The Postcard

“What’s that?” I asked, peering around her shoulder while I stirred butter into our morning oats.

“A postcard from my Great Aunt Jo,” she said. “She’s mountain biking in Costa Rica!”

I rolled my eyes, “Ha! Of course she is. Crazy Aunt Jo.”

“That woman is going to live forever the way she gets around. She wouldn’t know her own age if it knocked her over the head.” She flipped the card over. Her brows furrowed.

“What’s it say?” I asked as I poured the oatmeal into bowls, swirls of steam curling up toward my face.

“It’s weird. She wrote, ‘You need to come here, Alex. Soon!’.”

“Hmm, that’s weird. Doesn’t she usually write a little anecdote of some kind?” I asked. I handed her bowl to her and sat down at our kitchen table.

Her phone rang before she could answer. Still standing with her bowl in her hand, she gave me the postcard.

“Yes, this is Alexandra Waters.”

I ate my oatmeal, mumbling, “Alexandra? Who even calls her that anymore?” A loud crash made me whirl around in my seat.

Alex’s bowl of oatmeal was on the floor, her eyes wide. “What?” She breathed into the phone. “Oh my god! When? How?”

I felt my chest tighten at the look of horror on Alex’s face.

“Yes, of course.” She glanced at me, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes, Kate and I will be on the next plane to San Jose.”

What? Now I was officially on the edge of my seat, heart racing, oatmeal forgotten.

She hung up the phone and looked at me, her face frozen in a state of shock.

“Aunt Jo is dead.”

~~~~~

Twenty-one hours later we were standing under the shade of our motel’s tiny awning, rubbing our red eyes after only a five hour nap. The air was as heavy as a wet down comforter. Alex’s shoulders were still in the perpetual slump they’d been in since we heard the news yesterday. Was it seriously only yesterday? I knew words would be of no use for what she was going through, so I just slipped my hand into hers and held it tight. A cab pulled up, enveloping us in a cloud of dust and dirt.

We arrived at the U.S. Embassy after a seat-gripping cab ride. We were led through more locked, steel doors than I was comfortable with, then ushered into a sterile room furnished with a metal rectangular table and four plastic chairs. Our guide left us to sit there, with no instructions. The fluorescent light above us buzzed in our ears like a persistent fly.

I leaned toward Alex. “Is this, like, normal procedure? I mean, don’t you think ---.” I was cut off by two suits walking through the door. Their humanity eluded them.

They sat down across from us and the one on the left said, “I am Agent Johnson, this is Agent Bukowski.”

“Agent?” I asked. They ignored me.

“How well did you know Josephine Waters?” asked Agent Johnson.

“Really?” I blurted out. “That’s what you have to say? She just lost her favourite aunt, for Christ’s sake!”

Alex placed her hand on my leg to calm me. The suits looked at me as if they’d only just noticed I was there. Alex took a deep breath. “I knew her better than anyone I’d say.”

The suits shifted in their seats. The one called Bukowski raised an eyebrow. “What did your aunt do for a living?”

“She owns - owned - a well-known art gallery in Brooklyn, that I manage for her. She did well. But she was restless. She was always scouring the world for original art. In between her adventures, of course.”

“Describe these adventures,” Johnson said.

“You know, hiking, biking, that kind of thing. She was young at heart.” Alex’s voice shook.

The suits glanced fleetingly at each other and visibly relaxed. “I see,” said Johnson, and gave a nod to Bukowski who placed a little black book on the table. At least, it used to be a little black book, but was now covered with stickers from every country Aunt Jo had set foot in. Next to the book he placed an envelope.

“This envelope contains the contents of the pocket in the back of the journal.”

I looked at the shocked expression on Alex’s face, then shot a poisonous look at the agents. “You went through her journal?”

“Protocol,” Bukowski said without blinking. My jaw dropped. He continued, “These were the only belongings we were able to locate. It lists your name, Ms Waters, under ‘In case of loss...’ on the first page. Your name and number, and that of your... partner.”

“Wife,” I corrected. Their eyes flitted to me as if noticing a fly in the room.

I took a deep breath and asked the question Alex wasn’t asking. One look at her told me she would burst into tears if she tried to open her mouth. “Where did you find Aunt Jo? I mean, how did she --” I faltered, feeling like saying it out loud would kill her all over again.

“She drowned,” Johnson said. “Diving accident.”

I looked at Alex. Tears streamed silently down her face. I squeezed her hand. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?” I asked the suits, keeping my eyes on Alex.

“No,” they said in unison, without any indication of expounding.

Alex was silent, like the calm before a storm, until we were in the cab on the way back to our motel. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said, staring down at the little black, sticker-covered book. “Aunt Jo was an expert diver. I… I just don’t see how she could’ve drowned. I mean, what even happened?” She began to breathe rapidly.

My heart sank for her. “Anything can happen thirty feet below the surface of the ocean, love. Maybe it was equipment failure or something?” I suggested softly.

But Alex just clenched her jaw and shook her head, tears dropping onto the journal. She fumbled with the envelope, returning the contents into the back pocket of the journal one item at a time. There were ticket stubs, a beer coaster, and a few receipts. She put each item in with an increasing ferocity. The last item was a polaroid of Aunt Jo holding up a fruity looking cocktail, her arm around the waist of a dark-skinned silver fox.

“Who even IS this?” Alex yelled. Both the cabbie and I jumped. I saw him look nervously at us in his rearview mirror. Alex shoved the photo in the pocket, with a resulting rip.

I reached for the journal and spoke as if approaching a skittish deer. “Why don’t I take this for the moment?” Alex put her hands over her face, stifling a sob. I took the journal and inspected the damage. The pocket had started to tear away from the journal. “It’s ok, it’s not that b--” I stopped. A piece of yellow memo pad paper was sticking out from underneath the pocket. I pulled it out and unfolded it.

“Holy shit!”

“What? What is it?” she asked. I leaned over and held it out with shaking hands so we could read the letter together.

Dearest Alex and darling Kate,

I’m not dead.

Alex, honey, I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through until now. But I’ll explain everything when I see you. God, I hope you’ve found this letter before leaving Costa Rica! I need you to follow these instructions very carefully.

I have a small storage unit in Tamarindo, Guanacaste. It’s the only self-storage in that province. Unit E7. The passcode for the lock is the last 6 digits of the quality control sticker in my journal pocket. I’ve stuck it on the inside of the pocket. Take a bus from Coca Cola station to Tamarindo ASAP. Further instructions await you there.

I love you.

A battalion of hugs,

Aunt Jo

P.S. Bring the journal.

The next few hours were a blur of rushing around, shoving belongings in bags, and throwing expletives back and forth out of fear, joy, confusion, and pure adrenaline. Before we knew it we were panting in our seats on a bus to Tamarindo, Guanacaste, clutching our bags to our chests and wondering what the hell we had gotten ourselves into.

Cheap, last-minute tickets on a night bus in Costa Rica are exactly what they sound like. We stumbled off the bus, bleary eyed and emotionally hungover, into the blinding morning sun. Locating the storage unit was uneventful. The real event was what we found inside.

Light from the door illuminated a room filled with frames of all sizes, some wrapped haphazardly, some with the utmost care, and some not at all, their contents marred by a layer of dust. In and amongst the artwork were boxes upon boxes, statues of wood, stone and marble, indigenous tools and artifacts, and paraphernalia that looked like it once belonged to Barnum and Bailey.

“Oh my god,” I said. “She has a whole showroom in here!”

“More like a whole museum,” Alex said, eyes wide with awe.

“What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know, her letter didn’t say,” she said, scanning the room. “Wait - there!”

Alex tip toed delicately between the dusty contents of the unit. There, atop a twisted wooden pedestal in the middle of everything, was a painted ostrich egg.

“This can’t be here,” she said, climbing back through the piles of art.

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s in the gallery. I just put this exact egg on display before we left.”

“Couldn’t there be a double - whoa!” Before I could finish my sentence Alex had thrown the egg to the ground with all her might. It shattered. She bent down and stood up, triumphant, a rolled up piece of paper in one hand, and a shorter but thicker roll in her other hand.

“It was a fake. A real ostrich egg wouldn’t break that easily. That painting was a copy. The signature was all wrong.” I shook my head in admiration as she unrolled the paper. “It’s the deed to the gallery!”

“What? Is there a note with it?” I asked.

“It looks like there’s a note around this roll.” She undid the rubber band. A huge stack of 100 dollar bills unfurled in her hand.

We stared at the pile of cash then at each other. Alex unrolled the note.

My dear Alex and Kate,

Apologies for the wild goose chase, but this was the safest way. Go immediately to the beach club at the main playa of Tamarindo. Javier will be waiting for you there an hour before sunset, every day until you arrive. You’ll recognize him as the handsome devil in that polaroid.

I love you.

To sunset kisses,

Aunt Jo

P.S. The gallery, and storage unit, are yours.

P.P.S. So is the 20 grand.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” I exclaimed.

“Shh!” Alex said peeking out the door. She handed me half the cash and we shoved it into our money belts.

“This has to be the most surreal moment of my life,” I said, shaking my head.

“Something tells me it’s about to get weirder.”

