Madeleine

I

My name comes from a small cake, or better said, the cook who apparently invented the small cake: Madeleine Paulmier. It’s French for… well, it’s French. Have you ever seen a madeleine? It has a spongy shell-like shape, golden brown edges, and an amber center. It tastes like butter —at least the ones my mother buys from Mr. Storm in front of City Hall— and it is my favorite dessert. Some madeleines, I’ve seen, have almonds or dried fruit like lemon zest or dried coconut. Some even have a glacé cherry on the top —glacé is French for glazed— but I like good old fashion madeleines better. Sometimes after lunch, maybe two hours later, I go to the porch with a cup of chamomile tea and two little madeleines, using the breakfast china my grandmother gave my parents at their wedding, and I sit on a rocking chair. I put the cup and the plate on a little side table because I’m not tall enough to do it all at once —there are still a few inches between my shoes and the floor when I’m sitting— and if I broke anything, my mother would go bananas.

The leaves of the old oak trees fall in front of the porch almost poetically, making it a real treat to watch between the white house and the lavender front door. The midwestern landscape makes a compelling argument to the sunset and sometimes to the starry sky that shines through Madeleine’s window. A truly beautiful Victorian house in the countryside. The house was built in 1910, by John Walsh and his family. The Walshes were corn farmers and owned half the crops in the county, so there was no demand lady Walsh was not granted when it came to her home. Story says lady Walsh saw the exact same house in Vermont while traveling with her cousin Bridget. They were both young and unmarried at the time, and were invited to a spring ball in a prominent rancher’s house from the East Coast. It is said that lady Walsh fell in love with the residence from the beginning. This was no ordinary house. The owner, Thomas Elliot, despite his livelihood, was an avid art collector and was very much inspired by the philosophical movement of modernism. The Pennsylvania Black roof had a strong presence on the aesthetic of the house, as other fundamental elements. The roof was made of fish-scale slate, and was brought from Virginia. The complete wood structure was white, something rather odd with similar houses, and the window frames were black. All the windows had a traditional hung sash style. The windowed lavender door was decorated with a subtle stained glass motif ranging between beige and pearl. The porch had black railing and so the entrance steps, and the visible foundation was made of gneiss dark stone. For Thomas Elliot, his house was a canvas, and the final outer result was exactly that, in a more demurer manner. Although excessively charming and detailed on the outside, every guest that walked into that house had no idea how it would be on the inside, for the inside was greater than most on that side of the world. The round foyer, as most of the house, had marble floors, with the exception of the library and Thomas Elliot’s office which had oak hardwood flooring. There were two types of marble: Nero Marquina and Calacatta Carrara. The former black marble made a trim around the latter white. The foyer had a costume made Lalique chandelier —legend says Thomas Elliot and René Lalique had an intense friendship, and Elliot, a great collection of Lalique’s art nouveau combs— and a door on every cardinal point. The east and west were a closet and a small bathroom. The south was the front door and the north guided people to a long, almost narrow hall, with several more doors and a marble staircase on the right side, at the end of it. The hall had art nouveau iron arches with grape motives. An exact copy of the Paris Universal Exhibition. Many of the pieces of furniture around the house were Louis Majorelle, and above the fireplace in the main living room, was a Robert Delaunay painting. The house and its decor could certainly be further talked, but truly important is how much lady Walsh loved that house, and hence, she expressed that love.

Later that day, at the spring ball, all guests moved to the garden where large square wood panels were set as a dance floor. Waltz and Polka graced the garden while everybody cheered —the hoop skirts must have looked magnificent turning dances from a bird’s-eye view. It was then, in the excitability of music and dance, when lady Walsh saw Thomas Elliot sitting alone at an empty table. Bridget, who always had a brighter imagination, thought her cousin was decisively looking to have a date with a prominent financially secure man, so before lady Walsh parted, she gave her a pinch on the cheeks. Lady Walsh, who knew it was nothing of the sort, felt awfully embarrassed about approaching a man she had never met to talk about his house. However, something inside her made her feel tenacious and gave her the push to stand beside him with a nonchalant attitude.

