Unexpected Connections

I sat on my bed, looking at the wooden box with its carvings and bronze latch closed tight on the chest of draws where it had been put two weeks ago by my eldest son. He had been fishing off the local rocks when his hook had caught on the hinge, the excitement in his voice as he wound the line in, expecting to see the fish of a life time not an old piece of trash, had soon turned to disgust when his mates became amused at his catch. Unlike his younger brother who was intrigued with any trinkets or unusual finds, Archer couldn’t have cared less. He had brought it home and threw it straight into the trash, had it not have been for the water running from the bottom of the apple bin and me going to investigate, the box and its mysterious contents would have been gone the next day.

I had not opened the box yet. I had put it in the sun to dry and one thing or another had gotten in my way. Kid’s wanting things, work calling me in when they were short staffed or any number of other daily tasks that seemed to take over my life leaving me in a never-ending cycle of jobs.

Although I hadn’t had time to physically investigate the box, I had let it consume my thoughts for a large chunk of time over the last two weeks. The chances of any of my children sticky beaking were slim, combined with the fact that fate seemed to stepped in and throw this box in my face, I had this growing sense that this box was meant to find me. I could not begin to imagine why and had no concept of the way this small wooden object was about to change everything I had ever known about who I am.

I picked up the box and walked out to the front veranda where the sun was fading, the night flies were starting to circle around the solar powered lights that lined the poles surrounding the house. The kids were asleep I was sure of that, there were no sounds in the house other than the paws padding around upstairs as the dog went from room to room as he did each night. I poured a glass of wine, enjoying the last few moments of wonder, once the box was open, I would have released the moment of suspense and curiosity of what was inside. The hinge was tighter than I had expected, though on close inspection was fairly well rusted so I shouldn’t have been surprised. With a few convincing twists of an old screwdriver, the latch flew open, breaking into two pieces as it did.

I flipped the lid over, without realising I was holding my breath, and found two air tight bags, small and folded over inside the box, the timber still damp from its unexplained time in the water, who knew for how long. I picked up the bags, the first one contained a small black notebook, leather and well made, the kind of notebook that was kept for special things, to hold important information or incredible secrets. The paper inside was cream, handmade and not something often seen anymore but still remarkably dry and intact. Whilst I had opened the box and was discovering its contents, losing the surprise and unknown, I knew as I turned the book over in my hands that this would hold more than the box ever dreamed of.

The second bag was folded and forced down into the bottom of the box as it was slightly larger in diameter and held what appeared to be a large amount of money. It was Australian dollars, seemed to be mostly one hundred and some fifty-dollar notes, folded and paperclipped together. Given that the money held little secrets other than its monetary value I opened this bag first and started counting. I placed the last note on the unfolded pile that now lay in front of me on the coffee table and picked up my glass of wine.

There was twenty thousand dollars sitting there, that had come from where, it belonged to who. My mind was racing through all the possibilities, of its story and what was I going to do with it. I sat there for what must have been ages, the sky had turned black and the sound of Ned barking to be let outside to do his nightly check startled me out of the oblivion I had lost myself in. I climbed up and opened the side door, letting him run free and returned to pick up the array of notes and put them back safely in the box and picked up the next bag. This one contained the notebook. Maybe this held the secrets of the money, maybe it would give an answer as to why I had found it and what I was to do with it.

I sat there holding the bag in my hand, thinking about the sort of person I was. Goodness knows that it was a small town I lived in and everyone fished at those rocks. Why was it my son had snagged the box and brought it home, what made me go to the apple bin and investigate water that could have just as easily been from the rain. Was I looking for signs that were not there or had some greater force sent this money to me for a purpose? Trust me I could certainly use the money, the bank were on to me for overdue payments on my credit card, the kids interests seemed to be growing and the cost skyrocketing and bills just kept coming.

But whatever I was, I was not a person who could use money that did not belong to me. I had spent years learning about the universe trying to tell me things, was realising that paths were put in front of us for a reason and that the greatest lessons in life would be there whether we were ready to listed to them or not. I had no doubt in my mind that this money and notebook had made its way to me for a very good reason, I just hoped the notebook would be very clear about what that was.

As I opened the bag, I could smell the leather bindings and there was a perfume to the paper as well, as if an oil had been used on it or it had been made with flowers. The smells brought my senses awake and it took me back to my nan’s kitchen, she had a leather book, similar in make but larger in size that she kept all her favourite recipes in. I had often sat and watched her at the end of her table as she made scones for morning tea and the smell took me straight back there. I opened the book carefully, in awe of its secrets waiting to be read and was shocked to see the beautiful curvy writing that spread across its pages. It was solid, not faded or smudged. As I read through the first few pages, I realised what I was reading was in some ways a diary, a confession of guilt. It didn’t take me long to finish reading the book, I felt every pen stroke and could imagine the heart break and tears that had borne witness to its writing. It detailed a night, similar to those that are a common occurrence in the small coastal town, windy and salty, the salt carried from the ocean and a night when nothing feels quiet right. Florence, who I could figure out as best I could to be the writer’s sister, had been taken from the bed in which she slept next to her family. No one had heard anything out of the ordinary and there was no sign the following morning of where she had gone. In desperation and with no other leads, the local police started to blame the family or implying that Florence had run away herself, but her sister knew her, had grown up with her and had a great sense of what was happening in the town. She believed with every part of her heart and soul that Florence had been taken, by who and why she had no idea, but she would spend her life trying to find out. There were a few entries with snippets of information that she must have thought relevant and the final entry had been written five years ago on what was Florence’s 40th birthday.

There had been no sight of Florence again after the night she was taken, there was nothing in the book that would give anyone a distinct direction to follow. In her desperate grief, and belief that one day her sister would come back to her, she had put money with the notebook in the box and sent it off to sea on the night of Florence’s birthday. She had made sure the notebook contained details of Florence, what she looked like, her funny little mannerisms and directions for her on how to get home. She was leaving every power and wish she had to the universe to see that the box would make it to someone who could help bring Florence back to her. I knew it had found me for that reason, that somehow I would find Florence and reunite her with her sister, she had left me the money to do so, but where on earth would I start to try and find this lost soul, who could now be anywhere and called absolutely anything, no doubt the first thing the kidnappers would change would be her name.

I put the notebook back in its bag and in the box, I picked them and my glass up and headed back inside, still seeing the flashes of the story pop up in my head. I put the box under my bed where it was safe. The kids wouldn’t go hunting for it, it had sat on my dresser in full view for two weeks and they had showed no interest. I shut the house up for the night and let Ned in to climb up and curl against my legs in the bed. As I drifted off to sleep, I was thinking of where to start, library, old newspapers, anything to find more information on what had happened that night. As the space between awake and sleep lessened, I began to dream of two little girls playing in a school yard, matching ponytails, about two years apart. I saw them, inseparable, friends as well as sisters, and as I was watching them, I had a strange sense of significance, an unspoken connection.

I sat bolt upright in bed, sweat dripping from my nightshirt as my eyes searched, looking for anything familiar around me. The two girls had disappeared from my mind but not my sight, the shock that had consumed me wasn’t from a dream, it was from the realisation that the two little girls I had saw came from an image I had known, a photo that sat on my grandmothers dressing table next to her jewellery box we used to sneakily look in. It couldn’t be, could it. Could the universe be that direct? I knew its powers and its magic but was it really capable of that. I remembered the look nan used to get when talking about her sister and the sadness in her eyes whenever she looked at that photo, but was it really anywhere in the realm of possibility that my nan had once, if only as a girl, been Florence Davis, stolen from her bed in the darkness of night?