I'd answered the call without looking at the number.
A fatal mistake.
"Elizabeth?" I knew that voice. "Elizabeth Rew?"
My eyes began to water. I should have slammed down the phone then and there, but something compelled me to croak into the receiver, "This is she."
I would not cry. I would not let myself cry.
"It's me, Aaron." He says. "Aaron Rosendern."
"I know." I reply in a voice cold enough to flash-freeze Hawaii.
"Oh, well..." he hesitates. "Did you hear about Doc?"
"Of course." I say. "I still work at the repository."
What I don't say is that I am now the head librarian. Martha Callendar had retired three years ago, and the board of Governors had promoted me to Doc's position shortly after his passing.
"That's great!" Aaron blurts out. "I mean, about your job. That's great. Doc is dead. So that's not great."
I almost laughed, despite the grim nature of our conversation. Aaron was as bad at ever at talking on the phone.
"What do you want, Aaron?" I ask impatiently.
"I wanted to know if you'd be at the funeral."
I drag the moment out. Sighing before saying, "I will."
"Okay... I guess I'll see you there. Bye, Elizabeth." he hangs up the phone abruptly, much to my relief.
I sit in silence for a moment and look around my apartment.
Two rooms. A kitchen. A bathroom. Enough room for a book collection, a slightly enchanted mirror, an ornate wooden desk, and the other sole inhabitant of the space and his belongings. He was asleep in the other room.
A few pictures hang on the walls—of me, of family, of Dr. Rust, of Anjali, Marc, Andre, and Jaya—however, I kept only one photo of Aaron, either hiding the rest or throwing them away in fits of rage. I would have discarded the last one years ago, had it not been for Jacob.
My precious, inquisitive Jacob, who'd never met his father.
My poor little Jacob, whose father had never met him.
By the time Jacob was born, Aaron had been long gone. Seven years later, I was still a single mom.
I'd been able to show him more recent images of Aaron, using the mirror.
Mirror, mirror don't be a bother/Show my only son his father.
Then I'd try to hide my smile as my beautiful son would watch in awe as the reflective surface of the mirror rippled and transformed into something completely different. More often than not, we'd see Aaron lying on a threadbare couch, reading a sci-fi novel or watching a documentary on the Discovery Channel.
Once though, he was at a desk, writing. Jacob had been too young to read the words then, but I remembered them perfectly.
Dear Elizabeth, they'd read. There had been a wastebasket next to him, filled to the brim with identical papers, all crumpled but probably bearing the same line of text in shaky handwriting.
Jacob had been too engulfed in the image to notice me crying.
