New York City, USA
October 2010

Ghosts of my history

The message reaches me just as I walk up the steps from the Subway.

I've got the dress.

Nothing else. No name given and an unfamiliar number. And yet, I know immediately who it's from. Of course, I do.

I must say, I didn't really expect him to get in touch. I mean, surely royal princes are much too busy to care about the ruined dresses of lowly little commoners such as me, right? At the most, I thought he'd delegate the task to one of his cronies. That he took the trouble to message me himself does, therefore, impress me a little. It probably shouldn't, because what trouble is a simple message anyway? And yet, somehow, it still does.

Before I get a chance to answer, another message pops in.

I could have it with you tonight. Are you in?

Huh? Almost two weeks without a word and suddenly, he's in a rush?

Stopping at the top of the stairs and taking a step to the side so as not to obstruct busy New Yorkers hurrying home, I type my reply.

Yes, I'll be home in a couple of minutes. But there's really no need to send a courier. You can simply mail it.

For a split second, I hesitate before typing in my address, but then add it anyway. I suppose stranger danger doesn't really apply when the stranger in question is one of the most famous people on earth. And besides, we already established that he has ways to find me, should he feel so inclined, didn't we?

The moment I press send, my phone vibrates to indicate an incoming call. And for a split second I think – but no, it's just Joy.

"Hey," I greet her after taking the call. With my free hand, I push my handbag further up on my shoulder and then start walking again.

"Hello sister-darling," Joy answers cheerfully. "I take it Dan already relieved you. Did Izzie behave herself?"

"She was exactly as well-behaved as you'd expect her to be," I reply with a fond little smile as I remember Izzie's latest antics. I looked after her this afternoon while her parents were working, and while she's a force of nature, she also never fails to amuse me.

Joy laughs. "So, not very," she concludes (correctly, at that).

"Just Izzie being Izzie," I agree, putting the shrug she can't see into my voice.

"So long as she didn't burn the place down," states Joy breezily. "But that wasn't why I called anyway."

"What is it, then?" I ask.

On the other end of the line, I can hear Joy's muffled voice as she speaks to someone else, hand over the receiver, but she's back after a couple of seconds. "Sorry. Just had to sort that out," she apologises. "Right. Where were we?"

"You were just about to inform me why you called in the first place," I deadpan.

"Yes, of course," exclaims Joy cheerfully, not rising to the bait. "Actually, I'm calling on behalf of Dan."

"I just saw Dan when I handed over Izzie to him," I point out. "If he wanted to tell me something, wouldn't he have done so himself?"

"He thought it better if I did," replies Joy.

Alright. Now I'm curious.

"Why's that?"

"Do you remember Robert? His colleague?" asks Joy.

I nod, though of course she can't see that. "I do. Robert from…"

Mombasa? Kinshasa?

"From Awasa, yes," supplies Joy.

Awa-what?

But Joy is still talking. "I think you met him at Dan's birthday party, didn't you? And you also got talking at that UN reception?"

"We did," I confirm distractedly, my mind still trying to puzzle out the mystery of Awasa.

"Robert said he didn't get a chance to ask for your number, so he wondered if Dan might give it to him instead," Joy finishes her query.

"That reception was almost two weeks ago," I remark as I swerve to avoid three kids running past me at full speed, oversized backpacks bouncing along on their backs.

"I suppose it was," concedes Joy, though clearly a little reluctantly. "I think he's just the shy type."

I purse my lips. "There's being shy and there's missing your opportunity."

Joy clucks her tongue. "I don't know about that. There are some advantages to a man who knows when to take things slow…" she replies meaningfully.

I stop.

Did she just –?

She so did.

I groan audibly. On the other end of the line, I can hear Joy cackling.

"Yes. Thank you. Like I needed that mental image," I grumble, which only serves to heighten her amusement.

"So prudish!" she declares.

Which… I'm not, I don't think. I simply don't relish that particular mental image, thank you very much!

Rounding around the last street corner, I head for my apartment building. I live in what many people consider to be the wrong part of Brooklyn. It's one of the neighbourhoods not yet gentrified by hip young people priced out of Manhattan, instead maintaining an ethically and religiously fairly diverse population, with the average income on the lower medium end (for New York, that is). The criminal rate is a little higher than Dad is comfortable with, but it's not a hotbed of crime either. It's a perfectly adequate place to live, really, and seeing as even here, my tiny studio apartment with its dodgy heating and low water pressure already costs an arm and a leg, it's not like I have much options anyway.

"Whatever you say," I reply to Joy, while walking up the steps to the front door, making sure to make it sound as passive-aggressive as possible. She just laughs.

