ANGEL IN THE ATTIC

Collected for you below are letters to my wife - my dear Tickseed. Everything should make sense in the end.

***

April 23rd, 2002

Dear Tickseed,

A Cardinal was sitting at the window this morning. Never thought that their feathers were so red, but the bird almost seemed to glisten like Apple-Shine, as it sat at the window, pecking at what were probably ants moving about on the outside trim. A second appeared several minutes later; its duller red feathers committed no sins against its beauty. I watched the couple for what felt like hours, but eventually, they moved on, and I had yet to get out of bed despite it being almost noon. The fan has begun to rattle again, but I don’t mind the noise, honestly.

I had a dream about you last night.

Something malicious forced its way in.

The walls that were enclosed around me felt immediately suffocating even though they were husks of the house we loved. Shadows filled most of the corners, and I could feel the presence of unknown watchers peering at me slightly outside of my vision. My gut was reeling with something awful, and I wanted only to find you. My limbs, a tarred animal, strained to move forward as I checked each room, and eventually, I saw you by the stairs leading up to the attic.

Like most nightmares I had as a boy, I expected the darkness to rush in and jolt me awake, not run away from me. No evil dark cloud was hanging around to engulf me; in its place was a smothering light that froze my skin. The light grew more intense the further I made my way toward you. Its glare became so harsh that I had to shield my eyes; a part of me screamed to reach out, but another part fought to run away. Before my body could adjust, I was blinking myself awake with alternating flashes of the blinding luster and the early morning light hitting my bedroom walls. One last blink, and I was staring at the old ceiling fan shaking in its frame as it spun around and around. That is about the time I saw the Cardinals land on the window.

I thought about the dream while watching the birds go about their day. Not sure it was even supposed to make sense, but it may have been my brain spiraling from missing you. Maybe you can help me figure it out once you get back. Today’s Monday, so only a couple more days until you come home. My body’s a livewire, and leaving me able to only articulate that I am really excited for you to be coming home. Poetic, I know. I know it’s been tough taking care of your sister, and you’re probably feeling even worse now that Gracie has passed. Forgive me if I step out of line but part of me is relieved. Not that she has passed because no one ever wants to lose a loved one, but she doesn’t have to deal with the pain she was going through. I’ll refrain from the rest of the cliche, but I’ll stay hopeful things will get better for her. For You. Us.

Things were horrible when she became bedridden, and that was about six months ago, so I can’t imagine how much worse it would have gotten. I promise I won’t ask you about it when you come home; only when you are ready will I be there to listen. I saw how much it hurt you to talk about it the last time. Remember when I drove up to surprise you with dinner, and we walked around the lake after? Clearly, being a carer for her was taking a toll on you. You were thinner, your hair a mess, and a distance was in your eyes that was doing its best to hide away the pain you were holding in. Part of you felt guilty for not being able to do more to help your sister, and you confided in me that it might be better if she was to just fall asleep and not wake up. It would be better than watching her try to smile day after day, even though her hair was falling out and her skin was becoming taut as the frame of her skeleton was poking out. It was like she was withering away, and you could only sit there watching her turn to dust.

How long had you harbored that pain? The grief didn’t even finish spilling from your mouth before the tears welled in your eyes. I held you close, let you sob into my shoulder, and I watched the moonlight copy itself onto the calm glass pond. When I was sure the tears were starting to slow, I held your head and tilted your eyes toward mine. All I could see was the reddish brown of your pupils, glossy with tears, and I thought about our first date. I told you they reminded me of the peeling bark of an oak tree in spring. You had laughed, a raucous snorting laugh that told me you were genuine. I wanted nothing more than to see that same smile at that moment, but I remained silent. Betraying the silence at that moment would have broken both of us.

I am going to try and get on with my day. I will continue writing to you later once I get some things done around the house. As much as it hurts, know we will get through this together, somehow. I suppose we’re stronger together. XOXO.

…

Hello, my love. I spent most of the day cleaning inside and out. There was a lot I didn’t get to, but I am making it my goal to get it done before you return. That is my promise to you. Call me overly sentimental, but I was thinking a lot about how we first came to buy this place so many years ago.