“It is a beautiful form of art, is it not?” Thomas Elliot said. “Dancing, I mean.”

“Oh yes, it is. Although, I have always found it excruciating,” lady Walsh replied. “My name is Anne Boudeville. Daughter of Jacques and Marie Boudeville from Hartford.”

“It is a pleasure madam. I am Thomas Elliot, your host.”

“Delighted. If I may ask, why are you not dancing, Mr. Elliot?”

“I appreciate art, I don’t make art. Please, sit next to me. The next dance promises to be enchanting.”

For the next two dances, lady Walsh sat next to Thomas Elliot watching the crowd. She did not say a word and nor did he. Bridget from the other side of the garden wanted to attract her cousin’s attention waving her navy blue gloves, but poorly failed.

“I can feel the weight of your eyes,” Thomas Elliot said. “What exactly is on your mind Miss Boudeville?”

“Your house is on my mind, Mr. Elliot. It is unlike anything I have ever seen and yet so familiar. Victorian with a twist. It is as intriguing as it is fascinating.”

“And so I thought I was only passing time with a maiden.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“Would you like a tour of the house?”

“Not particularly, I think I have seen enough. I am sure the upstairs is quite pleasing, but rooms with mattresses at the end.”

“I think I know what you want. Please, come with me to my office.”

Lady Walsh was not a naive nor absent-minded woman, but it was until she had Thomas Elliot walking in front of her, that she realized how tall and well formed he was. How virile he looked. They entered the house trough the back door, near the kitchen, and then walked to the office which was one of the doors in the main hall. The door was carved with laurel leaves. The office was immense or so it looked because of its double height. It had books from top to bottom, and had the rarest of artifacts. A very old looking globe in one corner. A golden spyglass on the French Louis XV escritoire. Weird looking scissors and tweezers on the coffee table. A Navajo blanket on a sofa. A ring with a square and a compass in a red Cartier box. Thomas Elliot approached one of the shelves where a long and thin wood trunk was.

“This is what you are looking for. I can see your craving Miss Boudeville, but first, I need something in return.”

“I am intrigued Mr. Elliot, what is it that you want?”

Thomas Elliot thought about it for a moment while lady Walsh was standing behind the sofa with the Navajo blanket. He looked at her intensely, almost too uncomfortable to bear.

“I want your brooch,” he said.

Lady Walsh looked perplexed and touched her head to find the brooch that embellished her coiffure. She held it in her hands. It was a beautiful flower made of mother of pearl. She handed the brooch to Thomas Elliot and he ran his fingers on it. Then put it in one of his pockets and opened the trunk.

“It is yours,” he said, leaving the office.

Lady Walsh approached the trunk and saw the plan of the house. It was still crisp white, and smelled like the leather covers where architects transported blueprints.

“Bridget, we should say our goodbyes before we lose our better selves,” said lady Walsh to her cousin in the garden.

Bridget, as usual, was in a festive mood and tried to avoid eye contact with her. Thomas Elliot was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is your brooch Anne?” asked Bridget with a sassy smile.

Lady Walsh looked around and blushed. “Oh dear cheeky cousin, let us go home and I will tell you all about it,” she said pinching Bridget’s waist.

From a window upstairs, a pair of eyes watched the two cousins leave the party. Bridget was almost leaning on her cousin’s shoulder to walk, and lady Walsh was carrying a white cotton tote bag with the house plan sticking out. A pair of geese walking back home.

One hour into their travel back to Connecticut, the two cousins were sitting exhausted on the back of Bridget’s Hanson carriage. She was actually asleep, and had no trepidation for the journey nor shame for the way she was going to look when they stopped to rest in the first hotel on their way to Hartford. Lady Walsh on the other hand was speechless. Even if Bridget had been talking to her, she would not have found the words to express what had happened with Thomas Elliot, or the lasting impression he had on her. She took her journal from a small compartment inside the carriage. It was a habit of hers to write her every significant moment of joy, sadness, wonder and love. She must have had at least half a dozen of those back home.