"Have Dan give Robert my number, for all I care," I add as I fumble for my keys. "If he's as shy as I think he is, he's unlikely to make any use of it anyway."

"Maybe the prospect of a date with you is just enough to entice him to overcome his shyness," suggests Joy.

"Maybe…" I answer, drawing out the word to indicate my doubt. "We'll see either way. And I've just arrived home, so I'm going to cut you off now."

"You wound me!" declares Joy dramatically, laughter evident in her voice.

"You'll get over it," I reply drily.

"Probably," she agrees. "Love you anyway."

"Yeah. You, too. I think."

I cut off the call to her laughter and drop the phone on my bag without another look, moving to open the door instead. It's a stubborn thing, only to be opened using both hands and, more often than not, a well-measured amount of brute force. The landlord has been promising to do something about it for ages now, but I'm not holding my breath.

Before I tackle the stairs to my top-floor apartment, I make a detour to knock on the door of Mrs Weisz.

Mrs Weisz lives in the ground-floor flat overlooking the street. Her bad legs rarely allow her to go out anymore, but she still knows all the going-ons inside the house. I hadn't been living here for a week before she adopted me as her special charge. More than a year later, she shows no signs of lessening her care.

It takes a moment for her to answer my knock, but when she does, her face shows no surprise at seeing me. She clearly sat by the window when I entered the house and knew I would come see her.

"My dear Marilla," she greets me, and I try not to wince at the name. It's not that I mind being named for my grandmothers, especially as they're both quite remarkable women (I have a feeling Mrs Weisz would get along very well with both of them), but that doesn't change the fact that I don't feel like a Marilla. Marilla is my grandmother (or, step-grandmother if we're being technical). It's certainly not me.

"Hello Mrs Weisz," I return the greeting anyway and smile. I've already tried too often to get her to just call me Rilla to take it up again now. I suppose it should count as a success that I got her to stop calling me Bertha at least. Marilla might feel weird, but Bertha feels like an entirely different person.

"Do come in," invites Mrs Weisz and ushers me inside the flat with a wave of her hand.

I've been here more often than I can count, yet I am still struck every time by the sheer number of photos occupying every available surface. They hang on walls and stand on tables, so many of them that one hardly knows which one to look at first.

Many of the photos are black and white, with a lot of others having the sepia-tinge of the 60s and 70s. Among the few proper colour photographs is one of Mrs Weisz and me, which occupies a fairly prominent space next to the TV. Looking at it never fails to make me feel oddly touched.

One of our favourite shared past-times is me picking out one of the photos at random and her telling me about the people pictured in it. Almost all of them are long dead.

"Have you brought me anything?" asks Mrs Weisz as she motions for me to sit on one of the kitchen chairs and starts clanking around with the coffee pot. Compared to the instant coffee I have upstairs, hers tastes like heaven.

I know better than to offer to help her, even if I very much want to, so I bend down to retrieve my handbag from where it stands next to my feet.

When Mrs Weisz sees it, she clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "You will ruin your back, carrying this," she chides.

I don't have the heart to tell her that this isn't even the largest handbag I own. And if the alternative is going to classes with one of those ugly backpacks, well… I suppose ruining my back is a risk I have to take.

"In my day, young women didn't carry around everything they owned in their handbags," adds Mrs Weisz, the familiar air of wistfulness around her that always rises up whenever she talks of the past.

"In your day, very many young women didn't attend college either, Mrs Weisz" I remind her.

She sighs. "And what a shame it was. So much wasted potential!" There's a flash in her eyes that proves, once more, that age might have made her body frail, but her mind is as active as it's always been.

Mrs Weisz, of course, used to be an engineer, one of very few women in the field during her youth. Education for girls is a topic she remains very passionate about. Actually, she remains very passionate about a lot of topics.

Pulling two library books from my apparently overly large handbag, I set them down on the kitchen table. Mrs Weisz wipes her hands on the front of her skirt and picks one up to peer at its back cover.

Romance novels are her admitted guilty pleasure. I keep her in a steady supply of them from the library and in return, she keeps me informed about whatever is happening in them. I am therefore intimately familiar with the plot of many a romance novel I never read myself. So much so that I once caught myself halfway into an in-depth discussion about one of them with a girl at university before I realised that everything I knew about the book in question came from Mrs Weisz.

"Yes, yes. Good, good," decides Mrs Weisz after having looked at the second book as well. When it comes to romance novels, she isn't hard to please, but by now, I also have a pretty good idea of what kind of book might meet her especial approval.

Putting the books away to one side, Mrs Weisz surveys me critically. "Have you eaten? You're looking particularly slender today."