It was late January, if I remember right, and I was plopped down on the couch watching hockey; the Flyers were fighting the Coyotes. You came running up to me with your phone open to what looked like hundreds of waiting tabs, but you were beyond doubt you had fallen across the house that was the “one”; it was a little german inspired house made up of dark timber, bright white walls, and brick accents that gave the place an appearance of a fairy tale cottage. The headline that drew you in was “two bedrooms and two bathroom home, 9 miles outside of Hopewell, North Carolina.” Hopewell sounded like a quaint place to call home, even if it was only the way it rolled off the tongue like the hometown of some forlorn dreamer in a dimestore romance novel. The description mentioned it was a slight fixer-upper, which was clearly understated once we saw the place. You rattled off some more stuff about a fixer-upper being on a bucket list that I swear you made up on the spot. I laughed at how cute you looked, getting so overly excited. Excitement beamed from your smile, and you talked as if we already bought the place; the home was bound to be our fate.

Blindly agreeing to your wishes had set us on a path to visit the home within the week. We both took off work, packed some bags, and drove nearly eighteen hours to our potential future home. What can I say other than your cheerful optimism made me fall in love with the place. Deep down, the house in the pictures did exist, but it would need a lot of TLC to come back out. The outside was an overgrown mess, a suffocating web of crocodile-green vines, sunbleached white paint, and chipped brickwork. Even the roof was dismal; It was bare and patchy like mange had set in.

We strolled into the porch with its bending boards and loose handrails and made our way inside, where I took notice of every groaning floorboard and ceiling water stain. Knowing it was the house you wanted, I could only look at every imperfection with a fondness for what it would become.

Fondness was the same overbearing emotion I felt today as I cleaned up the entire property. Long gone were the snaking vines, and in its place were repainted exterior walls and window box planters filled with seeds for flowers and herbs. We filled in the chipped bricks with mortar, replaced the floorboards inside and out, and turned the attic into an art room for us both to grow old inside. It’s a place I can’t wait to see again.

The sun is starting to set, and I am positive that all of today’s hard work has taken its toll on me. I might go to bed early tonight and wake up to see if the Cardinals will have decided to return, so for now, goodnight.

I love you, Diana, my bravest Tickseed,

Forever yours,

Arlo, your sweetest Foxglove.

April 24th, 2002

Dear Tickseed,

No Cardinals this morning, but I did briefly see a squirrel as I was drinking a cup of tea before sitting down to write today’s letter. I woke up much earlier today, but only because I had the same dream again. Everything moved faster, not unlike a movie stuck on fast-forward, and again, the very same barely visible figure bathed in overwhelming light stood before me. Unlike yesterday, I woke up startled and panicking, with my heart beating too fast for my own liking.

And, if only for a second, I swear I saw that figure standing outside the doorway watching me. For a moment, I thought it was you. Graceful, bathed in light, waiting for me to wake up and join you for morning coffee. I wish it were true.

There was no hope of getting back to sleep. So I Spent another hour staring at the ceiling, tapping my finger on the bedsheet, matching the ticking rattle of the ceiling fan. Every so often, stealing seconds to see if I might catch you again. Lying there was somewhat comforting, but I knew I shouldn’t spend all day in bed.

Better to get up and get it over with. Reminds me of the times my mother would lecture my father and me on the weekends when we wanted to be lazy. To think my parents have been gone for eight years already; time moves so fast when you don’t think about it. Even harder to believe, I am nearing my fifties and can still recall such childhood oddities so clearly.

…

For a moment there, I felt like I was being watched again. Did you make it home early after all and decide to watch me for a while before letting me know you were back? That is a way better thought than giving some random shadow the ghostly figure promotion. We both know neither is the case, but wouldn’t you agree it’s so romantic to think in such gothic ways? Maybe next summer, we can build a tower above the attic and trap some maiden up there, but only after we put up some awful mustard wallpaper.

Joking aside, if I am so sold on going down this path of inhabiting our home with ghosts, there is some evidence that I cannot shake from my mind because it scratches my mind the wrong way. The attic door has been locked ever since you went to take care of your sister. We put so much time into turning it into our creative bubble that it felt wrong to use the space without you.