II

The sun rises above the plains and gently kisses Madeleine on the face through the thin gap between the curtains. The morning noise begins to wake up the little girl wrapped in a chevron blanket.

“Madeleine, wake up darling,” says her mother knocking on the door. “Your father is taking your sister to town, do you want anything?”

Madeleine rises from the bed like the Bride of Frankenstein, a movie she had seen with her father plenty of times, and runs to the door as if lightning had struck her body.

“Mama, tell papa to bring me a surprise from Mr. Storm,” she says with a great smile.

Four people live in the house: Papa George, Mama Catherine, her older sister Suzanne and little Madeleine.

Sometimes —and I am not trying to complain— living in the country can be a bummer. I mean, I do have a lot of space to run, have my own set of swings, and plenty of time to practice the many different hobbies I have acquired through my homeschooling: oil painting and knitting, mainly. But it gets so boring. I wonder what life in town may be like or having other kids around you all the time. For better or worse, it must be exciting. My family and I have been living in this house for almost a year. My parents don’t tell me much, but I know —because I looked trough my papa’s papers— the house was a real bargain. When we arrived here, it was all dusty and sad. The house had been abandoned for years. I’ve heard old people in town gossip about it, especially Mrs. Lodge, the flower shop owner. She is an old lady with big fuzzy white hair and milky skin. She once told my mother the house had a big crystal chandelier that is now mysteriously at City Hall. Apparently, because the house remained empty for a very long time, many people broke into it to steal whatever they could find. I cannot imagine all those nice people I see in the town square or the park doing something like that. Mrs. Lodge says nobody really knows who the owner was after the people who built the house left. “It was such a long time ago and I was a little girl, just like you Madeleine,” she told my mama and I. My parents bought the house through a real state company acting as an intermediary, so they never knew the name of the previous owner. When we arrived, two days after my papa, some men were putting new windows and fixing pipes. The furniture that came with the house —whatever was left— was covered with stained white blankets. We were all so very happy with our new home and my papa’s new practice in a renovated barn on the other side of the property. Papa’s a veterinarian. A very muleheaded man that only trusts science; the kind of papa who tells you Frankenstein doesn’t exist, but gives you the book for your birthday.

Madeleine runs downstairs when she hears her father’s old truck parking in front of the house. George is carrying a big paper bag full of bread, and Suzanne a new pair of CDs.

“Oh Suzanne, what did you buy?” asks Madeleine.

“Beat it, worm,” Suzanne answers while running toward her bedroom and shutting the door so loudly her parents yell out her name at the same time.

“I swear George,” says Catherine. “She spends so many hours with those CDs and huge headphones, she’s gonna go deaf.”