"I had lunch at the dining hall," I answer. There's no use resisting Mrs Weisz if she wants you to give her particular information. The path of least resistance is just to be well-behaved and answer.

"What about supper?" she further enquires.

"I ate some together with my niece." Best not say that it consisted of fish fingers with mac and cheese on the side. (Best not to say that to Joy either, come to think of it.)

Mrs Weisz purses her lips, but nods anyway. Fattening me up is one of her favourite past-times – while I try my utmost to maintain a proper balance of both keeping her happy and not bursting out of my clothes at the same time. (Just imagine all the waitressing I'd have to do to pay for an entire new wardrobe!)

My resistance isn't made easier by the fact that the various dishes she cooks up are both very tasty and what you'd politely call 'rich'. Many of the recipes come from her native Hungary – which is otherwise only evident in the very slight trace of an accent that even decades of living in the States weren't able to eradicate – and while I can never remember their names, I can definitely attest to their deliciousness.

Equally delicious is the steaming coffee Mrs Weisz places in front of me before she takes a seat as well.

"Have you called your mother recently?" she enquires. With her own children and grandchildren living far away (and probably not calling as often as she'd like them to), Mrs Weisz always makes sure I never go too long without speaking to Mum.

"I did, actually," I hurry to assure. "We talked the day before yesterday."

"Very well," concedes Mrs Weisz and takes a sip of her coffee. I follow suit, savouring the rich taste of it.

Mrs Weisz's place is basically the only one where I can get proper coffee in this city. What they sell you as coffee in the university dining hall is glorified dishwater and the less said about that instant coffee I have upstairs, the better. Seeing as my budget doesn't allow regular trips to Starbucks, I definitely know to appreciate Mrs Weisz's offering.

"Your family is well?" she now asks. With the exception of Joy and her children, Mrs Weisz has never met any member of my family, but she still makes it her business to know all about their well-being as well as everything that's going on in their lives.

Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, I nod confirmation. "Yes, reasonably so. They're all pretty busy, but busy of the good kind, so no obvious complaints. Or at least none that have been brought to my attention," I tell her.

Mrs Weisz makes a thoughtful sound. "Has your sister moved in with her boyfriend yet?"

See what I mean about her keeping well-informed?

"I think she means to do it sometime this month," I explain. "She's quite over the moon at him finally having asked."

"Yes, yes. They have been dating for a while, haven't they?" asks Mrs Weisz. She does, after all, love a good love story.

"Hmh. Four or five years now, I think," I confirm. "They've known each other forever, of course, but only got together after they both started studying at McGill."

Unlike Jem and Faith, who only ever had eyes for one another, Jerry and Nan didn't take a particular interest in each other until adulthood. I suppose him being a good four and a half years older (compared to an age gap of less than two years between Jem and Faith) might have played a role in that. Nan was still in middle school when Jerry left to study accounting in England. (I should probably remember the name of the place but can't seem to. Something with W, maybe? Or C? Or both?) It was only when, after having graduated and worked in London for a couple of years, he returned to Canada for his MBA that they met again and fell in love while both in Montreal.

After navigating a long-distance relationship for two years following his move to Toronto for work (he has some kind of financial job that I suppose I ought to understand better than I do), Nan followed him there once she had gotten her bachelor's degree. She says it's because Toronto has a very good programme for Child Psychology, but we all know she also wanted to be close to him. And, really, there's nothing wrong with that either. Long-distance relationships sound like unnecessarily hard work to me.

I know she secretly hoped he'd ask her to move into his flat right away, but he didn't, and she was too proud to broach the topic, so she had to find her own place initially. That he now finally got around to it has made her quite ecstatic – though Di postulated that at least part of that is because Jerry's place is that much bigger and offers lots more space for thrown pillows and scented candles. (I swear, if it had been possible at all, Nan would have crawled through the phone line to choke Di with her own bare hands.)

"It was good of them to take their time," decides Mrs Weisz. "And good of them to try out living together before getting married. In my day, young women married far too soon. Many came to regret it." For once, her voice does not sound wistful when talking about the past.

She never talks much about her own husband, but from what I gather, she was among those young women who 'married in haste and repented at leisure'. Judging from what little she said, he died many years ago, but despite all the photographs of dead people in her flat, I've never yet seen one of him and I doubt that I ever will.

"What about your other sister? Diana? What is she up to?" Mrs Weisz wants to know and takes a sip of coffee.

I settle in more comfortably into my chair before answering. I know she will not rest until she has asked after every last member of my family.

Thus, we spent the duration of a cup of coffee chatting, with me filling her in on the news about my family and her informing me in great detail about the latest romance novel she read. It's only when the coffee is all gone that I stand up to collect two books to return to the library and the list for next week's shopping from the little side table in the hall.

