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“Only you know that. I’ve learned in life that what’s right for one person isn’t for another. Life is a mystery you solve one day at a time.”
“That’s true. Do you mind if I ask what your greatest mystery is? One you haven’t solved?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I’ve done everything I want to do in my life. I’ve travelled and had amazing adventures. My only regret—” Jennifer’s voice crackled and she paused, then cleared her throat. “My only regret is I don’t know what happened to Emily.”
It made sense, Gia thought. The way Jennifer’d talked about Emily when she’d told of her past was nostalgic. She hadn’t spoken that way about her dead husband. When she told of Emily, there was a light in her eyes—a spark of longing.
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
“Once. In the mid-‘70s. Gene had been dead for a long time by then, and the feminist movement was really becoming something. You know, that whole ERA thing was led by a bunch of lesbians—even if they didn’t admit it. It made me envy them. So, I moved to New York, got involved, and felt empowered. I thought, ‘what the hell? I oughta look for her.’”
“And?” Gia was riveted. Mrs. Edelman was a deep well of experiences. New York? The ERA?
“And—nothing. It was hard to find people who didn’t want to be found back then—easier to slide into a the life you were supposed to have. I’ve always imagined she married some poor schmuck who didn’t suspect a thing, had a few kids, and lived a suburban cookie-cutter life. She came from a religious family. I’m sure she did what was expected. I just hope she’s reasonably happy.” Jennifer pushed her bowl across the table. A sip of broth remained, and Galileo lapped it up and hopped down, licking his paw and scrubbing it across his head before trotting back to the bedroom where he’d emerged. He didn’t care about lost love or the past—only the now.
“That must be so hard. To want to know, and not have any way to find out.”
“Oh, it is what it is. In my day, when you lost touch with someone, you lost touch. There was a reason for it. People come and go from our lives, and we never know quite how long they’ll stay or what their purpose is until they’re gone. Now, you kids have your social media and whatever else that keeps you connected long past when it’s beneficial. It’s probably for the best, dear.” Jennifer smiled that closed lip smile, pale hands clasped on top of the table.
“Do you remember her last name?”
“Of course I do, child! I’m old, not senile. Her name was Emily Lorrainne Mitchell. But I don’t know if she married. Or if she’s alive. She’d be 87—no spring chicken.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“She was a beautiful girl. Green eyes—like a spring meadow. High cheekbones. A dimple in her left cheek when she smiled, which was often. Brown hair that she wore up most days, but she let it down, it bounced on her shoulders and framed her face just perfectly. When we were together, there was no one else—just background people. Just extras in our feature film.”
Gia’d accidentally opened the trap door that led to the past—and Jennifer fell down it. And she had to wonder, what if she searched for Emily? What if technology and search engines and maybe DNA registry websites could lead her to Jennifer’s one true love? She wouldn’t mention it. Too much risk for dead ends. But, what if?
Storm clouds and zebras
The library was quiet that evening.Gia’d gone after work, eager to see what she could uncover about Emily Lorrainne Mitchell. She couldn’t stop thinking about her, or about the dreamy look in Jennifer’s eyes as she described the woman she hadn’t talked to since they parted—nearly sixty years prior. What must it be like, Gia wondered, to carry a torch for one person for six decades? To remember them, frozen in time, and not know what had become of their lives. Maybe it was overly romantic. Maybe, unrealistic. Probably both. But Gia was determined to find out if Emily was still alive. What then? She’d figure it out. First, she needed access to a computer.
“Hi.” Gia leaned into the maple-colored high counter that separated patrons from librarians and addressed a silver-haired man wearing a dark waistcoat and bowtie. “I need to get a library card.”
The man looked at her through steel-framed glasses, frozen in place with a hard-backed book tucked under his arm.
“Please,” Gia added, wondering—had she asked incorrectly?
Nothing, again. Just a finger pointing to a sign on the plexiglass divider. “Library cards are issued Monday-Friday from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.”
A quick glance at her phone revealed what she already knew—it was 6:17 p.m.
“Okay, thanks.” Gia turned to face the stacks with which she’d become so familiar and sighed. What she needed wasn’t in books. She needed Google. Microfilm. Wedding announcements. Obituaries. She needed a laptop. And a partner in crime.
Gia texted Derrick. He’d have a laptop, and likely, ideas about how to start this search for a needle in a haystack. He must’ve been lonely—he replied within a minute. That, or his always-on realtor life made him extra speedy at phone communication. Gia accepted his invitation and stopped by her apartment to shrug out of work clothes, and a beam of enthusiasm filled her as she looked towards Jennifer’s front door. Keeping a secret was nothing new but keeping a secret that could be so impactful to someone else was.
Derrick’s home was more modest than expected. And very close to Roxi’s. Walking distance—a mere two blocks north. His mid-century was painted the color of a cremini mushroom, with dramatic up lighting that highlighted it from the curb. The flag holder waved a modern Pride flag, complete with the addition of the arrow point including the full spectrum of LGBTQ+ colors. A sleek-looking sedan was parked in the driveway—onyx black. Gia expected him to live in a huge home on a golf course and drive an Escalade. Not a one-level mid-century and sedan.
Inside, the floorplan was similar to Roxi’s—large kitchen just off the foyer, smallish living room that led to a patio. No pool, but ample citrus trees, also up lit for effect. It was pitch black outside of Derrick’s bubble, but his bubble was bright and inviting. Fresh flowers sat on a round dining table made of glass—lilies, sweet and intoxicating. His furniture kept to the mid-century style. Sleek, simple lines. Solid wood club chairs with black cushions. A two-person couch with bright throw pillows. Three metal barstools lined like soldiers tucked under an eat-in kitchen island.
“What can I get you?” Derrick asked with one hand on the refrigerator door. It was stainless steel and spotless—not a fingerprint or magnet to be found. “I have Topo Chico, kombucha, iced tea, water, um—”
“Just water, thanks.” Gia felt the cool of granite countertops against her bare arms as Derrick filled a pint glass from the tap in the fridge's door. She’d traded the work outfit for her fall look—faded 501s found at the thrift store and a black V-neck T-shirt. Flip flops worked year-round, it seemed, so she kept them in rotation. The scab on top of her foot from Savannah’s glass throwing escapade had nearly peeled off, but it hung on. A reminder of who she didn’t want to be.
“Here you go,” Derrick placed the glass on the counter. “So, what’s up? Something happen with Roxi?”
“Nah, we’re the same. Actually, better. It was awkward for a while after the fight with Savannah, but we had coffee the other night and things were—fine. If you count obsessing over someone who wants you in return, but you can’t have them, as fine.”