While her parents are discussing her sister’s behavior, Madeleine examines the content of the paper bag and grabs a madeleine. She goes outside to walk and enjoy herself. “Suzanne is such a grimalkin,” she thinks. Little Madeleine has many different habits, one of the most remarkable is using unusual words she reads. She would say “The 5th grade teacher Mrs. Barth is so gaudy,” or “My mama is so comely.” While walking around the house Madeleine sees some horses in the grounds of the neighbor; lonely beautiful horses eating grass without worries. Sees a flock of birds going South, and imagines different shapes like in the clouds. And around the corner, she notices a small squirrel. She slowly walks to the animal to have a better look, and why not, maybe even catch it for a few hours; ten feet away the squirrel runs to the front of the house and climbs one of the oak trees. Madeleine seems a little disappointed but discerns something on the foundation, where the squirrel was. She approaches the stone and touches the markings to verify what she sees. It looks like carved initials. “A.B. & T.E.,” reads Madeleine. The front door opens and her parents walk to the pick-up truck to say goodbye. “Madeleine!,” her mother shouts. “Your father’s going to work.” Madeleine runs to the front steps and waves goodbye to her father. “Mama,” she says. “I want tea.” The water is boiling, the cup with the chamomile bag is set, and Madeleine walks upstairs to her bedroom when something stops her in the hall. Somehow, she cannot think about anything else but the intriguing initials carved on the stone. She starts walking in circles trying to come up with a hypothesis. “Could it be the owners,” Madeleine thinks. “Or maybe old friends making a pact.” Then suddenly, a thin curtain of dust coming from the ceiling spoils the chamomile tea and Madeleine looks up surprised. Above her are the pull-down stairs that lead to the attic. In one year, little Madeleine has gone up to the attic only once. Her parents had prohibited her to be roaming up there because it could be dangerous. “That’s weird,” she thinks. Madeleine is an adventurer at heart, and so she leaves the tea and grabs a chair from the small studio between her and Suzanne’s bedroom. She grabs the cord but she is not strong enough to drop the stairs so she decides to jump from the chair to the floor hoping her weight will open the way to the attic. “1… 2… 3… now!” screams Madeleine who swings a little bit but eventually pulls down the stairs hitting the chair and causing a racket. Surprisingly, nor her mother or sister seem to have heard the noise. She climbs the stairs one by one, holding with both hands, and makes her way to the attic. It is completely dark, except for a ray of light coming through a small circular window. She walks to the right where the electrical switch is and the light reveals a room covered with blankets. The old furniture is all there. In the corner there is a tall piece that attracts Madeleine’s attention. She removes the blanket and sees her reflection in a Victorian mirror. “A beautiful piece going to waste,” thinks the little girl who notices something shinning on the mirror’s reflection. The light from the window is hitting part of an uncover piece of furniture; under the blanket is a large trunk with golden metal borders and hinges. Madeleine is fascinated by the beauty of the trunk and immediately starts looking for the key of its huge rusty padlock. The white blankets start flying around the attic. The drawers of small cabinets are kept open, and the contents of two suitcases are emptied on the floor. The key is nowhere to be seen. Tired and frustrated Madeleine takes the padlock in her hands and starts shaking it. Unexpectedly the padlock opens without much effort. The trunk is full of books and old black and white photographs. A married couple, it seems; a woman looking directly at the camera, alone. Madeleine starts taking everything out when she founds two packages of similar books. All of them with the same black leather cover and golden filigree. The same initials on the lower right corner: A.B.

What is a woman to do in the presence of love? The question has been hunting my dreams for far too long.

Better yet, what is a woman to do between duty and love? I guess, that is the harder question.

We will always have Vermont, but it may be for the foolish. It has been seven months since we met, and my mother is increasingly forcing me to get married. She wants me to wed John Walsh, a well intentioned man who is about to receive a great family fortune. But it is not about the money, because if it were, you and I would have a chance to be happy. No, it is not about the money. It is about name, ascendancy, and tradition.

Thomas, how would I like to see you face to face. Letters do not suffice. John Walsh has promised me the riches of the world, but he is an ordinary man. His words lack passion, and his mind the wittiness you gush; his vision blinded by unexceptional behavior. He wants to marry in one month.

I received the property papers on the postman’s last visit. I can see your house… our house in the outskirts of town. A beautiful but hurtful reminder of the first time we lay eyes on each other. Is there something else to say? So much more, but our efforts seem futile. I will marry John Walsh, and we will live in the house you have built for me even if he doesn’t understand it.

Our circumstance makes me daydream. The night is not enough anymore. I want to escape. Where would we go, Thomas? I am selfish because the sight of you marrying another woman makes my heart pound.

But still I find comfort because our social actions will never undermine what we mean to one another. Love is so very irrational […]

Madeleine stops reading and puts the diary on the floor. The wind whistles through the wood cracks as she repeats a name: “Anne Boudeville… Anne Boudeville.”

It is late at night, the lights are all off, and everyone in the house is on their way to Morpheus’ arms. The wood frame of the house can be noisy some nights a year, but tonight, it is completely quiet. Suzanne’s left arm is hanging from the bed. Sound asleep she is still wearing her headphones, but there is no music playing; her Discman flashes a tinny red light to start the CD all over again. Madeleine on the contrary is moving constantly from one side of the bed to the other, and quickly opens her eyes when the house phone starts ringing. She spots the digital numbers of the alarm clock: 2:35 a.m. Two doors down she hears her parents waking up and picking up the telephone. The light of the hall is turned on and filters below Madeleine’s door. “Who could it be?,” thinks the little girl who is now picking behind the door. “Maybe, it is one of the town farmers with a sick sheep,” she says to herself. Her mother comes out of the bedroom, completely dressed, and her father follows her downstairs wearing his pijamas.

