TheStarsAreRight:RedlandLetter22

Dear Mr. Redland,

Thank you so much for your lovely letter. I hope you will forgive me for not seeing you at Wisphers. As you may recall, when we last met, my circumstances were very different than they are now.

I was, to put it delicately, “not myself.” I have been spending most of my time since arriving in France, under the care of Dr. Kent, who lives here in Chalone. It was he who suggested to me that it might be best to wait perhaps a little longer before seeing persons connected with my time in England.

With Dr. Kent’s help, I have begun to accept and readjust to how the world truly is – rather than how I would wish it to be. Admittedly, there are still times when I am confused. Things sometimes blur together, and a modern convenience will seem to have a shadowy second self. . .. the electric lamp on the library table seeming to be laid over with an echo resembling a kerosene lamp.

At moments like that, Dr. Kent has given me some exercises to help banish such phantoms. In the main they work very well. When they do not, I spend time in my room at Dr. Kent’s house – with a book – until my thoughts clear enough to allow me to rejoin the world.

Dr. Kent assures me that these periods of “alternity” will continue to be fewer and fewer – and to be further apart – until they are gone altogether.

I must confess that I often fell fragile – and do not yet trust myself outside of the quiet protection of Chalone. Perhaps when I am entirely lucid, I will feel strong enough to brave crowds and noise. Until then I am quite content to enjoy the turn of the seasons here in France.

I have been trying as hard as I can to piece together who I am, and what I remember from before. It is quite frustrating to view one’s life as a series of snapshots without context. Rather like old family photographs that have no names or dates scribed on them. You know somehow, they belong to you – but beyond that – they are meaningless.

So, if I sound dispassionate about what I remember, it is only because it now seems to me as if it all happened to someone else.

Let me tell you first that everything personal about myself is gone from my memory – and I do not yet know if it will come back. It is quite possible that my name is not even Laura, but something else entirely different. (Though “Laura” seems to suit me well enough.) I do not yet recall where I have come from, who my parents are, or how I came to be where you found me.

My entire past seems to have escaped me. Dr. Kent says that I have only mislaid it, and that it will turn up again! Or more accurately he believes that it is possible that those memories have been deliberately erased – or hidden so completely inside of me that I cannot find them yet.

I find this a very interesting concept. If it is true, and if it is possible . . it suggests that there is some significance to the missing information. That there is some important reason for it not to be known, either by myself – or by others.

And, what, say I, should we make of that?

I suppose I should no longer keep you on tenterhooks. You wrote to me asking about Donal, not to hear about my idle thoughts. Again, I am not sure if Donal is actually his name – but I can at least tell you about the man that I know as Donal. For there is no saying for certain that your Donal and my Donal are one and the same.

First I must disappoint you by writing that I cannot yet remember when or where we met. Thus everything else I set down concerning him is without foundation; based only on my faulty and perhaps false memories.

Donal, has been a friend of my family and my personal guardian for as long as I remember. I know for certain that he is not related to me. Therefore not an Uncle or Cousin . . and certainly not a Brother! Nor do I believe he was employed by my family . . . rather someone who knew my parents and must have been trusted by them.

He is a wiry man, lean and hard, with a shock of white hair, and a lovely accent . . up-country I think – or even of that soft Scots variety that sounds educated, even when it isn’t. I would guess his age to be about fifty-five or sixty. Though in thinking back, this must certainly be deceptive. As a young girl, I remember him this way . . . and as a young adult, I remember him being the same. Clearly this must be one of those “alternity” moments, mixing up past and future and now and what is not real for me. Certainly what I remember him being at age seven, could not be true at age twenty.

Donal filled the place of my frequently absent and distant parents. I do not remember ever having siblings . . . or much in the way of friends my own age. Donal was an engaging Nanny . . seeing to both my entertainment and my education. It is to him you may thank my lovely penmanship in this letter.

I will not bore you too much with the scraps and fragments that I remember from childhood. They are too piecemeal to have any use to us – except that I know that it was as pleasant and happy as any childhood might be. Or at least I remember nothing horrible or dark when I think about it. Though . . . that may mean much or mean nothing.

As you may guess, there are gaps . . large ones, between where I was, how I got there, and where I am now. I have no strong concept of when in time certain things happened. So forgive me if I cannot give you all the answers that you might wish.

I know that two men came to speak with Donal not long ago. One was American by accent, the other Russian by accent. Both well dressed, though the Russian man less so. The American was in his forties with dark hair, and a scar on his left hand. The Russian a little younger, with light hair, and a good command of English – from this I presumed that he had received a fairly high level of education.

Donal sent me upstairs so that they would not know that I was there. They talked behind closed doors . . . but I came back down the stairs to try to hear what I could. I am embarrassed to admit that I tried to eavesdrop . . but visitors were so rare and unusual that I threw over politeness for curiosity.

Of course I could not make out what they said – only scraps of sound and a sense of the emotions that were there.

At first it was quiet. Then I heard a snatch of a song – an old children’s tune . . the one about the spider and the waterspout.

The three of them argued. There was heat and yelling, and a lot of anger. I got the impression that Donal knew these men – if not personally – then perhaps by reputation.

After about twenty minutes the doors to the room opened suddenly, and I was caught . . on the staircase . . exactly where Donal did not want me to be.

All of them looked at me. Donal, flushed with anger and surprise – the other two simply calm, as if they had expected it all along.

The Russian said, “You see. It is true, as I said. “

The American nodded, and said, “We are not going to cause trouble here, in front of her, with you, Donal. You need to think about your responsibilities, and what you are supposed to do. “

They both nodded at me, and then they left.

I apologized to Donal, for not staying where I should have, and he just sighed, and told me that it hadn’t mattered, since they knew anyway that I was here.

I tried to question him, but he would say nothing more to me.

Shortly after that he took me to the seacoast in England, and left me there. Telling me to wait patiently and soon enough some very nice people would take me home.

He took my hand, and promised that he would always be able to come when I needed him, but that I should not call for him unless it was a dire emergency. He gave to me the half-crown piece, which I have included in this letter. Saying that should it be required, I would only need to hold tight to it, and think of him . . . and he would come.

After that, things are again very disjointed to me. I remember wandering along the coast, and the people who took me to the place that you found me in. I do not remember Donal leaving, but I do recall that I took great pains to hide the half-crown from them, so that they could not take it away from me.

So now, Redland . . you know as much as I remember about things concerning Donal. No doubt as my time with Dr. Kent continues, I will be able to recall more of the details, and possibly even times or dates to place it all inside of.

I don’t know if any of this is helpful to you. Or even if the half-crown means anything beyond just a symbol to help relieve my anxiety about being parted from Donal. I send it to you, as Dr. Kent says that it would be best for me to learn to rely on myself, and not so much on Donal.

Do write to me again about what you are doing, and where you are. While the people here in Chalone are very pleasant, I should like to hear from someone that I know. And you are my only link to the outside world.

Your Friend

Laura