Dear Mystery Guy (Magnolia Sisters Book 1) (4 page)

Della felt a shaft of disappointment take her by the throat.

"Oh honey, no need to be disappointed," Sally said sympathetically. "You are young and pretty; you will find a handsome guy for yourself one day. There are plenty of fish in the sea."

"Break's over." Ted came into the break room, glancing at his watch.

Della got up hurriedly.

"Well, well, it looks as if Della Gold is finally at work on time," Ted snarled.

Della looked at him balefully. She really needed to find herself another job pronto.

Chapter Four

Dear Mystery Guy,

I hate my job. That's right. Can't stand it. Well, maybe it's not the job I hate so much. It's not taxing work. It can be really pleasant at times but the thing is, I really can't stand Ted Nepaul, my supervisor. Maybe he is the one that is causing my dreams to come back. He is certainly fearsome and hostile enough to cause me nightmares.

He makes me mad. He is pompous and arrogant and he can't stand me either.  I seem to rub him the wrong way because I can't speak but mostly because of how I got the job.

You see, when I was younger and living at Magnolia House, Patricia Benedict took a special interest in us, the girls of Bungalow Seven. She considers herself our honorary mother and she has always looked out for us. We were the envy of all the other girls at the home because of it.

We have even gone to her house in the hills. We've swum in her pool, played tennis and board games with her. She loves us and over the years I think that she has seriously considered adopting us officially but she has a husband who doesn't like kids. He tolerates us but he just doesn't want any children around. I think Patricia is so dedicated to Magnolia House and to us especially because we are the only outlet for her to do some mothering.

Anyway, I got the job at the supermarket because of her. Her family owns the supermarket too. The Benedicts have business everywhere and they are really wealthy. Ted Nepaul hates that I know a Benedict and have connections to such a family. I have overheard him calling me names like handicapped, etc. I still can't adjust to the hostility that I feel coming from him. It is so malignant and uncalled for.

I am not used to hostility, believe it or not. Sure, I have always been an oddity because I cannot speak and I have the scar on my neck, but the people around me have always seemed to accept it. Sure, strangers stare and the bold ones will ask questions but people get used to me after a while.

It feels odd that I am not liked because of my tenuous connection to the Benedicts, and it feels odd to hear myself being referred to as handicapped. I am mute, not handicapped.

There is a difference, you know? I can do everything but talk. Handicapped suggests incapacitation and I am fine otherwise.

I wish I could talk but it could be worse. I could be deaf or blind or lame or all of them together.
It's laughable that Ted Nepaul resents me. I am sure that he knows where he is from and he has family and he knows his real birth date and he has all of his memories intact. I bet you are from an interesting heritage. You have dark skin and real gray eyes.  I knew your eyes are real. I bet you are a real down-to-earth guy, too. The girls at the supermarket were speculating that you are married.

I was down for the whole day when I thought about it but I have a theory. If you were married you would not be coming to the supermarket alone all the time and you would be buying enough food for two.

So my hope is restored that you are single but I am sure that it won't be for long. Which sucks for me because I like thinking that you are single and available and one day we'll meet, and you will find that you like me, and we will get to know each other, and then we'll get married, and then we'll live happily ever after--like in one of Hazel's romance books.

When we meet we could have our first date at the Luminous Lagoon in Falmouth. I know it's far but I have been dying to go. The waters are said to light up around you in the night. I want to see it so badly. It sounds magical. My friend Mike wanted me to go with him but I think I'd want to go with you instead. It would be more meaningful somehow. And on our way back from Falmouth we could listen to eighties music and then we could talk and talk and talk until daybreak...that sounds perfect.

Della drew a heart beside perfect and put down the pen. She was a case of arrested development. It was Saturday night. She shouldn't be home alone writing in her journal and fantasizing about a first date with a man she didn't know.

Mike had asked her to join him at church for a social. The young people were the ones hosting it; they were a friendly bunch of people. They had tried to include her in their activities from the very first day that she started attending their church.

She had started going there because it was convenient to walk to from her apartment.

Her phone beeped and she picked it up. It was a text message from Mike asking her if she had changed her mind.

Her hands hovered over the buttons and she looked at the clock. It was eight o’clock. She really should go to the social but she was trying to avoid Mike. Ever since his proposal she had been finding creative ways to dodge him.

She texted back that she was already in bed. Mike sent her a sad face. She put down the phone and closed her eyes.

She was in water; she always assumed it was a pool. She was very used to this dream. She could make out the squiggly water outlines of a lounge chair; she could hear muted voices as she swam under the water.

There were children squealing in delight nearby but their voices were muted as well. She really couldn't hear them well; she just assumed they were nearby. She raised her head to get out of the water; she wanted to see who the voices belonged to. She wanted to see where she was. She always tried to see where she was. But someone was pushing her down.

"No, please," she gasped. "Please, I want to see. Please, just let me see where I am. Please!"

The person who was holding her down was indistinct and murky but this time something changed. The hold was not as strong and something fell into the water. It looked like a ring, a plain gold wedding band. Just then Della lost the dream. She woke up and blinked. The light was still on in the apartment. She could hear the temperamental refrigerator humming along in the kitchenette. She glanced at the clock. It was just nine o'clock. She hadn't been asleep long.