“I’d rather you didn’t go alone,” she hears her father say.

“I know, George, but tomorrow you travel to Helena for the convention, and this might take a while.”

Madeleine, now well awake, fearing for her mother’s safeness decides to speak up.

“Mama,” she says going down the stairs. Her parents surprised to see their little daughter on the staircase with her onesie and boots. “I’ll go with you tonight. I’ll make you company.”

Madeleine’s mother, Catherine, is driving to town pretending to look at road and the side mirrors while really looking at her daughter’s reflection, whom is sitting on the side bench seat of the wagon.

“Madeleine,” she says. “Why were you awake so late at night?”

The little girl who is looking at the dark trees outside turns to her and says “The telephone woke me up, mama.”

The lights of the town begin to show, and after ten minutes of silence Madeleine builds up the courage to ask her mother where they’re going.

“Who’s sick mama?” Catherine is a trained nurse, who rarely practices.

“Doctor Belcher is sick, Madeleine.”

The old man, who Madeleine only knew from grown-up conversations is the only physician in town. On the way to doctor Belcher’s house Madeleine wonders if doctors cannot take care of themselves when they are sick. “It’s odd,” thinks the little girl.

When the car parks in front of the house, Mrs. Belcher comes out of the door in her nightgown and curlers. “Please Mrs. Abbott, this way.”

The old woman doesn’t take notice on Madeleine’s presence. Upstairs, in the master bedroom, doctor Belcher is lying in bed with what seems to be a boiling fever. Madeleine is standing next to the door while her mother examines the doctor who increasingly squiggles and moans with her delicate touch.

“We can’t understand it,” says Mrs. Belcher with clear anxiety.

Catherine gets a syringe from her bag and tells the woman that she will give him a sedative, but needs her help to hold him down. Mrs. Belcher trying to hold it together now sees Madeleine standing in front of the bedroom. She goes to the door, and says “Sorry” to her, closing it on her face.

It is not her place, and Madeleine understands it. She starts walking around the house. Dozens of family photos cover the walls of the upstairs corridor, and a small side table is graced with a planter. She walks downstairs, avoiding all the dark rooms, and finds herself in the living room. A very spacious area with three couches, an old pianola, and a fire place. Above the fire place Madeleine sees something that catches her attention. It appears to be a very old painting of a house with a small tree and a woman beside it. The house looks exactly like Madeleine’s house and the woman is also familiar. She gets closer and on her tiptoes tries to have a better look of the woman in the painting. “I know her,” whispers Madeleine. “It’s the woman in the photographs.”

It is not an expressed concern, but as Catherine and Madeleine go back to their house, the air is full of distress. The symptoms of doctor Belcher are not precisely uncommon, but the degree of pain does seem quite inexplicable, as the response to the treatment. “It could be Brucellosis,” thinks Catherine who tries to remember everything she has studied on animal-transmitted diseases. Madeleine is also very quiet. For the moment, doctor Belcher’s prognosis doesn’t seem to interest her in the slightest. Instead, the desire to investigate further about Anne Boudeville’s life is all she has in mind. The coincidence is spectacular, even more so because Madeleine has never heard the name of the mysterious woman in the stories old people in town usually say. She thinks about going to the local library —perhaps there, old documents or registers could help her know more about the lives of the two lovers, and why Anne Boudeville is in the doctor’s house. It is almost five in the morning. Catherine carries Madeleine to her bedroom. She sleeps peacefully while her mother caresses her hair until the first crowing of the rooster.