~~~~~

We walked into the beach club, backpacks strapped tightly to us, trying hard to look like weary travelers who hadn’t just shoved $10,000 into our pants.

“I think we’ve earned a drink, don’t you?” I said as we approached the bar.

“No time for that,” said the heavily accented voice of a man behind us. We turned around to see the man in the polaroid standing before us.

“You must be Javier,” Alex said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“How very American of you,” he said, his tanned face breaking into a wide grin. He pulled us to him simultaneously and planted a warm kiss on our cheeks. “Come, Josephine is waiting.” He said her name with such affection that we instantly relaxed.

We climbed into a small motor boat and made our way towards the setting sun. Salt water sprayed our faces. I gave myself permission to breathe, and my exhale turned into a giggle. Alex kept her eyes on the horizon, a smile of eagerness on her face. A catamaran came into view, and there on the starboard side, was Aunt Jo, waving and whooping and alive as ever.

Within moments we were hugging and kissing and laughing and crying while Javier poured the wine. “You ladies have a lot of catching up to do. What do you say I sail us toward the sunset?”

“Sí, Gracias, mí amor!”

“Ooo, Aunt Jo! Mí amor?” I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Oh girls, where do I start?” she said.

“How about the part where we thought you were dead?” Alex said. There was an edge in her voice despite the obvious joy on her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, darling. But I needed them to think I’m dead.”

“Who’s them?”

“Before I dive into my tale, how about a toast?” We raised our glasses. “To my retirement!”

“Your retirement?” we said in unison.

“From the gallery?” Alex asked. “This is a bit extravagant, don’t you think? I think an invitation to your retirement party would have sufficed.”

“No, no, no,” Aunt Jo said, with a wave of her hand. “My retirement,” she paused, eyes bright, “from the CIA!”

I spat my wine and Alex cursed. We showered her with questions and she laughed. “I think we’re going to need more wine for these questions.”