Hidden Secrets

Day 36:

It’s raining again. Dark. Grey. Depressing. Again. Just another reason to stay in, as if I really needed one. I doubt anyone would want to be around me right now anyway. The feeling is mutual.

The mail slot opens and wet envelopes fall through to the floor. Onto the pile that was already there and probably will be for at least a few more days – just more tedious, mediocre chores to fill your already fucking fabulously exciting daily routine.

James’ funeral was five weeks ago. It rained then too. Why not? Who needs the sun when you’re saying your final goodbye to the one person who was supposed to be your future?

The cat doesn’t seem to give a shit but when do they ever. He’s the only reason I’ve been getting up these last few weeks, otherwise I get an earful of what I can only imagine are a string of vulgar curse words that only cats have in their vocabulary. And I know there are plenty. If someone is telling you in so many words to fuck off, you get it.

How could this have happened to us?

The phone rings, startling me from my fog. After deciding to finally answer it, it’s my sister. “How are you holding up?”. I say I’m doing fine. It’s a lie and she knows it but doesn’t push back. “Maybe I could stop over tomorrow? I can make your favorite “…blah blah blah is all I hear. She won’t take no for an answer so I just say “Don’t count on me getting dressed up for company.”

It’s almost 4pm so I mix up a vodka on ice and leave my spot on the couch to head to the spare bedroom. I can’t sleep in ours anymore, at least for now.

Day 37:

The doorbell is ringing, I just want to stay here with the blankets over my head, spinning with the half 1.75 of vodka I killed last night. Then the phone starts blaring – my sister is here. And now so is the cat. I drag myself out of the blanket fort I’ve built over my head and stumble downstairs.

I open the lock and her mouth drops open – “You look like shit” spills out before she can compose herself. “Get the fuck in here now that I’m up” I respond and leave the doorway. She stoops and gathers my mail as she comes in. “When is the last time you opened your mail?”

I pour a fresh vodka over ice and offer her one out of courtesy, knowing she won’t take it. It is Tuesday morning.

She starts organizing and unloading groceries – looks like we’re having Mom’s special meatloaf today – and after prepping everything she sits down at the table and starts going through my mail.

“Have you seen this one? It looks official.” I slug my vodka and roll my eyes.

She opens a larger-sized manila envelope and pulls out a little black notebook. Her eyes meet mine and I can tell she’s asking for permission to continue. I nod.

The first page reads “For my Eskimo”. That’s James’ nickname for me. We live in Minnesota and I’m a function-over-fashion winter person. He always got a kick out of me wearing men’s winter clothing but I never once bitched about being cold.

My sister reads on: “Eskimo: I love you more than words can express, you are my moral compass, my soul mate and my best friend. If you're reading this letter it is because something terrible has happened to separate us. Temporarily. In that instance, I have a few things I would like to share with you that I have collected over the years. They are yours and yours only, my beautiful Eskimo. I love and will always love you forever until we can be together again.”

I melt down into a puddle and my sister does too. I haven’t felt anything but an empty chest and vodka-infused numbness for weeks now and the pain rips through my heart like lightning.

After we get ourselves together, she continues reading. “I am from a clandestine lineage who are hunters and collectors. We find, save, protect and pass on what we feel is valuable, whether monetary or sentimental or both. I have created a path, a bit of a destiny, for you to follow in our footsteps – I am the last of my family line and you and our children were to be the next generation. I am sorry that I am not there to continue that tradition with you but I know that you will continue it with yours and am proud to share this tradition with the only woman I have ever loved, my Eskimo”.

More puddles.

Finally, she reads the next page: “The first hidden item is in our house. It’s in the office wall directly behind the hockey painting you have always hated. The cache is behind the area of that painting where I was sitting in the stadium the day that photo was taken for the print.” The next several pages of the little black book have oddly been torn out.

My sister and I meet eyes for a brief moment and then head to the office.

The painting was of the opening day of the Minnesota Wild in the National Hockey League and is 15 in a series of 20 prints. It’s a nice piece but I was never really much of a hockey fan. He was at that game opener and has shown every single person who has visited our house the exact location on the painting where his seats were located.

We carefully lift the print down and sure enough, there is a cache in the wall with a steel box in it, directly behind where he was sitting in the stadium that day in respect to the painting. It has a password of four numbers.