III

Madeleine awakes past midday to find an almost empty house; the only indication of another form on life is the music coming from her sister’s bedroom. No one is the kitchen, the living room, or the porch. “Papa must be on his way to Helena,” she thinks. “But where is mama?” Immediately she recognizes the sound of a car approaching and waits in the foyer. Catherine storms into the house to the nearest telephone and starts making a call. She looks concerned and Madeleine sees it. Her mother is calling the regional hospital because she thinks a possible food-borne disease outbreak could happen in town. “People are getting sick… the same symptoms, the same response to procedural treatment. Something must be done.” Madeleine hears her mother’s cry for help, but finds it difficult to understand. “Is it doctor Belcher?” she thinks. Her mother is using the same clothes as the day before, and she looks undoubtedly tired. Catherine sits at the kitchen’s table, with a glass of water, looking out the window. She sighs with sorrow and doesn’t notice Madeleine who is now sitting in front of her.

“Mama,” she says trying to attract her attention. “What’s happening?”

Catherine looks at her little girl and takes her hand.

“Are you feeling alright, darling?” she asks Madeleine.

“Perfectly well, mama,” she answers.

“Who’s sick, mama?”

“Mr. Storm’s sick Madeleine.”

“Does he have whatever doctor Belcher has?”

“I think so, but doctors from the capital city have to examine the patients to check for bacterium.”

Catherine’s beeper starts blipping. “Another case,” she says. “Madeleine, get your things, darling. I have to take Suzanne to her clarinet class. And check on some of the patients. We can buy something from Mrs. Storm when we visit.”

While leaving Suzanne at Abbey’s Music School, Madeleine sees the local library on the other side of the town’s park. She knows going to the library alone would be a ludicrous idea —at least, for her mother. “Maybe today,” she thinks. “Anne’s story can wait.”

Mr. Savage, a former town politician, lives, against all odds, in a small house; a wood cottage on the way to Sheridan that reminds Madeleine of a dwarf’s home. Inside, a shrine to his years of public service is visible on every corner —that, and the heads of at least eight deer. Once again, little Madeleine is shut off from the conundrum. Not by Mr. Savage’s wife, who is apparently single, but by his aid. “This is no place for a little girl,” he says blocking the sight of a fat old man in a bathrobe. “There is something rather fascinating about this man,” thinks Madeleine. Trophies cover entires walls. There is one from the WFA, or Wyoming’s Farmers Association; another one from the Peace Corps, for his voluntary work in Port-au-Prince; a medal of honor given by the city after his retirement from public service. “This is a man who has done some pretty good deeds, and now is guiltlessly sick,” she thinks. Madeleine continues her tour around the house where she finds many peculiar objects; boxes of pick up sticks and spring toys, but even better, a collection of bird calls: woodpecker, robin, sparrow, and turtle dove. “Shops around town,” thinks Madeleine. “Are not nearly as whimsical as this place.” Thirty minutes have passed, and her mother is still in Mr. Savage’s room. There is really nothing else to do but wait, and Madeleine starts feeling frustrated. Waiting for one’s parents, is without question, one of the most annoying things for a child. Suddenly, an aching scream startles Madeleine, who feels the need to hide somewhere. She runs to a wall where there is a huge desk, but on the way pushes some photographs and ceramic pots. With a sigh of relief she sees nothing is broken, and puts the objects back in their places. Doing so she notices that one of the frames doesn’t have a photograph, but a newspaper cut. Madeleine takes a good look at it and sees Mr. Savage on a tall ladder cutting what seems to be a ribbon. “For what?” thinks Madeleine, who after a minute, cannot believe what she sees. The ribbon is around a big crystal chandelier, and the newspaper cut confirms her suspicions. The chandelier was placed at City Hall, in Mr. Savage’s term as mayor, reportedly, as a gift from a benefactor.

“Mama,” screams Madeleine in front of Mr. Savage’s bedroom. “Can we go now?”

Catherine comes out of the bedroom surprised and a little ashamed of her daughter’s words.

“Madeleine, I’m almost ready.”

“Mrs. Abbott, if I may,” interrupts Mr. Savage’s aid. “I think we are all right for now. We’ll call if needed.”

Catherine pulls a face at her daughter and says “Well, let’s go, Madeline.”