She sat up in her sofa bed and closed her eyes.
The same dream.
It had been analyzed and over-analyzed by the several therapists that she had seen through the years. It was the first time since she was nine that there was a new element to it--a wedding ring. What could it mean?

She closed her eyes tightly, wishing that she could go back into the dream and fight that hold on her so that she could see the place that she was always dreaming about.

One therapist had told her that she was not really in water, that the water was symbolic, that it was her subconscious fighting to show her her missing memories. He had also advised her not to force it, but he had told her that years ago and she was now twenty-one years old. If she didn't get back her memories now, when would she get them back?

It was twelve years since they found her. Time was slowly winding by. In a next couple of years she would be thirty and then forty and then fifty. Further and further away from her closed-off memories and no closer to who she really was.

What did the ring mean? Was it because she hadn't settled the whole proposal thing with Mike that there was this new wedding band element in her dreams?

She winced as her head started the familiar pounding after one of her dreams. She should have gone to the church social with Mike. Then she wouldn't have had the dream and now the headache.

She had the whole night in front of her with a headache and new mysterious element to her familiar dream. It was going to be a long night.

Dear Mystery Guy

I had an awful weekend. First, I had the dream again, the one where I am drowning and somebody is holding me down, and then Patricia texted me to tell me that she was going to be off the island with her husband. He doesn't like us and thinks that Patricia is too generous to us.
Anyway, I asked her to help me find a job and she said that she would see what she could do when she gets back in six months’ time. I was really looking forward to getting away from the supermarket and Ted, but with Patricia away I am sure that finding a job on my own won't be easy.

I can't do regular interviews on my own. A side effect of not having a voice is that a potential firm will have to make special allowances for an interview; most of them will not be too willing to do that but I am still going to try. I have to. I won't have Patricia around to ease my way through life forever.

I realize, now more than ever, what a blessing Patricia is in my life and if it weren't for her I would not be where I am today.

I sometimes wonder how mute persons dealt with the telephone system before there was texting. When you are totally mute like I am, there is no sound whatsoever. I laugh without sound, I cough and there is a little sound but really I am like one of those old silent movies where people do things and you have to deduce from their actions what's going to be next.

It sucks that I can't speak.

If I could speak, I imagine that I would have said hi to you by now. You know, I saw you in the parking lot the other day. It would have been so easy to say hi. Make the first contact.

In my imagination I would be confident and approach you but the truth is I am not really the most confident woman in the world. I am still a bit self-conscious about my scar. It used to look hideous to me but years of cocoa butter use has faded it somewhat.

*****

"What are you writing?" Keisha asked behind Della.

Della swung around. "It's for therapy," she signed. "I am supposed to be writing down my thoughts. I have been getting the same dream again."

"Oh." Keisha frowned. "What brought that on?"

Della shrugged. "That's why the therapist said I should write stuff down that is going through my head. How was your weekend?"

Keisha sat in a chair across from Della and sighed. "I don't know if I can deal with Scott's family. If I marry him I would be inheriting a possessive mother who still treats him as if he were a baby. It is off-putting. And he allows it. I am wondering if he expects me to treat him the same way, because I am not interested in being any man's mother."

She shook her head. "We are going to have to sort that out."

Della grinned and signed. "That's not going to be difficult to sort out."

"Oh yes it is." Keisha ran her fingers through her hair roughly. "Before my parents died, my mom treated my dad like he was a baby. Even when I was young I found it disturbing. How was your weekend?"

"I was here." Della got up and stretched. "All weekend. I didn't feel like going anywhere, seeing anybody. My sisters were all busy with one thing or the other. So I just stayed home alone."

Keisha grimaced. "You are a young, gorgeous woman. If I looked like you I would be booked for the weekend while a zillion guys battled for my attention."

Della shook her head. "I am not gorgeous."

"Mike thinks you are," Keisha said earnestly. "And if you spent a little more time in the mirror you would see that you are. Maybe you should jazz up your appearance a bit--you know, comb your hair in something other than a ponytail. Wear some nicer clothes."

Della rolled her eyes. "My sisters already tried the makeover bit with me. I hate being made up. It feels fake and my ponytail is a simple hairstyle to comb, and I can barely afford rent and food. I have no money for new fancy clothes. And even if I had money the first thing I would do is sort out my larynx. The surgery costs loads and loads of money, you know."

Keisha shook her head. "Those are just excuses. I think you don't like drawing attention to yourself because of your past."

Della frowned and sat down. "What now?"

"Yes." Keisha nodded. "It makes sense. Somehow, you subconsciously think that you are a nobody because you don't know your history. And you feel that whoever slashed your throat is still out there to get you, so you downplay your femininity. You are trying to hide."

"No, I am not." Della shook her head uncertainly.

"Oh yes," Keisha said, "it makes sense. You have loads of issues, Della, and you are trying to sabotage your own life. See, Mike loves you and you push him away and you like a guy who you do not even know because he is not attainable or available, and it is all because you are hiding."

Keisha glanced at the clock and groaned. "I am going to be late for work. Sorry for analyzing you; it's a side effect from being a psychiatrist’s receptionist. I picked up a thing or two."