Lydia

If walls could talk, you’d all wish you hadn’t asked. Or, well, maybe not. I guess it depends on what you’re interested in.

You can learn a lot about humans from my perspective. But to be honest, I only see one room, facing one direction. So, in some ways, I wonder if I’m like Plato’s cave-wall, against which the shadows of reality dance and my view is only a reflection of a much larger reality to which I don’t have access. I’m only a small wall. Some walls are much larger, and can tell much more fantastical stories, but then again, maybe I’m the only wall with the ability to tell stories. I wouldn’t really know because, well… I’m a wall.

From what I’ve gleaned, I'm the east wall of the sitting room in a large home on a street called Sycamore. My first memory was over 100 years ago when I felt the warmth of a fire coming from my middle portion. I hadn’t really considered temperature before then. But once I felt that warm glow inside, I was spoiled and yearned for more as the months grew colder. I think I was built in the early spring, when the temperature was cool and comfortable. My first impulse to talk came when I got used to the fireplace, and it would go unlit for more than a day. I wished I could call out for more warmth as I shivered against the cold that leaked through the north picture window.

However, when my first summer arrived and the fires stopped I was thankful. There were some hot days when I thought I’d melt off my frame into a sticky pile of goo. About 30 years ago the humans installed a ceiling fan and that helped keep me cooler in the summer. Then, about 10 years ago, a new hole was added to the wall across from me that would blow cold air in the summer and warm air in the winter. That was nice, but I missed the cozy warmth of the fireplace in my belly on cold winter nights. Those humans would only light up a fire on Christmas Eve. That was already my favorite night of the year, so I was thankful for that kindness. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see it as a kindness, but that didn’t dim my gratitude.

Back over 100 years ago, the insulation behind me and the outside wall was mostly made up of old newspapers stuffed between me and the framing. It worked for the first few years, but it also attracted critters. I remember, early on, waking up to something tickling my inside. I couldn’t laugh out loud of course, but the tiny little feet running back and forth across me, tickled so much I could hardly stand it. Since I can’t really move, the tickling felt almost like torture. It would subside for a while and then start back up all of a sudden, shocking me out of a much needed rest. There was a little girl with dark brown locks tied up with blue ribbons, who loved to read books on the couch in front of me. I remember how one time, during an especially ticklish moment, she seemed to perk up as though she heard me giggling and looked straight at me.

She put her soft ear against my face and let out a scream. I saw her run out of the arched doorway across from me and up the stairs to her mother. Not long after that, there was quite a fuss and lots of noise behind me as an exterminator (I only know this because I overheard her mother tell the little girl to run to an exterminator and handed her a note to take with her) tried to rid me of a family of mice. I was very thankful to the little girl for speaking up on my behalf. I’ve had at least 3 more infestations since then, (one lasted for 10 years!) but ever since I had that hole cut into me and they blew that new foam behind me, I haven’t felt a thing or noticed the need for a fireplace as much. I still feel cozier with it lit, even though the smell is gassier now than before.

I’ve had many humans live in my house. Some have stayed for a very long time, some only for a short time and one has never left.

I think she’s the one who built me. She, referring to the one who still hasn’t left, of course.

When I woke up to that first fire in my belly, she was the one who lit it.

I remember that she was quite beautiful. She had golden hair that was up in a lovely braided bun and covered with a black veil. She had soft pink lips, a straight nose, perfect eyebrows and long black eyelashes over very sad, deep green eyes. Her long black dress and gloves covered her body from her toes to her chin, but I could see by her face that her skin was pale and soft underneath.

My vocabulary at the time was very limited as I hadn’t really heard anyone speak or had only subconsciously picked-up a few phrases from the construction crew, mostly by pure osmosis. It has taken me a while to build up my ability to form phrases and properly describe what I’ve seen. I think my own perfectionism has kept me silent this long, as I wanted to make sure I could be properly understood when I began to talk. Those 10 years in my late 50’s, when no one was living here, were extremely helpful as I was able to practice with no one to judge me. I think fondly of those early days of trying to form words and tripping over each syllable as the thick, hard plaster made it very difficult to maneuver such consonants as “r” and “w” and “f.”

In the beginning, the thought of speaking was miles from my awareness, as I’m sure most walls experience. Many walls have such boring surroundings that they basically just sleep all the time. I think I was built to be curious and that’s a blessing considering the stories I’ve witnessed. I’ve had long sleeps just like any old wall, but some stories are meant to be told and if I’m the one who has to tell this one, then I feel privileged.

