The Red Velvet Dress

                              The Red Velvet Dress

Samantha read the obituaries in the morning paper everyday.  She never understood why. So today like every other day, with a coffee in hand, Sam began to browse them. A picture of a striking blonde caught her eye immediately and she looked very familiar. The face was not immediately placed with a memory, but Sam did feel a shutter and chill strangle her as if she knew woman. The article was a tribute of a Miranda Aimes who died suddenly in a fiery crash just outside of Princeton three months ago today. She was 30 years old, and she was coming home from a formal dinner with her fiancé. He was not in the car.

These similarities to Sam’s own accident three years ago were eerie. The memories of that fateful night were few and far between.  All Sam knew was that she too was out for a formal dinner with her fiancé, Roger, and the next thing she remembered was her beautiful gown turned into a green hospital robe. Her life had changed forever. Roger perished that night. Sam missed her soul-mate immensely and he was not far from her daily thoughts. A warm glow spread through her body as the thoughts of him chased the chill from her body.

Having a shower helped to relieve the angst that had possessed her. With a coifed look she was ready to tackle what the day had in store for her. She knew her day was busy. The dinner club was meeting this evening and it was her turn to host. Sam was not comfortable in the kitchen but she would try hard today to overcome the evils of the stove. 

Ready to tackle the day, Sam put the car in reverse and then they started – again; those weird voices spewing random words and phrases through her silent head.  The car was quiet. A no no; she should have known better. She needed noise – lots of it.  She shook her head and tightened her fists shouting, “No! No! Not again, go away. I don’t want these thoughts.” And with that she broke down and cried. She managed to put her car in park and sat slumped over the wheel. Black forest, red velvet, white wine, blue cheese, hash browns... she didn’t even like blue cheese or white wine and she lives in orchard country – there isn’t a forest for miles from here.  And let’s face it, who would be caught dead with red velvet.

This game of mind charades started about three months ago and every time a seizure happened, Sam steadily believed that she was losing her mind. When Sam regained enough strength, she put the car in reverse (again) and headed off to finish her “to-do” list – she still had to tackle the dreaded kitchen monster.

Sam liked living alone. She enjoyed her independence. She had lost her best friend and it would take time for that to heal. But living alone brought silence and with silence came the voices, so Sam alleviated the situation by having the TV and stereo blaring 24/7. The volume was consistently loud. Call it an obsession, but to Sam it was part of living or – surviving. Until therapy could paste the pieces of these phrases into an orderly memory, Sam’s life had to be loud.

Arriving home, Sam secured her confidence with raising the volume of sound to a comfortable decibel. She put her apron on and entered the kitchen. The apron, Sam thought, was a nice touch, and she hoped it pleased the Kitchen Gods.

The Kitchen Gods obviously were not impressed with the apron chosen. Sam’s kitchen looked like a murder scene and a grisly one at that. She had put the can of tomato sauce on the counter next to the recipe and hoped for the best. She prayed the sauce would stay in the pan – at least most of it.  But unfortunately there was spaghetti sauce from one end to the other by the time her creation was finished. Even so she was proud of her efforts and figured with enough wine and bread plied to her guests she could pull this event off without a hitch.

The “club” arrived on time and as a group. The group originally consisted of four couples including Roger and her. Now she was just the “odd man” out, but her friends insisted that she continue, no matter what her culinary skills weren’t. They missed Roger just as much. Roger was the cook, not Sam. He could create anything instantly with no fuss and muss like a painter with a brush. He lost himself in the kitchen only to arrive at the table with edible artwork. The group had been friends since high school. They did everything together.

As Sam got the pasta ready, she was struck with those dreaded phrases. She clenched her fist and started to shake her head violently hoping to dispel the words. Not realizing how long this lasted, Sam was brought to the present by the sound of the pasta water boiling over. At that very moment she saw a shadow in the window. At first she thought it was a refection from inside but all her guests were sitting motionless just staring blankly at what they had witnessed. The door bell broke the tenseness of the moment like the shattering of a windshield.

A stranger introduced himself as Steven Elliott.
“I know you don’t know me, but I need a moment of your time to bring you a message.”

“You know who I am?” Sam asked confused.

“You are Samantha Jones, born 30 years ago, orphaned and raised by foster parents, Trudy and Dale Jones.”

Confirming that piece of vital information, Sam cautiously let Mr. Elliott in and introduced him to her friends. Once organizing who would finish serving dinner, she invited Mr. Elliott into the den. It took a few minutes for him to begin. Keeping his composure at first he began his story. Immediately he broke down.  The pressure of his news was too much. He tried to explain why he had sought her out, the staccato speech left Sam confused and it radiated from her face.  Seeing this confusion from tear laden eyes, Mr. Elliot got control of himself (which took a few minutes) and continued.

         Mr. Elliott finished his tale and Sam sat right where she was with a locket in her hand. The tears streaming down her face were a mixture of sadness and happiness. The shutter had returned but not the chill. They hugged hard and promised to stay in touch. They would be good for each other.

After Steven left, Sam returned to her friends, who still sat motionless worrying about the strange events of the evening. The evening was about to get stranger. Sam got the obituaries from this morning’s paper and showed everyone the picture of the blonde girl. Sam held up the locket.
“This is my birthmother’s locket.” Everyone gasped in unison and then sat patiently waiting for her to continue.
“I am an identical twin.  This locket was left with the nuns who took in my sister.  I was put into foster care. My sister was contacted by one of the nuns and given our mother’s locket. Four month’s ago she started looking for me. She unfortunately died in a fiery crash before she could find me.”

Tears returned once again and Sam tried in vain to keep her composure.
“Miranda Aimes was my sister, my twin. On the night of her death, Steven had taken her out for a beautiful dinner to propose. She was dressed in a long backless red velvet gown; they sipped on white wine and enjoyed filet mignon with blue cheese sauce. My sister lost control of her car on the Princeton Highway and crashed into a tree deep in the forest that edged the highway. She loved hash browns for breakfast.” Sam looked at her friends. She was shaking so hard that she could barely focus. A numbness like nothing she had ever felt before had rented her body. The looks on everyone’s faces resembled a portfolio of a caricaturist. Tears were heard and arms were felt around her.  Everyone was crying and consoling.  She was going to be alright.

She now knew what internal obsession drove her to read the obituaries everyday. And she also put the puzzle together with the words and phrases that haunted her mind. Clutching the locket from a mother she never knew and her mind containing the thoughts of a sister she never knew, Sam now hoped the phrases would not disappear. Because those thoughts were not seizures anymore, they had now become memories.