We painted the walls orange, then blue, then back to orange.

We dug splinters from our hands and legs as we replaced the floorboards.

We picked out the furniture after going back and forth on it for days.

We found our perfect tempo after losing it there for a while, and there was no way to bring myself to tread on those memories. I might return to penning poems meant only for our eyes and those of the drawers I place them in. You can get back to your stained glass. We need a replacement for the angel you placed in the living room last year. I am embarrassed to say I cannot quite remember how I knocked the darn thing over. My slight slip-up took me nearly a half hour to pick up the kaleidoscopic mess that littered the floor. Though you will be coming home soon, maybe you can make a new one. Only when you feel ready, though. Then we can think about going back into the attic. Until then, the door will remain locked. At least, that was my plan, if not for the fact it was standing wide open this morning.

The early morning sun was engulfing everything as it crept down the stairs. Blame it on tired eyes, but the light was too bright for it being only nine in the morning. A snaking shadow broke through the light and made its way down the stairs, and I found myself shaking at its appearance for whatever reason. I moved back into the bedroom to grab the key from the bedside table, hooked a left back out, and nearly ran to the end of the hallway to slam the door shut and lock it. My heart droned in my ears, a burning engine chugging onward, and my hands were filled with a dull ache as I did my best to secure the door. Several times I missed the keyhole and scratched deep marks into the wood.

I think the supernatural stuff is starting to wear me a bit thin. Ghost stories are meant for bonfires and kids clinging to innocence, not for couples married for over two decades. At least, that is what I liked to believe because it was easier to accept things happened to those you only knew through stories passed on from others. If anything, I must be letting the ghost stories get to my head out of boredom. I have so much left to get done around the house, but wandering these rooms alone for so long is becoming unbearable and lonesome. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this week off work.

Oh... Yeah, surprise. All the stuff on my to-do list felt a bit difficult to finish while also working, so I took the week off from the construction crew. Bud was understanding, considering you were coming back after several months. It was also great timing because we recently finished a house remodel, and our next big project wouldn’t be ready to start for a couple of weeks. Bud ain’t the only one I told about your homecoming, but he was the first. I mentioned it here and there when I was in town at the beginning of the week. Funny enough, some started to think you had left me for some reason. Never ceases to amaze me the type of stories people are able to make up about the lives of others. I know it’s mostly harmless, so I just corrected them while smiling and went on about my business.

Before I ramble on too much longer, I will say goodnight. I have to go to town tomorrow, so the extra rest will surely help. I love and miss you. I will see you soon. May there be no nightmares tonight but only dreams of you, Tickseed.

Hopelessly Lost Without You,

Foxglove.

April 25th, 2002

Dear Tickseed.

Today was exhausting… I will write more to you tomorrow. I hate to miss out on writing a lot to you today, knowing you will be back so soon, but I want nothing more than to sleep.

No Cardinals today.

No squirrel, either.

Plenty of shadows in corners, seemingly laughing.

Goodnight, and may my love find you in darkness (and in the light?),

Foxglove,

P.S.: The Attic door was opened again. I closed it much softer this time.

April 26th, 2002

Dear Tickseed,

Sorry about yesterday, but I pushed myself all day to get things done. I had to go out and run some errands, which I did, but only after dragging myself out of bed around ten in the morning. Tried to wish for good luck and only dreams, but I was left with only more haunting nightmares in which I dreamt of ghosts and obscenely bright lights.

I took the truck into town and stopped for some lunch first. The last couple of days, I haven’t had much of an appetite, but I was surprisingly hungry yesterday. Since it was Friday, I stopped at the Red Bowl for their Friday fish fry lunch. One thing that has stayed consistent over the last couple of years is that you can guarantee that the Red Bowl is going to smell particularly strange on Fish Day. The deep fryers were in full effect because that oil was smelling potent, and it didn’t matter where you sat because the entire restaurant smelled like it. I guess it’s a comforting smell for those suffering from diner homesickness or a hangover caused by whatever was on sale that week at Eagle Spirits, Tobacco, and Ammo. I only mention the store name because it always makes me laugh, even when you think it makes the town seem far too alarmingly country.