After having thus taken my leave from Mrs Weisz (not without her warning me to make sure I eat enough), I shoulder my bag again and step out of her flat to start my ascent up the stairs to my own apartment. There are distinctive advantages to living up on the top floor (not having people galumph around above your head being one of them) but having to trudge up all those stairs every time one comes home definitely isn't one.

Once inside my apartment, I drop my handbag to the floor next to the door and roll my shoulders to relax them. Not that I'd ever admit it to Mrs Weisz, but it is quite a heavy bag to carry around all day.

Kicking my shoes into a corner and throwing my coat over the back of one of the two stairs in the room, I look around for any sign of George. My apartment being quite tiny (I am known to affectionately call it The Shoebox – with capital letters), he usually prefers to spend his days outside, often only coming home sometime in the evening when I do.

Apparently, that's the case today as well, for a quick perusal of the apartment shows no sign of life. And yes, that totally includes the solitary plant sitting on the window-sill. By the looks of it, there's not much life left in it anymore. Which shouldn't surprise me, I guess. I never know whether it's that I drown or parch them, but for some reason, as a rule plants don't have long to live in my care.

(Just as well that George, while never snubbing at tinned cat food – not at the right brand of cat food, anyway –, also knows how to be self-sufficient when he has to.)

As there's no cat in evidence, I close the window I usually leave open for him and turn to the task of settling in for a quiet evening. Between babysitting Joy's kids and waitressing and college and various social outings, those happen rarely enough as it is. I exchange my skirt and striped pullover for a pair of slouchy sweatpants and a well-worn T-shirt that I think might have originally belonged to Shirley, before twisting my hair up into the kind of messy bun that is rarely as artful as one thinks it to be, but at least succeeds in keeping stray hairs out of one's eyes.

Plopping down on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the evening. The sensible thing would be to a) tidy up the apartment (yeah, right) or b) finally tackle 'the ethical presuppositions of modern economic theory' (are there ethics in economics, I wonder?) or c) start on the novel we've been given to read in my Irish literature course (why am I bothering with a minor again?), but if I'm being honest, what I really want is just to lie here and stare at the ceiling a bit longer. It's comfortable.

Alas, the universe has other ideas. Just as I feel myself nodding off, the doorbell rings and startles me awake. With a groan of protest, I pick myself up from the bed and shuffle over to the door.

"Yes?" I ask of the intercom. I'm not actually expecting anyone, and Dad made me promise always to ask who's there before I open the door.

"I have a dress delivery," comes the answer, voice slightly distorted by the intercom.

A dress –?

Oh. Right.

Well. That was quick.

I press the button marked with a small key to buzz open the front door to the building. Then, bending down to my handbag sitting on the floor, I retrieve my phone. And indeed, there's a small envelope winking at me from the top corner of the screen, indicating an unread message. I suppose Joy's call earlier distracted me so much that I didn't notice it coming in.

I open the message – and feel myself freeze.

No courier for my saviour. I'll be there in an hour.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Winds of the Old Days' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1975).


To AnneShirley:
My own cat is not orange, but otherwise as bossy as George is, so that bit was definitely inspired by my own life. My cat demands food at the most inconvenient times (and who am I to deny her?)
Gilbert being a neurosurgeon was, of course, inspired by the story of George Moore. In figured that in this modern world, ambitious Gilbert might want to try something different from being a country doctor, and he's definitely saving lives, doing what he does here. Equally, Anne finally getting to
do something with all her education (and not giving up writing on marriage) feels deeply satisfying.
So far, Jake and Izzie are the only grandchildren, but there'll definitely be more to come before this story is over! There'll also be lots of Merediths around, Faith certainly among them. I haven't found a good place to work them in yet, but I promise they're going to be there for the planned family reunion. I've tried and failed before to write Jem without Faith. I'm not foolish enough to attempt it again.
I'm a psychologist myself (though not working with children), so I gave Nan a tiny bit of myself there. Whereas Di's field of work leaves me equally baffled as Rilla ;). (Yes, Di's lesbian.) Walter, meanwhile, has actually found a nifty way to put his education to good use, though unbeknownst to Rilla. I have quite a fun arc for him planned out, I promise! (For Grandma Bertha as well, come to think of it. She's quite fun to write.)
You write the loveliest reviews, did you know that? It's rare for someone not writing their own fanfics to leave such insightful and comprehensive comments, and I'm really glad and honoured to be receiving yours. They're definitely among the reviews I look forward to the most whenever I'm posting a new chapter. So, what I'm saying is "thank you" - with rainbow sprinkles on top ;).