She looks at me and waits. Is it a code? A birthday? We never really celebrated anniversaries so I don't really even have a date to associate to that. I literally have no idea, wracking my brain for anything he may have mentioned and come up empty. We try a few birthday combinations that don’t work and then just sit and stare at the box in confusion, trying to think of what those four numbers could possibly be. Then a thought comes to me – why choose that specific location inside the house and not leave some clue to the password for me? I think about that for a minute and finally a light bulb goes on. I Google the date of the inaugural game – October 6th of 2001. I look at my sister and she nods, encouraging me to try it so I enter 1006 and hold my breath. I pull on the handle and it slides open like it was never locked. We stare at each other for a moment and then start digging out what is inside.

There’s a velvet bag containing an extremely delicate and beautiful antique pearl and diamond necklace with matching earrings and a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman in a wedding dress wearing the same set. On the back of the photo is written “Great grandmother on her wedding day”. There is also a fairly large sized white envelope containing cash.

Twenty thousand dollars to be exact.

Our mouths drop open. Neither of us know what to say.

We wait for a moment to absorb the situation and then redirect our attention to the remaining contents of the steel box. The only other item left to open is a small, white envelope sealed with the words ‘My Eskimo’ written on it. I catch my breath and hold the envelope close to my heart and tightly close my eyes – I can almost feel James here with me, that burning lightning tearing through my chest once again. Opening my eyes I slowly, carefully unseal the envelope to find within it a small slip of paper obviously torn from the little black book. It displays a charcoal sketch of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, Italy with the words “First clue for your next stop, my Eskimo” below it. Nothing more.

We sit back.

Am I supposed to go to Italy? Is that what the money is for? The reference seems too vague, intended to possibly trigger a memory that would shed more light or is it simply that literal? Palazzo Vecchio. Kind of a big place to try and find something specific hidden, especially since it’s already known for age-old secrets and mysteries. This all seems so overwhelming with such minimal information. And with James being the sole remaining heir I was on my own.

Feeling grateful to have an opportunity to feel James with me again after all this loneliness I am eager to continue digging but am also exhausted. We eat, hug as she leaves and I’m off to vodka-land in the spare room for the evening.

Day 38:

Wednesday morning starts the same as yesterday. My brain is complete mush.

Okay, no lying, it’s 2 in the afternoon. Something has been eating at the back of my brain about conversations James and I have had that may be related to Italy and the charcoal drawing from the box. After dragging myself out of the bed fort, making a half-assed attempt at combing my hair and of course, feeding the cat, I start looking through old photo albums and after a few hours stumble across a page that is labeled ‘Firenze, Italia’.

I freeze.

There is a section of James’ high school photos and one in particular where they re-enacted a play where the story was based in Europe. I remember him talking about it once or twice and how it had made a huge impact on him and the others who were part of the cast and crew. It ended up being one of the best performances the high school had seen in years and the townspeople were very proud of the accomplishment.

The photo was black and white for whatever reason. I remember the yearbook staff at my high school always used black and white photos so maybe that was the same thing here. The kids were all standing in line in front of a large, woven tapestry in a theater in James' small and very rural home town, the photo taken after opening night. They looked so young and alive with excitement, smiles beaming from ear to ear.

I scour the photos on both pages but nothing else about it seems to jump out at me. I am assuming that since the play was European it must have been based in Florence, thus the title on the page, but other than that I don't really see any correlation.

After looking over all of the other pictures one more time and not really seeing anything I begin to turn the page but something makes me stop. The tapestry in the theater photo. What was on it? I take a closer look at the photo background and I almost drop the album.

The tapestry design was of none other than Florence, Italy, a display of the whole city, with the Palazzo Vecchio displayed RIGHT ABOVE where James was standing. How could I have missed THAT?!?

My brain spinning, I realize this is the clue I was looking for, it had to be. I look at the cat and say out loud: “Well, this is what the $20K was for – James is sending us on a scavenger hunt”. Looks like my next move is to plan a road trip to his home town.

What could possibly be so important that he would lead me there now amidst such secrecy?

Considering the circumstances it is dawning on me that this may just be the start of a very elaborate scavenger hunt. If I find the right location will I find another page from the little black book sending me off again to who knows where? I mean, $20,000 is obviously a lot more money than I will need for one simple road trip...