Truth: Aftermath
by always-a-time
[Marius X Cosette] + [Patria]
A certain not-so-young lady makes her return.
Penelope's Gift - 2013
A age-withered hand drifts across the keyboard, carefully tapping the keys with a precise concentration. It's twin rests on the computer mouse, which moves to click onto a picture of a woman dashing down a street, a pair of white gloves abandoned on the street behind her. The picture enlarges; the details now clearly visible. It is a fine piece of artwork.
On the desk in front of the monitor lays a carefully wrapped brown package, stamped and addressed.
It is time for it to be sent.
Matt and Claire have moved into Eleanor's old apartment. She and Elliot have a new place to themselves, and since they had been looking for an apartment anyways, it was perfect. Boxes lay scattered about the place as Claire attempts to sift through it for some dinnerware for their breakfast.
"The only thing we have is cereal, so we can't use paper plates," she tells him. "I'll go shopping today, alright? But we're going to have to unpack anyways, so we might as well start with the basics."
There is a knock at the door.
"You go get that," Claire says, smiling. "It's probably one of your friends."
"Our friends," Matt corrects, but he is beaming as he crosses the small dining area to the door. A minute goes by, and listening carefully she can hear his confused tone from the kitchen. Claire is up to her elbows in boxes, but she finally manages to scoop out some plates and utensils from a badly taped cardboard box.
"Who is it?" she calls out, curious as to who it could be.
"The mailman, he's got a package for Eleanor. It doesn't have a return address, either."
"Just sign for her, then!" Honestly.
"Right." Matt speaks a bit more with the mailman before coming back into the kitchen. "I've got it."
"Mhmm," she replies absently, still searching for the bowls.
Matt sets the package on the counter and begins placing the plates and utensils in the drawers, leaving two spoons out. Knives and forks and spoons are sorted into their appropriate containers. "So," he clears his throat awkwardly. "Now that Eleanor and Elliot are married and everything, and we're - you know - living together, I was wondering what you would think - er - how you would feel about ... about ..."
Claire looks up, her eyes wide and surprised.
"Unless you don't want to! Then - then no, no to all of that," Matt stutters, already backing away a few steps, bumping into the counter with a pained yelp. The package slides off and lands into one of the boxes, unnoticed by both.
She starts laughing without really meaning to, doubled over as she tries to catch her breath. Matt's utterly frightened expression does nothing to help her. Claire thinks he must be the most clueless, lovable boy in the whole world, and she is glad he's hers.
"I'm sorry - I didn't meant to start laughing - you didn't even finish your question, Matt," she manages when she is able to speak again. "And are you alright?"
"I guess what I'm trying to say is -" he fumbles in his pocket for a few moments and extracts a tiny box. Matt drops to one knee, which in itself is a feat in the crowded kitchen, and gazes up into her eyes. "Claire, will you marry me?"
"Yes, there's nothing more in the world I would love than to be your wife."
Matt rises and eagerly pulls her in for a kiss, and she smooths his curls with her free hand. Everything feels wonderful when he holds her, just like when he looks at her, love pure and clear in his eyes. They pull apart, foreheads resting together as they smile at each other.
Perhaps he'll have to ask Grant about getting Joseph to help with wedding invitations after all.
The package does not reappear until all the things have been removed from the boxes and place in their rightful spot.
"Oh," Claire exclaims, holding it up. "I can't believe we forgot about this! With the engagement and all this wedding planning, it just slipped my mind! Matt - we should bring this over to Eleanor right now."
Matt takes the brown wrapped object from her, scrutinizing it. While there is no return address, there is a name where the address should have been: Penelope Vournier.
"What do you think it is?"
"It's illegal to open other people's mail, you know."
"I know, it's just, I feel like I know the person who sent this. You see the name here?" He points it out to her, brow creased. "I think ... I think I know what's inside, too." Matt rubs the nape of his neck worriedly.
"Really?" Claire sounds curious now, tapping the name with her pink nail-polish painted finger. "You know this woman?"
He bites his lip. "Maybe. It sounds kind of ridiculous, I know."
"No, it's not," she finally says, placing her hand carefully over his.
Matt snaps his head up to look at her. "What?"
"I think you're right, Matt."
He looks back down at the neat little package. "No, we shouldn't - you were right. We should go give this to her right now," Matt decides, picking it up and gesturing towards the door with it.
"We'll ask if we can open it with them - maybe Eleanor can tell us who the sender is," Claire agrees readily.
They both stand, and Claire fetches her purse while Matt pulls coats from the closet. Just before locking the door, Claire murmurs the name to herself.
"Penelope, who are you?"
"We've been looking for her all this time - and she found us." Elliot is holding both of Eleanor's hands in her own as they stare at the opened wrappings that contained a set of lace gloves. "Where did she find these?" her voice quavers with emotion.
Sitting on chairs across from them, Matt and Claire wait patiently for some sort of explanation.
"And there was no return address?" Elliot ask them, and they both shake their heads. His shoulders slump slightly. "Well, perhaps she doesn't want to be found. Unless, of course, it's in there," he nods at the letter that rests on the table.
"If it's alright," Eleanor begins slowly, tasting each syllable on her tongue, "I'd like to read this alone - with Elliot."