Now, mind you, I can only see in one direction. I can hear quite well, as old homes carry sounds better than the new ones, or so I’ve heard. So, my perspective may be skewed, or most likely is very skewed, but since you asked, I’m going to tell what I know. Across from me is the west, interior wall. For many years that wall had beautiful wallpaper on it covered in light pink and yellow roses and was framed by dark mahogany crown-molding. Since then it’s also been painted a light pistachio green, antique white, navy blue and black. In the center of that wall is a large, curved archway opening. On the left side, (facing me) there was a beautiful wooden writing desk, which stayed in that place for many, many years, until it was finally taken away. That day was sad for me, as I felt I had lost an old friend. But that’s neither here nor there. On the right side of the archway (facing me, of course) was a built-in shelving unit that was used over the years for tea service, a bar, a children’s play area and more. Above the low shelving was a space for a picture. When I first woke up, it was a black and white picture of a very handsome man with a strong chin and deep, kind eyes. I loved looking at that picture as he seemed to only be sharing good news with me through his eyes. Over the years, since that picture was sadly taken down and taken away, I’ve had to look at many pieces of horrid “art”, one beautiful landscape painting, and most recently a large round clock that clicks and ticks all day and night.

Through the curved archway, I can see the entryway for the front door which opens to the north and a staircase going up and to my left, to the south. Under the staircase is a small door that, when it is opened, a light can be turned on and more stairs go down, into what I’ve gleaned is a basement.

Past the entryway and staircase, I can see the dining room. It has a large window also on the north side and a large built in china cabinet along the west wall. The rest of the dining room and access to the other spaces in the house are blocked by the staircase.

When I first woke up to that warm feeling inside, I noticed her sitting on a stool very close to the fire with a golden glow reflecting the flames against her face. She was reading a letter, aloud, with tears streaming down her face.

April 11, 1912

My Dearest Lydia,

As I write to you, I am sitting on the deck, under a star-filled night in the North Atlantic. I can see the Aurora Borealis in the distance dancing in greens and yellows across the frigid north sky. While the air is cold around me, I am warmed with the thought of holding you in my arms once again. These three months away have been both thrilling and arduous. I believe we will see great success from my book and I have made preparations for us to visit my publisher at his country estate, outside of London, after the baby is born. My darling, I hope you and the baby can feel my love as I send it from across the ocean.

I am thrilled to hear that you have settled into our new home and am deeply sorry I was unable to be there to carry you across the threshold. I am eager to hold you again soon and welcome our sweet child into our new home.

Yours forever,

James

In my new found awareness, I didn’t know months from months or one season from the other. As I learned about the world around me, I put together that this letter was from many months before Lydia’s tearful fireside reading. I remember a deep urge to comfort her welled up within me and the fireplace responded with a brief rise of the flames before her. She was startled, and staring into the flames, she asked softly, “James?”

Not realizing that my thoughts of comfort would manifest in the flames, I quickly calmed my own new found emotions. However, a spark of hope in her had been awakened at my awakening and so the story begins.

Lydia sat by that fire, crying,and waiting for hours. With each wind gust that flew into the chimney, causing the slightest shift in the flames, she would call out, “James? Is that you my darling? Please come back to me again!” She sat this way until a soft cry was heard from the rooms above. She hesitated briefly to look back at the flames and hurried up the carpeted stairs. A few minutes later, I saw her again, coming down the stairs, holding a bundle of something wrapped in white. She eagerly approached the fire with (what I know now to be) her baby girl in her arms. She spoke again through excited tears, “James? Are you there?” She held out the baby towards the fire. “This is our baby. Our sweet Bella. Isn’t she beautiful, my darling?” She held her baby close to her and I saw that the child was very beautiful. Dark ringlets of hair fell on her porcelain skin with long eyelashes closed against light pink sleeping cheeks. “James,” continued Lydia, “She has your hair! Isn’t it glorious! Oh James, she is just as beautiful as an angel, and she’s all… I …” Lydia’s words stumbled through her sobs, “ have left…of you, my darling.” She wept as she rocked her baby in her arms. Then, with no more movement of the flames, she turned and carried the baby back up the stairs. The fire went out as they slept.

For months, each night, Lydia would sit by the fire, waiting for James. Many late nights, she would bring down her baby to show me, and I loved watching her grow. Each time, of course, the baby was fast asleep. I don’t really have a heart, as I am a wall, but if I did have a heart, it would have hurt for her. Only once more during that first year, did I allow my pity to get the better of me and cause the flames to swell again at her tearful cries for comfort. I regret that to this day. That time her cries were so desperate that I just couldn’t help it. But she nearly threw herself into the fireplace after it swelled and was kept from burning by the distraction of a child’s cry upstairs. Sometimes she would read some of James’ favorite books with titles such as The Count of Monte Cristo and Wuthering Heights. She would also read the morning paper to me, (or the fire), because James loved to read the paper with his breakfast. I learned much of my vocabulary from these wonderful experiences, as well as much more about the humans who lived within walls such as myself.

In the early summer, after the fires had ceased, I was minding my own business when I heard the most beautiful sound in the world. It was the first time I had heard it, though I have heard it many times since; a baby’s laughter. I saw a tiny human child with brown curls and the bluest eyes, toddling through the dining room and into my sitting room, laughing and looking behind her towards her mother, who was chasing her though the house. I was smitten. She was truly the most beautiful little girl. Mind you, she was the only little girl I had ever seen, but in my many many years as a wall, she is still my favorite. Her mother looked happy as she gathered her up in her arms and swung her around and around in the air. The light was shining through the window and creating beautiful rainbows through the crystal in the chandelier.

