»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
The Other Room
| Passions in Prose |
|
The Other Room |
|
Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada 
|
© Mysteria 27/08/2002 1,441 words The events, which led to this rather unusual experience, are still a little hazy in my mind. It all started on the first day of a well-earned holiday, and I left Vancouver in my sports car along the highway to the ferry, hoping that by nightfall I would have found the small island town of Garibaldi and the inn that my friend had called really “out of this world.” The evening twilight, always long at this time of year was drawing in and I still had thirty to forty miles to go before reaching the rendezvous for the night. The fields of the island were stretching before me, barren and bleak through the mist that now drifted about in eerie patches. The road dipped down to a small river valley and I was there before realizing it. I struck something with the fender of the car and that is about all I remember about it. The next scene, of which I experienced a conscious part, was that of a bedroom and a very pleasant, delightful one I observed while glancing about soon after waking from what I thought at the time must have been a deep, deep sleep. I must still have been idly appraising the room when I slipped off to sleep again, for when I once more was fully conscious, the sun was streaming into my room and through the slightly opened window I could hear birds twittering among the vague distant sounds of the countryside. The door opened gently and a lady of about middle age smilingly asked if I was awake yet. I tried to reply but my voice refused to co-operate, and it was with extreme difficulty that I managed to mumble a few words. “Please don’t try to exert yourself, I’ll do the talking. My name is Anne Carter. First of all, you had an accident in your car. We heard the crash, my husband and I, and also Dr. Caruthers who happened to be her sharing dinner with us at the time. We rushed out with the Major – that’s my husband – and between the two of them you were carried into the house. The doctor thought that was the best thing to do, as the hospital is in Garibaldi, still a few miles to go yet from here. You will be able to rest here and we are delighted to have you and to be of some help.” “But – but …” “We have plenty of room in the house, and my son is just through the other door there,” Mrs. Carter explained, and pointed to a second door in the room which evidently led into another, and smaller one. With that she left me and shortly afterwards Dr. Caruthers looked in on me. At least I assumed that it was he. Somehow he looked just as a doctor should look, of the country type that I would expect to find around these parts. Weather-beaten face and snowy hair, he must have tramped and driven several hundred s of miles over this wild country during his life’s work of healing the sick, bringing in generations of children to this life, and probably listening to thousands of complaints from patients, imagined or real. He spoke soothingly to me and said, “not to worry.” “I’ll come back and chat with you later and explain everything that you ought to know. Take it easy now, and I’ll order some lunch to be sent up for you.” He then went softly away as silently as he had come. A pleasant young girl came in shortly afterwards, and set a tray down by the bed. Mrs. Carter followed before I had realized it. “Now just take a little of this and you will feel much better,” she said. I still felt too weak to reply but attended to the food as well as I could. However, I must have dozed off because I had no recollection of Mrs. Carter leaving, although I had seen the young girl slip away. It was very much later when Mrs. Carter brought her husband into the room. He was a typical army man, ruddy face and a breezy manner. He wore coveralls that definitely fit him but I had this strange mental vision of him in full army regalia. “Well, old man, how are you today?” The Doc certainly fixed you up all right. Reminds me of the War, young man.” He would have carried on his clipped speech but his wife interposed and said “Mr. Hudson isn’t up to too much now, and remember, our son is in the other room, shhh now.” I wondered how they knew my name, but they might have got it from my clothes – pockets, in some way, although I didn't know how. As the days passed I got to know the three of them very well and their kindness overwhelmed me. Why should they take in a perfect stranger who happened to knock himself out on the road that skirted the foot of their property; but they would take no thanks from me and kept on insisting that they were only too pleased to have me there. One thing was bothering me thought I did not ask them, but I always wondered about it, and that was the strange fact that though the Major and Mrs. Carter often referred to their son as being through “that other door”, I had never seen any evidence of such a person. I was able to get up now and was invited downstairs to sit out on the terrace off the living room. Doc. Caruthers happened to drop in on an afternoon I was out on the terrace. He seemed very happy about my recovery and that I had no broken bones, so I asked him when I could resume my traveling. We were out of earshot of our hosts and Mrs. Carter had left the living room with her husband to go to the back of the house to see to some work that needed doing on the kitchen door so I brought up the subject that had been, and still was, a source of mystery to me. “Just bear with me, Mr. Hudson,” said the doctor, “And do have some pity for the Major and his wife. You see, when we rushed down to pick you up – or to find out what the crash was all about the major, when he saw you, kept on saying, “It’s Charles, and he is not too badly hurt, we much help him.” The doctor paused for a minute or two and I waited, wonderingly. “I must tell you Mr. Hudson that Charles, their only son, was killed in a crash almost at the exact spot where you later became a cropper. And odd though it must be to you, you bear such an uncanny likeness to him. It was unbearable for the major, and poor Mrs. Carter. Their minds were jarred by the tremendous shock of their son’s death, and even to me, their lifelong friend, they always insist that Charles is in the “other room.” Through that door which you have heard them refer to, is where they believe Charles is, and perhaps he is in a spiritual sense – Charles might be there, who knows?” An even stranger thing is there have been numerous accidents at that very spot for years by young men such as yourself, which makes this quite bizarre, but I am afraid they were not as lucky as you were. Much time has passed since then and I have become a devoted friend of those charming people, the major and his wife. I spend many a weekend in their home and not once have I revealed to them what the old doctor told me of the truth of the “other room.” During my time of convalescence I had accepted the other room as a sort of healing memorial to their only son. When I returned to my room each night I treated the fact of what Mrs. Carter had said about her son requiring his solitude in his room with respect as these wonderful people had saved my life. One evening when the heat made the sheets stick to me like flies to flypaper, I arose to go down to the terrace for some night air, and as if without thinking, I opened the door across the hall where their son supposedly was. It was all I could do to keep from being sick, for there in a chair was a skeleton, covered with a wrap, as if being kept warm from a winter’s chill, and this I assumed was their son. To both of them “the other room” to this day is their sacred and secret place and always will be. The room is of no interest to anyone because of Dr. Caruthers country gossip, so their secret is safe with me, because they have always treated me like their son! The most valuable thing you own is a smile, wear it, and share it. Sharon  [This message has been edited by Mysteria (08-28-2002 02:36 AM).] |
||
| © Copyright 2002 Mysteria 1997 - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Gemini Senior Member
since 1999-12-15
Posts 1203Wisconsin, USA |
Excellent write, wonderful imagery. It held my attention right thru to the ending. |
||
|
Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
He, he thank you I had this dream and there it is a little story now. I love writing "little" stories and I am glad if even one person reads it, thank you so much. |
||
|
Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
Sharon, You should be ashamed of yourself. It isn't right you putting goose bumps on a 52 year old man! If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