"Of course. Feel free to give us a call." Claire tugs her fiancée's hand, and the two exit.
The letter is unfolded by Eleanor and handed to Elliot to read.
Ma chérie Eleanor,
Firstly, I find myself obliged to tell you that these are not, in fact, the original gloves; although I wish with all my heart that they could have been. I have missed you dearly, and Monsieur Edwin as well (or whatever name is he going by these days), not to mention mon cherMarcelle, who surely is as clueless as ever. I can still remember those days in Jean's café with all of us together.
I digress, perhaps you do not understand me at all.
In this case, know simply that I am a relative who has missed you and loves you. I would caution against further reading, but I would guess you to be headstrong enough to continue either way.
If you do remember me, it would be as Penelope, or perhaps Patria, or any other from an assortment of names that seems to escape me. I, however, remember all of you. I believe it to do with age, or experience, but I've recovered a great deal of knowledge over the past decade. Words no longer seem capable of expressing the past or the future, not when you've lived as long or as much as us, but I can picture cher Edwin wrestling his way with words until they bent to his will.
Wealth, education and security have never been barriers for me - you all saw to that, and I thank you for it.
I have so many questions to ask of you, they fill me up and threaten to spill their words onto the page, but this is not the time for that. Perhaps another day, you could come visit me. I have enclosed my address at the bottom of this note, if you would like to. But do not feel pressured - it is not your duty to care for me now, even in old age. It should, perhaps, fall to me to watch over you instead.
These gloves are a gift. They were as close to the original as I could procure, and I hope you will appreciate the lengths I took to find a pair from the proper time period. If you remember, please think of me whenever you see them.
Ta chère Penelope.
"It's still all very familiar to me," Matt says to Claire on the car ride back. His face is scrunched in the habitual manner he has when he drives; it's one of many traits Claire finds endearing. "The gloves, the name. Do you think we've met her? Maybe at Eleanor and Elliot's wedding? She must be a relative or something." He continues chatting as Claire begins to drift off, the lull of his voice accompanied by the slow movement of the car pulling her to sleep. At some point Matt realizes his fiancée is no longer listening, and turns down the radio with his right hand as to not disturb her.
Cosette is humming as she walks through the field of tall grass. She's allergic to grass, and although this particular field is not fresh-cut, Cosette is rather paranoid about the matter. She remembers one time how her eyes had gotten red and itchy, how her papa had tried to warn her against rubbing them, and how she hadn't listened and made the situation worse. The thin strands of grass brush her calves, making her wish she had worn pants instead. The picnic basket on her arms sways slightly as she hesitates. Pants?
Suddenly a sense of strangeness overcomes her, and the grass seems more like a sea, as she struggles to get out, the basket slipping from her arm and sinking into the greenery. She is not afraid - she simply understands the need to leave. There is an acute awareness in her actions as the wades through the grass, towards the unknown. Cosette can no longer feel the strands; her legs feel numb and heavy. She gets the feeling that even before now she had been walking for a long, long time.
After what seems like months Cosette finds herself on the edge of the field, which ends off with a steep cliff. Frightened, she takes a step back and looks around - the grass field is gone, and she is standing on the cliff edge with nowhere else to go.
"Hello?" she calls out, tentatively. Perhaps it is silly to think someone would hear her.
Footsteps approach slowly from behind her, the soft padding of a small crowd.
Blonde hair and blue eyes appear beside her. Their friendly smiles meet Cosette's shy one as one by one the women offer hold out their arms, palms facing the empty azure sky. Recognition flickers in their eyes as they watch her, and as Cosette takes their hands in hers, she recognizes them, too.
"Corinne, Colette, Charlotte." She repeats three of their names in turn, and warm tears begin to slip down Cosette's cheeks as they nod.
Fingers entwined with her counterparts', Cosette knows what needs to be done. She steps towards the open air, her toes curling delicately on the edge. Charlotte, who is at last able to walk, squeezes Cosette's hand in encouragement.
Cosette takes the final step and together they fall.
"Marius!" Claire exclaims as she jerks awake. Matt's hands are gripping either side of her shoulders, his face pale and shaky.
"Y-you weren't waking up - and I didn't know what to do - I was going to call for an ambulance - you were talking in your sleep and I couldn't wake you up." His panic is evident as he pulls her awkwardly into his arms from her seat, hands shaking. "Are you alright? Is something the matter? I can still call an ambulance -"
"I'm fine," she wraps her arms around him, stroking his back. "It was just ... a sort of odd dream."
Matt breathes a heavy sigh of relief, his hand tangling itself into her hair. "You're sure? Don't do that again, please. You scared me. I thought I was going to lose you, as silly as it sounds. I mean - you're perfectly healthy, but you never know with these kinds of things - perhaps Jeremy was right, I should speak with him more often -"
"I'm sorry," Claire says honestly, resting her head on his shoulder. He quiets, stroking her hair with his left hand. "I didn't mean to. I just - I remember who Penelope is, now."
His face is confused as he pulls away slightly to look her in the eye. "From your dream?" Claire leans in and kisses his cheek.
"Yes," she smiles. "You see, it's a long story ..."
AN: *sniffs quietly* One more to go, mes amis. And it's already written up, I just have to go over it. Please do review.
