As Told By Paramours

chapter nine

elijah

OKAY, OKAY. How about cheetos dipped in gravy? How do you feel about that?

Josie :~)

No homework? Extracurriculars?

Elijah.

Well of course I have them, but why ever would I do them when I can just send notes to you all week?

Josie :~)

If I didn't know better I'd say you've taken a bit of a liking to me.

Elijah.

It's a good thing you know better, then, isn't it?

Josie :~)

I've taken a liking to you too, Josie.

Elijah.

I leave the note by the sink and sit across from my grandfather.

"So?" I ask quietly, readying my list paper. "Who's the first person?"

"Richard Meadow," he says, and waits for me to jot the name down. "He was there when I got the call."

"... okay."

"George Hade," he says, then adds: "The next day at school, he told me she said to stay away from her."

"Okay, hold on... okay. Then?"

"Carey... I think, Carey Horton. She was a close friend of hers. 'Fact she lives around here still, I've talked to her. You could ask one of the receptionists..." Right, so she's the first person I'm going to look for, I decide. "Then there's Belle. She was my best pal."

"Okay. That's it?"

"Well, there's one more. The most important one..." he smiles at me.

"Yes?"

"Ximena," he says, then laughs, adding: "If Josie hasn't gotten to her first, that is."

"Who's that?"

"That's Rosemary's twin sister."

● ● ●

I raise a tentative hand to the mustard yellow door before me, sighing, and rapping on it thrice.

I wait a few beats, then raise my hand again when the door opens and a much younger person pops their head through the doorway.

Her green eyes narrow at me. "Hello, can I help you with something?"

"Sorry." Suddenly conscious of my flannel and beanie. "I'm Elijah Ibrahim, son of John; he was a classmate of Carey's...?"

"Oh. Sorry," she says, widening the door a little. "I'm Mags. I'm her care-giver. You want to come in?"

"Yes, please. I just wanted to visit and chat, if it's okay."

"Yes of course. She rarely gets visitors."

"Oh? Not married?" I follow her down a rustic corridor, passing several rooms on either side, until we arrive at the end, where she slides a stain glass door open. It's quaint but roomy, a foyer, with a dark maroon leather couch, green and yellow stained glass windows, and things I thought only existed in films for aesthetic purposes: a gold golf club leaning against a stone fireplace, a bear (actual bear, head and all) shaped carpet, and a rustic bookshelf covered in dust.

"Oh, she was engaged at a point, but... that didn't work out. She..." the caregiver trails off, brown bob swishing around with her head as she searches the room as if she's lost a squirrel. "Got into an accident about, eh, forty years ago now? There was some swelling, and consequently there are a lot of disabilities. No one really comes around anymore; her parents have passed and since she isolated hersel- oh, Care! You have a visitor."

An older lady on a wheelchair rounds the corner of the room, and I say: "Ah."

Her neck is on an awkward angle, and her curly greyish-blonde hair is shaved close to her head. Her leg's are hoisted up with a mechanic-ish-thing (for lack of a better word) connected to the leg area of the wheelchair, and there are medical stuff I can't even name hanging off it, connecting to her nostrils, as well. Her face is a bit tilted-- not her head-- her face sort of shifted, and the skin is pulling downwards. "Be' he wun't expec'in this," Carey says with a weak smile, and I hear my heart hit the ground after dropping seven stories.

I rush to say: "Of course I-"

"She's kidding," Mags interjects, and she glares at Carey, who lets out a laugh-like sound.

Carey says something to Mags I don't understand, and then moves across from the leather couch. Carey says to me: "She said you can sit. I'll go make tea." She looks at me. "She'll talk to you with her iPad, okay?"

Then she's gone.

"It's nice to meet you, Carey," I say first, and sit, though I hate making myself feel at home in other people's houses. "I'm John Ibrahim's grandson. He mentioned you to me."

She takes a moment, reaching for her pouch, grabbing her iPad, then she's scribbling with shaky fingers.

I wait; she turns it to me, and I read the words 'It's nice to meet you, Elijah. It's been long since I heard of John. Did he send you here?'

"Not really," I say, "But he sends his greetings."

'Tell him I said hello.' She gives me what I think is a curious look. 'Are you in school?'

"Yes, ma'am. I graduate in June."

'So what brings you here?'

"I understand that he was dating or talking to a friend of yours; Rosemary Laurier. I was wondering if you could tell me any stories about their relationship; what it was like, what happened," I add (what I hope is) casually. "I'm working on something... like a project, and I need the specific details of their story."

Her face turns sad. She writes for a long moment: "Rose and I stopped talking ages ago, in fact, around the time her and John first got together we drifted apart. I'm sorry but I can't tell you anything about her that would be important.'

I nod, and tell her: "It's okay" because it is okay, and visiting her was enjoyable regardless of whether or not I got what I came for.

'If you'd like to stay, I can tell you about myself, though.'

I leave thirty minutes later after a cup of tea and biscuits, small smile on my lips as I cross off 'Carey Horton' from the list.