Yes, this was the little girl with the curls tied in a blue ribbon who seemed to hear me giggle and brought back the exterminator to rid me of my mouse infestation. As she grew older, she also liked to read the same kinds of adventure books James did. She didn’t always read them out loud, but would often act out silly fantasies with her friends, who would enter through the door on the north wall, using the cushions from the couches in my sitting room to build forts and stages.

When Bella was a teenager and after I had had a nice long rest over a few weeks, I was again awakened by Lydia’s sobbing. She had often come to the sitting room in the evenings, even when there was no fire, to sip her tea and stare into the fireplace. This time I noticed her pouring something new from the shelf into her tea. She took many more cups than usual and poured more and more from the vile, into each cup until she eventually passed out, but not before she cried out softly through her sobs, “James! Wait for me! I’m coming!” I noticed her breathing seemed to slow down too slowly, so…I called out. I know, I’m a wall! But I called out to Bella. I don’t know how I did it. It took everything out of me at the time. I called out to Bella and then I also fell asleep.

When I awoke to another warm fire in my belly, I saw Lydia asleep on the couch in front of my fire. She was older. I could tell that it was now winter, as the last time I had seen her, it had been a warm summer evening. Sometimes I sleep for a very long time. I wonder if I sleep so much because I spend too much time pondering and thinking. I wonder if other walls wonder.

Lydia's eyes had circles of gray under them and I could see her collar bones more prominent than before. Bella, also older now, maybe in her 20’s came in and laid a blanket on her mother and kissed her on her forehead.

Lydia opened her eyes and smiled faintly at her daughter, then softly said, “Bella, darling, you must stay. Your father will be here soon.”

Bella looked at her mother with sweet pity, and answered, “Mother, you mustn’t say such things. Father isn’t coming back. But don’t worry, I’m here with you.”

Lydia frowned and stared at the fireplace, and said again, “Oh but he will be here. He comes in the flames. I can feel his love. He loves you so, Bella.”

“Mother,” Bella answered, “You must rest. You feel the heat from the fire, that’s all.”

“No, Bella, he’s here,” insisted Lydia, “He’s been here since you were a baby, watching over you.”

Bella looked into the fire and I could see sadness and frustration on her face. She took a deep breath, and wiped a tear from her cheek before kissing her mother goodnight and going up the stairs.

That night Lydia passed as Bella slept. But being a wall, I saw something amazing that no human eye could have seen. Late in the night, as the fire burned low, I saw Lydia’s spirit sit up.

Lydia’s body was still on the couch, but her spirit sat up. It seemed to me as though her spirit didn’t know she was a spirit. She stretched and yawned as though she had fallen asleep on the couch again. She looked deep into the dying embers and said, as she did every night “Good night sweet James.” Then her spirit got up and walked through the sitting room and up the stairs.

When Bella found her body the next day she wept. I wept. I can’t really weep, but I felt myself sag and I think there might have been some creaking that happened as a result. Bella turned to look at me as though she could feel my sadness, but then got up and called the authorities.

One day, months later, I noticed that there were many bags and trunks near the entry door and Bella and a friend were sitting on the couch in front of my fireplace. I was happy to see them together again, as I remembered them playing in the sitting room as children.

“Oh Bella, I can’t stand that you’re leaving this beautiful house!” Said Daisy

“I just can’t be here any more. Daisy, I know she’s still here” answered, Bella

“Bella, she’s gone. You’re just haunted by memories, as we all are when loved ones pass,” returned Daisy.

“No, sometimes I wake up and I swear she’s standing by my bed. I need to get away and move on from this place.” Bella looked deeply into the empty fireplace, shook her head, got up and walked over to the picture on the wall of her father. “He’s here too.”

“Now, Bella, that’s ridiculous. He never even set foot in this house,” retorted Daisy

“Either way, it’s time. I’m engaged now and I’m moving on to start somewhere else.” Bella took a deep sigh. Daisy got up and hugged her.

Seeing Bella leave, I creaked as I had when Lydia died. Bella heard it as she was walking out of the door. She came back in and closed the door behind her. Then she spoke to the space, “Goodbye mother,” then turned to the fireplace and whispered, “Goodbye father.” Then she opened the door again, walked out and closed the door behind her, never to return.

Since then I’ve had many more families live in my house. I’ve seen children grow up and families fight. I’ve seen marriages break up and new loves begin. I’ve seen parties and funerals and births and burglary. I was even abandoned for a time when I saw many, many bad things as I practiced using my voice. I’ve had many wonderful fires in my fireplace and now I’m fully insulated and stay comfortable all year round.

No matter who lives here, Lydia visits me every night. She sits with me and I talk to her and tell her all about what I see. No one else sees her, except for the cats and dogs, but they sit with her by my fireplace to give her comfort.

The End