very nice.

On this particular day off , she had every intention of stepping outside every once in a while to just sit and breathe. Relaxing was always hard, but it should be necessary. The days always felt too short.

She held herself to her promise and sat on the porch, soaking in the autumn sun.

After a moment, she reentered the dusty old house, stepped back into her workspace and immediately noticed that her dirty paintbrush looked surprisingly clean. Acrylic does not just magically fly away. She shrugged, guessed she must have done it without paying attention, and got back to work.

***

When several weeks passed and it happened again, she thought that perhaps she was losing it. She was stressed after all, and it was not entirely unheard of for her to be forgetful when feeling like this. Anxiety, hopelessness, lost time...But maybe it was something else.

An anxious girl is always uneasy with anything even remotely bewildering, and she was no different.

Nothing had especially bothered her about the house; she had seen her fair share of haunted places. However…sometimes she would fall asleep late at night on the floor, leaning against the wall, little black sketchbook in hand, and when she awoke in the night a while later, she would discover that the lights had been turned off. It was kind of spooky.

It was possible she had simply turned them out before dozing off and just not remembered, but it was still curious.

Tonight it had just happened again, and this time she hurried out of the room to her own bed, where her little cat was already curled up on the covers. Climbing in, she drifted off fast despite the pounding of her heart.

***

That night she dreamed of lying in a patch of fresh marigolds, bathing in the summer warmth. She rolled over, sensing someone standing beside her. A woman she did not recognize stood there, a short smudge of dark gray cloth and long waves of black hair.

Puzzled, she sat up, leaning back on her hands, and suddenly found herself back in her dimly lit bedroom. She let out a breath, and looked around. From out her window, she could see dawn was just breaking over the chilly February horizon.

She rose, stretched, and went to the kitchen to fix the cat something for breakfast.

She painted marigolds that afternoon.

***

Winter was starting to ease to an end, and the weight on her shoulders felt lighter.

On one regular Saturday evening, her hand cramped up and she dropped her pencil. It wasn’t all that strange. Regrettably, she had a bad habit of not listening to her body; her hands were often strained and stiff.

When the pencil fell, it rolled across the floor.

Thinking it wouldn't go very far, she immediately got off her stool to chase after it, but it kept rolling and then it took a turn to the left.

She stopped dead, but the pencil kept going.

It sped through the open door to the hallway and into the spare room. Cautiously, she followed with soft footfalls.

The 4B pencil rolled a few more feet and then it spun, making a slow 360 on its side over a rough spot on the wooden floor. Her legs crept forward for her, all thoughts on the pencil.

Kneeling, she snatched the 4B back into her hand and took a closer look.

The floor here was scraped, chipped and desperately needed a new shine. Around her were storage boxes and dust, her little black cat hovering at her side in the gloom.

“Weird. Weird, weird, weird, weird.”

She got up, full of pins and needles, and switched on the light. Upon closer inspection, the floor was not only in bad shape, there was a seam perpendicular to the panels of wood that made up the floor here. It was hard to see under the single fluorescent light, but peering closely on her hands and knees, she noticed the floor in this dim corner of the room looked a bit...loose.

On a whim, she dashed back over to her makeshift studio space, dug through the tool box she kept, and removed a flat head screwdriver. She returned cautiously to the storage room and knelt beside the spot once again.

For a moment she felt frightened. What if someone saw? She looked around wildly, but the aged curtains of this room were already drawn shut. This wasn’t really snooping if she was renting the place, was it?

She took a breath filled with apprehension, and slid the end of the screwdriver into the seam of the floorboards. Gently prying the wood up, she removed a cleanly cut, perfect rectangle of flooring.

Underneath was a square cookie tin, no bigger than a small baking pan.

Turning to her cat hiding in the shadow of a box, she asked, “What am I doing?” The cat made no reply, just kept looking between her and the hole in the floor with big, orange eyes.

She stilled, reaching in to pick up the tin. She opened it in her lap, revealing plain newsprint paper. She sucked in another breath.

Under the sheet of thin paper was a little black book, resting on a bed of even more newsprint. She picked it up, set the tin down, and inspected the find.

It was an exact match to the one she had picked up all those months ago, which was now a nearly filled sketchbook still sitting in the studio. She brought herself to her feet, flipping the book over and over as she walked into the next room again.

Her own sketchbook sat open on a page of marigolds. She gently closed it and placed the one from under the floor next to it. They were the same. Same size, same curved corners, same color, and same floral embossment along the spine. A pair.

How she had happened to come into possession of them both, and like this, she had no worldly idea. The thought of the books having been separated for so long, only to coincidentally come back together under the same roof, made her shiver a little.

Very tentatively, she opened the newly uncovered book.

The first page was filled with little pencil scribbles, notes of song titles from years past and small little doodles of what appeared to be daisies, these in pen. She smiled, feeling her heart swell with joy. She flipped through the pages, finding more studies of wildflowers, plants, insects, leaves...a splash of watercolor here and there. Her smile only grew wider. Both books had been used in the same way.

The feeling of kinship only increased as she observed the graphite and ink linework throughout the book, page by page. Whoever the other artist was, they had a great eye for detail, as well as the loose kind of gesture drawing she herself so adored.

Reaching the end of the book, more writing appeared. Little snippets about the weather, how many birds were hanging around the feeder, what seeds had been collected for the spring, then finally--

I am getting old.

She paused, lightly touching her fingertips to the words.

Though I have enjoyed these years here among the flowers and the earth, I may not be here much longer. I accept this, and unfortunately I have not found a love to build a family with to pass my knowledge on to. The rest of my family has moved on. When I die, my things will be claimed by no one that will care.

I have sold all my work except these books. Unfortunately, that may be due to me forgetting where I have stashed some of them. Regardless, this will be the last.

Holding her breath, she turned the page.

Whoever you are, take it! Love this book as much as I have. Take what I have left with it, it is now yours. I give you full permission.

Don’t forget to look up from what you’re doing sometimes. Enjoy it while it lasts.

The writing ended, and the last few pages faded into more small sketches, until finally, there was nothing left to turn, and she closed the book.

She sat back on her legs, and just looked around for a bit. Her space was certainly hers now. Paintings, drawings, all still half-finished were scattered about. The sunlight was starting to fade, turning the room to orange. Her cat came trotting in from the other room, mewing for dinner.

After a quick trip to the kitchen to fill the food bowl, she returned to the cookie tin, and painstakingly pulled the rest of the thin newsprint out.

Underneath were several tight rolls of green bills. The box was stuffed full.

Tentatively, she reached in and unfurled a bit of a single roll, realizing in her hand was a hundred dollar bill. She peeled it off the roll and yes, underneath was another. And another. They were slightly tattered, but certainly real. She felt her mouth go dry.

"Mother of God."

***

Months later, the old house is officially hers. It is filled with warm sunlight, books, the sound of a soft tune, and the smell of fresh mint tea. Outside there are bright marigolds growing along the path to the house.

Most importantly, her heart is happy and content, much like the sleepy cat next to her.