Got me the flounder and popcorn shrimp combo. It was decent enough, and I was going to probably finish off the plate before heading out. That is until Janet Hillborn came strolling in, and boy, was I happy to see your best friend. I jest, but I was hoping she didn’t see me. I won’t throw around the word hate, but she does get on my last nerve with her usual mightier-than-thou bullcrap. Fates weren’t on my side because she immediately looked in my direction and waddled over to my table. She had some noxiously bright blue lipstick; a bit of it rubbed off on her teeth, and that was all I could stare at when she flashed her overstretched smile. She stood there in the middle of the aisle, hands resting on her hip as she launched into a barrage of questions.

“When’s the wife comin’ home, Arlo? Been uh-while since I’ve run into her at Walt’s Grocery. Always was a pleasant gal.” she had asked, her tacked-on southern accent drawing out her words. I remember the way you cringed the first time you heard that fake accent she uses. I nodded, swallowed a piece of fish, and told her you would be coming home at the end of the week. Also, mentioned to her that I was plum excited for you to be coming home since it has been a while. She let out a bellowing laugh that had some of the other customers staring. Then she asked about your sister, called her Macie, but I wouldn’t expect her to remember the names of those she had no interest in. I guess it was close enough to give her some credit. It’s not really my story to tell, so I pretty much just gave her the basic facts that she passed away and you were handling funeral stuff before coming home. She spouted out some bible verses and said she would be glad to talk with us if we needed grief counseling. I’ll let the irony speak for itself there. That gave her a segue into asking again if we would finally be joining the Sunday congregation at Hopewell Baptist. I hit her with maybe one of these Sundays, you’ll get us in a pew.

Janet did catch me off guard, and I nearly choked on a piece of fish I was biting into. She was turning to leave before she turned to tell me that she would see us both on Sunday because she would bring by some baked goods to welcome you back. All I could do was force out a wheezing thank you as I attempted to not violently cough. I wanted to tell her that she wouldn’t need to do that, but in the end, I guess arguing with her wouldn’t have changed her mind anyway.

Even after nearly dying, I was glad to return to my meal since she finally left me alone, but by the time she sat down to eat with her circle of friends, I realized my plate was cold and covered with congealing oil. Add that to the exhaustion of making my way through a Janet Hillborn conversation, and I was ready to pay my bill and get on with my day.

Even trying to pay the bill was a bit rough. My fingers, coated no doubt in fish grease, kept slipping at the edges of my bank card tucked so firmly into its spot. I ended up paying with my emergency twenty instead of dealing with the card after looking like a fool, and even on my way out, I accidentally bumped into a man coming in. Tried to apologize, but he kept on walking past me.

I left the diner and dropped off a couple of things in the PO box, grabbed an envelope on the way out, and then made my way a couple of miles down the road to Grayson’s Farm Supply. I needed to grab a couple of items, as well as a couple of special orders. You’ll also be proud of me because I made a list beforehand. You drilled into my brain how I needed to make shopping lists because I was so scatterbrained that I would forget half of what we needed. To fill in the gaps, I would usually fill the cart with random nonsense that seemed important at the time. Not this time, however, I had my list, and I would stick to it, even if it’s only a couple of items that I should be able to easily remember.

Daffodils

Bluebells

Tickseed

Foxglove (Had to special order these)

Watering Pail

Mulch

Rope

I thought long and hard about what gift I would give you for your homecoming. We always found comfort in all sorts of flora, having even raised a few gardens the first couple of years we had this house. Time got in the way, and the garden seemed to slip away from us. Rectifying that mistake was my most important task.

Dylan Ollers was working the store today. Do you remember him? Either way, I found myself conversing with him as I was checking out. The store was slow, so we chatted for a couple of minutes. Most of it was Normal small talk, but part of the conversation did send a twitch of pain in my chest. Asked what Grayson was up to, and Dylan was sad to say he had left about an hour ago to go out looking for his son. They found their family dog lying dead on the road, and he was nowhere to be found. I honestly couldn’t believe something so awful like that would happen, but that’s not really the case is it? Hopewell’s been good to us, but something is off about the place.