On the way to Mr. Storm’s house and bakery, Madeleine tries to put the dots together. “Three people are sick,” she begins. “What do they have in common? Yes, they are all from the same town, but different backgrounds. Except…” Madeline stops trying to figure out if her conclusions are not too out-there. “Could it be possible?” she thinks.

“Madeleine, grab whatever you want to take home while I see Mr. Storm,” Catherine says, waiting for someone to answer the door. Mrs. Storm comes to the front and changes the open sign to closed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Abbott,” says the old woman who also greets Madeline with a pat on the shoulder. Madeleine, who by now believes to have solved the mysterious illness, sees Mrs. Storm wearing a brooch on her head.

“Your brooch is very beautiful, Mrs. Storm,” she says igniting the conversation.

“Well, thank you, dear. My husband gave it to me many years ago. It’s mother of pearl.”

This time, Madeleine doesn’t wonder through the bakery nor the house. She is convinced, almost hypnotized, by what she had found out, and waits with her bag of bread until her mother comes out.

Back in her house, she runs to the attic, knowing her mother would stay downstairs talking on the phone with the city doctors, and takes the journals out of the trunk. She reads the last entry.

Our love, Thomas, knows no boundaries. For boundaries are made for insubstantial affairs, from reprehensible law, to arranged marriages. I may be guilty of the latter, but our love, Thomas, will never be flimsy.

It will live through our memories together. Through every object we shared. For our happiness, and our time together, cannot be measured. Cannot be contained, nor tamed.

I am yours through everything in life, and you are mine through the same conduit. Dare they to try.

Always, Anne

Madeline takes Anne’s photo and confirms the same brooch on her head. “It is the connection,” she says. Mrs. Lodge’s words come to her as clear as water. “Many broke into the house and stole whatever they could find.” There is a transcendent connection between both old lovers. Something so powerful, it demands to be restored.

Madeleine screams at the top of her lungs and hears her mother’s footsteps on the stairs and then her name being called several times.

“Madeline, what are you doing upstairs?” Catherine says exasperated.

“Mama,” says Madeline. “I need to tell you something about this illness Mr. Storm has.”

Catherine doesn’t interrupt her daughter, once. She listens carefully to what, at the beginning, she considers pure imagination, and near the end seems to have more foundation. She is astonished with her little daughter. But most of all, proud. Only a handful of people would have cared for something that doesn’t directly affects them. In that moment, as she takes a sheet of paper from one of the journals, she makes Madeleine a promise.

“I’ll write the objects you say need to be returned to our house, in hope the illness goes away. Trust me, darling.”

A week later, Madeline starts noticing unusual movement in her house; some men are carrying sealed wood packages. The first one comes in a medium size box, like that of a painting; the second one in a small box, like that of a brooch. There is no third box until after a few more days, when a huge container, with caution warnings all over, arrives at her house. She doesn’t need to open the any of them. For her, it is clear enough what they contain.

A week after Madeline’s discovery, her mother, Catherine, keeps inquiring about the patient’s condition. For now, at least, there are no other cases with the strange desease. She came to realize the three men with the infection spent a day in the country side, with buffalo meat. Probably, the end to what could have been an epidemic. Nevertheless, Catherine keeps her promise and gathers all of the stolen objects, as favors for her treatment. The mysterious illness disappears in no more than two weeks. And everyone, including Madeline, is satisfied.

Let me tell you about my favorite heroine. Her name is Dian Fossey. She was an American zoologist who undertook an extensive research of gorilla groups in the mountain forests of Rwanda. I read about her, but I also saw a movie with my papa. She was a very smart lady, who no one took seriously enough —she was nearly beheaded after eighteen years. Heroines —I believe— are incredibly understated. For most, it is not enough until you have a machete to your head. I think about her because she fought to prove a reality no one wanted to see. Sometimes, I feel like no one wants to hear the words of a little girl, regardless of how true they can be. I think about her, and about Anne. I think about little women trying to convey their sides of a story. Mine, I think, has been listened by a handful of grown ups. My words have changed something, and for now, I couldn’t ask for anything else.

Text by Alberto Lizárraga