What Could Have Been

“Hey kid, you think you can get that list of new leads in before they throw the last shovel of dirt over my grave?”

He shrugged, not bothering to utilize a single lazy muscle to look at her. Ritta shook her head. Tyler, Spencer, Trevor – some trendy name like that – was as useless as all of the other young lumps in this office.

With a deliberate sigh, Ritta spun back to her desk. Without that list from junior, all she could do would be to make a few phone calls. She looked sideways at the telephone. A slight twitch. She turned instead to her laptop computer.

Ritta couldn’t fathom why Joe forced this ridiculous piece of space-age technology on his employees, as if she would ever need to take the damned thing anywhere. She had just been getting the hang of the desktop at home when Frank took off with it.

She stuttered her finger across the godforsaken touch pad, finally claiming a frustrated victory when the little white arrow chanced upon the address bar. Using the same finger, Ritta punched in the name of her preferred celebrity gossip website.

She knew it would rot her brain. But after Frank left, she found she enjoyed reading about women in Hollywood. Women who, if their husbands left them, wouldn’t need to beg for a job with a bunch of longhaired punks.

Ritta scrolled through the usual fare. So-and-so had a baby and named it Q-Tip; an A-list actor was photographed leaving a seedy motel room. She clicked through with a yawn, and almost missed it.

She scrambled for the reverse arrow with a start. Where was it? Yes, there. She jammed it furiously, and Jayden or Brayden or whatever raised an eyebrow at her. She ignored him, and made it back up to the headline she thought she saw.

“OSCAR-WINNING COSTUME DESIGNER RITTA BIRKYN DIES AT 58, CAUSE UNCERTAIN.”

She read the headline again.

And again.

Ritta Birkyn.

Age 58.

Two t’s; that uncommon last name.

58.

Her mind all a-jumble, Ritta read the body of the short article.

Hollywood costume designer Ritta Birkyn, 58, passed away yesterday after an illustrious career. Her award-winning work included Chicago, Amadeus, and Titanic. The cause of her death is not yet known, and a full autopsy will be performed on Monday. She is survived by her daughter, Ophelia Walker.

Ritta read that last sentence twenty times, and fixed on one word. Ophelia. The name that, from her youth, Ritta loved so dearly and even called herself for a short time in college.

This was the most peculiar thing Ritta had ever seen, and she didn’t know what to make of it. She knew coincidences happened every day. She was sensible. But this…another Ritta Birkyn, the same age as she, with a daughter named Ophelia, living the life a young Ritta used to imagine for herself?

“Ms. Birkyn!”

Ritta jumped.

“Uh, sorry, but you like, spaced out. I have the leads you wanted.”

She took them with quivering hands.