Another customer had come in, so I told Dylan to give Grayson my hopes and condolences and left the store. Walking to the car, I tried to take my mind off the news and review my bags. The Flowers were bought, alongside a new watering can and a couple of bags of fertilizer. I headed my way back home but had a slightly funny feeling that took over. I’ve had this urgency all week that I’ve needed to get things done. Driving home yesterday, I took the scenic route. Instead of going left at BlackCliff Lumber and driving the remaining five miles to our house, I took a right turn to ride around the lake before coming home. Visions of leaping fish and hidden creatures filled my mind. I existed between alert enough to safely drive and dazed enough to daydream of such things swimming through the calm emerald lake water that pooled around the red clay shores of the oak and evergreen-lined coasts. The sun was high in the sky yesterday, with only a few clouds, so plenty of gold rays were skimming off the water’s edge. At some points, the beams reminded me of the nightmares and the unwavering light. Pleasant as it was, the scent of rain hung in the air. Before too long, it would probably storm.

I drove the rest of the way home thinking about the days I spent with you cooped up at home while it stormed outside. Music poured softly from the radio or tv, and I rested my head in your lap as you placed one hand on my chest and sipped a hot chocolate with the other. Often I would fall asleep and then wake with a blanket draped over me, the music turned off, and the only sounds being the cords of crickets and the choir of snapping twigs broken by playful beasts outside. And of the ways to show our love, that was one of my favorites.

I spent nearly three hours planting the new garden after I got home. Positioning it was hard at first, but I made sure to get it directly where it matched up with the attic window. We would be able to look out and see the new garden and the expanse of the forest beyond. Several times I looked up from digging the soil and planting the flowers and stared into that large bay window. I swear I could see you smiling at me. Of course, I know it was only my brain showing me glimpses of the future.

Hopefully, you love the garden as much as I do.

The sun was beginning to set, and I could only think about the future. Down the line, in a few months, we will be working in the attic on some new project, whatever our hearts are drawn to at the moment. Light will come in through the window in sweeping rays that highlight the dust floating through the air, and we will bask in that same light and expel sighs of relief for having another sleepy Sunday to do whatever. We will take breaks from work and stare out the window, gazing at the garden below at the thriving bodies of Tickseeds and Foxgloves, sharing their secrets with the gentle breeze passing between their petals.

No shadows would ruin it with whispers, fleeting glances, or unlocking doors meant to stay shut.

I think this is all I have left in me tonight. Tomorrow we meet each other again, and I don’t think the afternoon will get here soon enough.

I think I lied in one of my last letters. I said I wanted to keep the attic locked until we were both ready to go back up, but I am changing my mind. Even though you won’t be able to read this in time, come find me in the attic so I can show you the garden. Goodnight.

I love you.

In health and sickness,

Your forever Foxglove.

P.S. I came across one of the cardinals today. Somehow it had broken its neck. The sun was bright today, so it might have been blinded and ran into the house. I will bury it next to the garden.

July 27th, 2002

It’s almost time, and here I am writing one last letter. I regret not going with you in the first place when your sister took ill, but I felt that you needed that time to spend with your family. Fear, I think, held me back as well. Worry of losing our home, or at least the magic we built or conjured in these lumber bones and wallpaper skin. That is why I really watched you go, I believe. However, that was then. No more distance between us and only the future to look forward to.

I should end this letter soon, so I can finish preparing everything for your arrival. My good suit is already laid out on the bed. First, I will prepare my gift. My present to you is a written record of all my admiration for you and a chronicle of why you can’t ever leave alone because I start making up ghost stories to inhabit our house.

Speaking of ghost stories, I think the house also knows you’re coming home today. There is some pressure lingering about the rooms today, heavier than usual. Once again, I walked out of the bedroom to find the attic door wide open and the light pouring through and casting a weird oblong shadow down the stairs. I would be moving up there soon enough, so I decided to leave the door ajar and finish up the last few things. One of which was writing this last letter.

