Page 4 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

Taking a step back, her eyes widen in surprise. Her hand instinctively rises to cover her mouth, then she removes it as though she doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. A fleeting moment of confusion passes over her face as she processes my revelation. Eventually, she regains her composure and strides to the sink to get us both a glass of water.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything. Honestly, I’m not sure if you’re the crazy one or if I am for believing you.” After forcing a mirthless chuckle, she looks at her half-drunk glass of water and says, “I’m not much for alcohol and all I have is a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream my realtor included in my Thank-You basket, but I think now’s the time to break that out, don’t you?”

A moment later, we’re drinking the sweet liqueur out of juice glasses.

When she’s drained hers, she lifts the glass, inspects it, shakes her head, and says, “I don’t see what the attraction is. I don’t feel better than before I drank it.”

Her candor makes me laugh, which breaks the ice.

“I’m kind of disoriented. If you’re convinced I’m not an axe murderer, would you feel comfortable if I look around, see if I left anything behind that might help ground me?”

“Go ahead. My knife is still in reach.” She gives a lilting laugh, which reminds me that if the prophecy was correct, this beautiful woman is supposedly my one true love. I shake my head. What was I thinking following those magical instructions?

As I comb through the items on the bookshelf, none of which mean anything to me except some of the books, which were mine, she asks, “Is anything coming back to you?”

I scoff. “Everything is coming back. Everything, that is, except why I was fool enough to follow some scribbled instructions on this swirling glass amulet.”

“I’m still debating whether I can set this knife down.” Her expression is wary.

“Honestly, I don’t blame you.”

“I’d offer to hop on my Indian to leave you alone, but I have a feeling it’s not in the front yard anymore.”

“Indian?”

“My Indian motorcycle. Best bike in the world. You haven’t seen it around, have you?”

“No.”

There’s an awkward silence for a moment as she continues to size me up.

“I’ll let you stay a moment. We’ll figure out what to do with you.” When one of the paintings on the wall catches her eye, she asks, You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the paintings on the walls, would you?”

“Guilty.”

“Guilty of what? Extraordinary talent?”

“And that, Rose?” I tip my head toward the painting on an easel in the corner.

“I should cover it with a sheet. It’s like hanging a Paul Schumer next to a room full of Van Goghs.”

“Paul Schumer?”

“Exactly. You don’t know his name because he had no talent.”

“You have talent, Rose. Nothing some practice and further instruction could’t improve.”

She scowls, but I think she likes my praise. I let it slide as I page through a few books hoping some scrap of paper will flutter out and explain my life choices in a far better way than I can. All the while, I sneak peeks of Rose, who’s still sitting at her little kitchen table.

Although she’s wary, she laughs easily and seems to be taking this far better than I would if our places were reversed. I develop a sense of connection with this fiery-haired woman, though she parses out fewer facts about her life than I’ve shared about mine.

The most revealing thing I learn isn’t from her words. It’s because she’s so tight-lipped about her childhood that I presume she has her own secrets.

Years ago, I sought refuge in this place, hoping to leave my past behind. Perhaps she, too, is here for the same reason. Intently, I pay attention to the sparse fragments she shares, isolated tales that carefully avoid disclosing anything personal.

Still, I feel a kinship with her. We laugh and joke as we try to unravel the mystery of my long slumber.

I don’t understand much about the arcane secrets of the amulet except for one thing. It kept me alive until I found Rose.

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