House of Secrets

by Jessica Whitman

She has hands like sandpaper from the roughness of her own plants in the garden. She speaks quaintly as she brushes her hair off of her face. Myrna Nicklebee is a simple woman in a simple town. The time passes slowly in the dry air as if to allow a person to actually feel time. Myrna has a small two-bedroom home surrounded by her prized chrysanthemums. The sun seems to shine brighter when you're near Ms. Nicklebee’s home. The soft aroma of flowers fills your nose as you pass by. People just love to be around her seemingly peaceful home, and Ms. Nicklebee is grateful for her guests and passersby.

Because of her guests, she was never lonely. The door was open to anyone who wanted to see her; for this was not the sort of town you would need to worry about trouble. She greeted every guest with the same radiant smile and then you were invited in for her famous oatmeal-raisin cookies. Along with a variety of flowers, an antique piano with yellowed keys, and a few collections of silver tea sets that looked as though they had been used for at least a hundred years, there were pictures of her family placed almost strategically…everywhere. Each photo was framed separately in detailed brass frames. It seemed they were placed in every room so that she could remember something about her past. For Ms. Nicklebee did have a past that was never mentioned by anyone, even though everyone wanted to ask about the rumors. Her guests wanted to know the truth, from her and only from her. They wanted to know why she came from the city to live in this small town. They wanted to know why she had pictures of her family everywhere and never mentioned them. Now, as I walk along the windy path filled with the scents of lavender and cedar wood to say hello to Ms. Nicklebee, as I do every day, I feel the distinct need to understand her. I’d love to talk to her one day; truly talk. I'd love to learn her story.

As I slowly walked closer to her house and saw it beyond the old maple tree on Concordia Lane, I noticed that something was different about her house; something had changed. I wasn't sure what it was, but somehow, I knew I would find out. Ms. Nicklebee was tending to her gardens as she always was. I said hello, and she invited me in. This behavior had become so predictable; probably even to her. Maybe it was all in her own plan; it was her plan to live her life out of habit and ritual so that she wouldn't have to face the truth. This time, when I stepped into her home, I was walking lightly so I wouldn't seem too nervous about being there. I didn't want her to think that I was going to invade her home; I just wanted to know her.

Ms. Nicklebee came in with her tray of warm cookies and as I took one I noticed her eyes. Her eyes weren’t of one simple color. There was brown and green and a hint of blue. I had never noticed it before and I doubt any of her other guests noticed it either. More than ever, her face seemed heavy and dark, but her eyes held her happiness.

I wanted to begin a conversation with her and the only thing I could think of to say was, “How are you?”. So I did. Then she looked at me as if she had never seen me before. I soon realized that many people come to visit Ms. Nicklebee, and not many of them actually asked her how she was. She politely put her head down and said that she was good today. I wanted the conversation to keep going but what else could I have asked? In that moment I blurted out, “I love all of your pictures.” I couldn’t believe that I actually said it, but there it was hanging in mid-air. Did I actually expect an answer? After an awkward moment in a shared feeling of speechlessness, Ms. Nicklebee said, “Thank You” and quickly hurried into her kitchen to refill the cookie tray for the many arriving guests of the day. I made sure to pay attention to the people visiting around me; I wanted to see if they would ask her any questions or be courteous to her for letting them go into her house. I couldn’t believe that I only realized it then: no one asked her anything, it was just a simple hello. Then people would begin talking to her about their lives and problems and why life was so incredibly hard for them. I started feeling embarrassed to be around these people who showed a complete disregard for her. Then I glanced at Ms. Nicklebee and noticed how intensely she listened to everyone. She was able to make eye contact with them, and she seemed strong and able to truly care about them; every single one. I soon remembered that I did have to go to work, so I got up and slowly walked out amidst the many conversations. As I walked away from the house I remember looking back at it. It was yet again different and I couldn’t really explain it. I went to work that day only able to think of her home and all of those people. Maybe I was different because I cared.

****

As the day came to a closing and I headed home after work, I decided to walk the long way to my home. I wanted to think and I had noticed recently that the more time I had to be outside, the more time had to clear my own mind. I began wondering if Ms. Nicklebee ever needed time to just listen; listen to nothing. I decided on that walk that I was going to visit Ms. Nicklebee the next day as well, but I was going to get there earlier than the rest of her guests so that I could ask the question that I always wanted to ask, and get some kind of true answer….What about all of those pictures in her home?

The next morning, I woke up excited about visiting her. I again took my regular walk to her house, and there she was in her yard with the chrysanthemums. When she saw me, she said “Hello” first. I was surprised by her statement; and then she offered me a cookie. I accepted it and went into her house. She came in with the tray and as she walked I was again taken with those eyes. I couldn’t really wait any longer to ask my question. It was what made me feel the need to know her; and so I said, “Umm, I really do like all of your photographs, they’re really nice. Where did they all come from?” There was a long pause in the room and for a moment everything was still. The grandfather clock was louder than ever with its tick, tock, tick, tock. During this moment, I looked around noticing that in every single picture in the room, Ms. Nicklebee was wearing the same necklace. I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but as I turned my head to look at her, that same necklace dangled and gleamed from her neck.

Then I looked into her eyes waiting for some kind of response from my question…anything. And then she spoke; all she could say was, “It belonged to my daughter!” She had a tear in her eye and I no longer knew what to do; what to ask.

I wanted her to elaborate. I wanted it to keep going. And for the first time, Ms. Nicklebee held her hand out for someone else to hold. I put my hand out and she cried. I didn’t yet know why.

The following day, I went back to Ms. Nicklebee’s. She said, “Hello, how are you today?” with a smile. On that morning, she looked like she had something to say. She told me that I could go on in and that she needed to help her flowers that had been attacked by the raccoons from the night before. So I went in and started looking at all of those pictures of her family. This made me think of my own family, at home.

I lived with a cousin of mine who offered their home to me a while back so that I could go to school there. Before that, I was really on my own, relying on friends to help me out. I never disliked it; I had independence. When I was very young, I remember always having a full stomach and a warm blanket to sleep on. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was just my life. I’m happy now that I can go to a nice job and visit Ms. Nicklebee.

Ms. Nicklebee came in and gave me a cookie. I took it and looked at the necklace once again. I became mesmerized by it. I heard a voice say, “Be careful, don’t let it break!” I didn’t know what was happening, but I stood up searching for answers. I walked around the room looking at pictures. There was one in the corner that I had never seen. There was a baby with the necklace on. Again I heard, “Don’t let it break!”, as it echoed louder and louder in my head. I looked deeper into the picture. “Be careful!” The clock: tick, tock, tick, tock. Then I saw the eyes of the woman holding the baby; those familiar eyes of Ms. Nicklebee. I turned away only to find a mirror on that wall. I looked. …I looked harder. I was searching. Then I saw it. My eyes: brown…green…and a hint of blue. I stared into Ms. Nicklebee’s eyes, and with tears streaming down our faces, she took off the necklace and said, “I do believe this belongs to you. Be careful, don’t let it break.” And we embraced.