I think it’s time I get into my suit and head upstairs to wait for you. I hope, no, I promise we will find a new life to breathe in the house for whatever the future holds. That is, as long as you promise me one thing in return. Promise me, with those large glowing wings of yours, that you will protect me as I learn to grow and fly on my own. If we are to remain as ghosts in this house we built, may we instead be different? Let us feed not on pain but on love or whatever we need to keep on going.

One last time my Love,

Arlo, your favorite Foxglove.

P.S. I heard the Cardinal’s mate singing out for its lover this morning. I wish I could tell it the truth.

***

It didn’t feel right to leave things off in such a state. While I’ve come to accept the reality of this all, I don’t think I will find peace trying to cling to this fiction I’ve been living in.

A month ago was when this all started. You had come busting into the door late at night, scaring me half to death. Your face was wet, your eyes bloodshot, and you stood in the doorway. I didn’t wait for you to speak before I got up and wrapped you in my arms.

I was so happy to have you back home, even if caring for your sister had taken such a heavy toll on you. Time was needed, and I understood that, but I wanted to protect you from whatever darkness might have clung to you. A week went by with nothing, but I could tell that the truth was teetering on the tip of your tongue, waiting to spill over. You were in the kitchen, I handed you a cup of coffee, and you let it fall through your fingers. Porcelain and dark liquid sloshed over your feet and the kitchen tile, but you remained still. I turned to grab the broom when you told me everything.

Gracie had rapidly declined, and you had a sneaking suspicion that her death was close. Though that morning when you found her dead, you somehow couldn’t bring yourself to believe your sister had died so easily in her sleep after so much suffering. You had called the authorities and set up the proper plans for her funeral and burial, but you didn’t stick around. That night you raced home to me, unsure how to handle it. Losing your mother was tough, but the grief of losing your sister burned itself into your heart.

You weren’t ready yet for the world to come crashing back in, so I helped you stay protected. I would go out shopping, tell anyone that asked that you were still with your sister, and then I would come home to you and cherish you like a secret.

Then I woke up to find your side of the bed empty. You were in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. A wad of hair hung from your white-knuckled fist, and it was then I started to notice the lack of color in your skin. The silence between us confirmed a ghost had followed you home. At that moment, I vowed to myself to save you. Only I was fighting against an enemy I couldn’t control. The signs were there all along, but I still feel like I failed you.

Part of me knew I shouldn’t have gone to work the next morning, but I did anyway. Before I left, I held you close and kissed the top of your head. I told you I would bring dinner back, and you only smiled. I called out your name when I got back, but a pit forming in my stomach told me all I needed to know. Despite that, I checked all over the house for any trace of you. Another force pushed me back upstairs, and from the top floor landing, I could see the attic door was open. The door was only opened when we were using it, so I made my way up the stairs. The sun was hot that day. It radiated to the point it almost felt scorching. So much light was pouring down the steps and bouncing off the painted walls. I was blinded only momentarily, but I wished I stayed ignorant of the truth. Part of your figure was vaguely silhouetted in the light. A warmness rose in my chest as I ventured up the stairs. Cliche as it sounds, you looked like an angel.

Light pouring through the large open window illuminated you, and the dust in the air danced around your body, hanging there. Bits of plum-hued flesh told me you had been there awhile. At first, I tried to move you, but I could never muster the strength. I would wrap my arms around your legs and try to hoist you up, but each time I fell to my knees, yowling until my throat bled. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I sat there until the last bits of light highlighting your body had disappeared behind a darkened sky.

Twisted clarity hit me at that moment. I decided I would give myself one week. One last week of living and preparing everything to join you. That first night I had trouble sleeping, but I dreamt only of you. You had grown wings so white I believed they might have been made of marble had the wind not caused each one to billow in sequence. You told me that at the end of the week, you would come back to gather me. That is when I decided to write these letters. Over this week I built us a garden. From the attic window, we will be able to stare down as we soak up the sun. I apologize for not having the strength to get you down, but that won’t matter for too much longer. Part of me wanted to hang beside you, but that was another step I was unable to bring myself to take. Instead, I am going to sit in the window and take my medicine while basking in your light.

I regret nothing about our life together. I only wish it could have turned out differently.

I love you, Diana

Yours forever,

Arlo Burke.

P.S: Please bury us in the backyard under the flowers.