Broken Things (Faded Photograph Series) (40 page)

# # to be continued… # #

Coming Soon to an E-book Format:

Hidden Things
, Book Two

The Saga Continues!

See next page to read an excerpt.

HIDDEN THINGS

Faded Photograph series

Book Two

By Andrea Boeshaar

PROLOGUE

March 2000

The skeletal limbs of barren treetops cast eerie shadows on the snow-covered driveway as Kylie Rollins made her way back to the house with today’s mail in hand. She barely noticed the sunshine or blue sky on this Saturday afternoon. Her heart felt trapped in a dark, gloomy day. A bad day. Kylie had them off and on since her mother’s recent death. Oftentimes, it seemed like a storm cloud hung over her and shadowed her every move. That storm cloud had a name. Mourning.

Entering through the backdoor, Kylie kicked off her boots, hung up her jacket, and walked into the kitchen. She collapsed into a chair at the white, wooden table and sifted through the envelopes, inspecting each one. Most contained bills, but some appeared to hold belated sympathy cards. The latter she set aside for another time when she had more strength.

Mom’s death still seemed so unreal.

Her mother, Wendy Rollins, had been her best friend. After Kylie’s father, Dr. Joshua Rollins, died more than seven years ago, she and her mother had drawn strength from each other. Now Kylie had no one. Well, except her fiancé, Matt. She loved him with all her heart and she had him to lean on. She had his mother, Lynellen, and a host of other friends. She had her church family…

So why did she feel so alone?

An oversized brown envelope at the bottom of the stack suddenly caught Kylie’s eye. Lifting it, she inspected the return address. It came from someone in Oakland Park, Illinois. Kylie didn’t know anyone in Illinois and didn’t recognize the sender’s name, either.
Allison Drake Littenberg
.

Kylie tore open the envelope and extracted a faded photograph that had been copied and enlarged. The date printed on the bottom of the snapshot read
March 1969
. She stared at the photo, trying to understand its significance. Pictured were three young ladies who stood on either side of a policeman whose arm was draped possessively across the shoulders of one female in particular. The word
Me
was written in marker with an arrow pointing to that woman, so Kylie assumed it was the sender. Then she saw the other names. Blythe. Jack. Wendy.

No way! That’s Mom?

Kylie held the picture nearer, for better inspection. It was a close-up shot of the four, only their upper torsos in view, although the original photo must have been somewhat damaged because the copy was speckled and blurred in areas. But Kylie could make it out and…sure enough. Her own mother was one of the women in the photograph. Except it couldn’t be!

Wearing a tie-dyed smock-top, a beaded band around her forehead, large loopy earrings, and her chestnut-brown hair hanging long and straight, her mother resembled one of those infamous protesters that Kylie had glimpsed in history books, documentaries, and movies. The fact that she held a picket sign over her shoulder, stating,
WAR
Is Not Healthy For Children And Other Living Things!
only enhanced the stereotypical image in Kylie’s head.

She blinked. No. This woman couldn’t be her mother. Wendy Rollins had been a conservative Christian all her life.

Kylie’s heart quickened with indignation. Surely, this was a joke. She had heard about people who read the obituaries, then swindled grieving families. Was this some sort of scam?

As she imagined the worse, a folded letter fell from the package and into her lap along with what appeared to be a wedding invitation. Kylie opened the missive first and read the neat penmanship on the flowered stationary.

Hi, Wendy, look what I found when I was moving last summer! If I remember correctly, the photo was snapped right after the anti-war demonstration you talked Blythe and me into joining. We marched in front of Oakland Park’s City Hall with about fifty other kids. Jack and I had been dating for six months and he threatened to haul us off to jail, but of course, he didn’t. Seems like a lifetime agowhat am I thinking, it
was
a lifetime ago!

Kylie turned to the second page.

Last August I returned to Chicago on business. I met up with Jack Callahan and, you might not believe this, but after thirty years we have renewed our romance and now we’re getting married! We’re planning a small wedding ceremony on April 21, right before we leave on a cruise. At the end of May, we’ll host a reception upon our return. I’ve enclosed an invitation. I hope you can come. Jack and I would love to see you again. Give me a call or drop me a line. Here’s my phone number and email address. . .

Shocked and confused, Kylie studied the strange, yet familiar image of her mother in the photograph again.

“This can’t be Mom,” she murmured aloud. “March of 1969. . .?” Kylie quickly did the math. Her mother would have been nine months pregnant at the time. Kylie was born April 10, 1969. Why would her mother join a demonstration when she was expecting a baby any day? And where was her father? Had he been the one who took the picture?

Tingles of foreboding wound their way up Kylie’s spine. Something was wrong. She stood and left the kitchen in search of the portable phone. Finding it on the polished coffee table in the living room, she lowered herself onto the floral-upholstered sofa and she dialed the number printed in the letter.

“Hello?”

“Um. . .” Words suddenly clogged her throat. She hadn’t expected to reach a real person. She had intended to leave a message.

“Hello?”

“Um. . .hello. Is this Allison Drake Littenberg?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”

She cleared her throat. “My name is Kylie Rollins and, um. . .I’m Wendy’s daughter. I received the picture you sent today.”

A pause. “
You
received it?”

“Yes. . .I mean, well. . .I know it was addressed to Mom, but. . .” Kylie’s eyes teared. “Mom died at the end of January.”

Another pause. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“I figured.” Kylie swallowed the sadness. She’d been thinking of her mother all day today as she tidied the house.

“I…I feel awful. I wish I could have contacted Wendy sooner, but it took several months to locate her.” Moments of weighty silence ticked by. “How did it happen, if you don’t mind me asking? Wendy and I were good friends…once.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Kylie had told scores of people how it happened, at the visitation at the funeral home and, later, after the memorial service. Oddly, relaying the news of the tragedy again would be almost comforting. “It was sort of a freak thing. Mom and I were cleaning and she tripped on the edge of the bedroom rug and struck her head against the corner of the footboard. She had a gash, but we didn’t think too much of it. Mom washed it and put on a bandage. We even laughed about how funny she looked with a Band-Aid on her forehead.

“That night we had supper, watched some TV, and went to bed. Just like normal. But Mom―” That familiar dark cloud of gloom converged on her again. “Mom never woke up the next day. Apparently, she had ruptured something in her head and we never knew it.”

“How awful. Please accept my deepest sympathies.”

“Thanks Miss―Mrs.?”

“Call me Allie.” Her voice sounded kind and compassionate—even soothing. “My own mother died of something similar. A brain aneurysm, although it wasn’t from an injury.”

Walking back to the kitchen, Kylie nodded a reply, even though she knew the woman on the phone couldn’t see it. She reached the table and lifted the photograph, staring hard at it. Dozens of questions buzzed in her brain. “I’d like to ask you about a few things. Do you have some time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Will you tell me how you met my mother?” Inhaling deeply, she sat down, one leg folded underneath her. “Tell me about how the two of you became friends and—” Confusion settled on her brow. “Was this faded photograph really taken in March of 1969?”