C H A P T E R 6 : A U R E V O I R
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
— Oscar Wilde~
“Who is this?” I grip the phone as though my life depends on it, on the words the man will say next.
The man chuckles. “You have been seeking answers.” There is a momentary pause before he continues, “one bit of advice, my love, if you are not ready for the answers you are about to hear, you better not raise the questions. Au revoir mona mi.”
Just as fast as the call came, it ends, leaving me staring at my phone, confused.
What the hell was that?
My hand shakes uncontrollably. I
C H A P T E R 7 : M A S K E D T R U T H No mask like open truth to cover lies, as to go naked is the best disguise. William Congreve. ~ It was around two in the afternoon when I arrived at the orphanage. This time, I did not bring my tape recorder or notebook with me. I came alone solely to obtain answers. The nun who opened the door gives me a curious look. She must have heard about my impertinence the last time I visited with Sister Cecilia. “Hi, good afternoon,” I give her my brightest smile, one that assures her I won’t bite. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?” The nun returns the smile, though I can see the wariness in her eyes. She looks lik
C H A P T E R 8 : T H E H O T , S W E A T Y S E XLust is a pleasure bought with pains, a delight hatched with disquiet, a content passed with fear, and a sin finished with sorrow. Demonax.~In the moonlight I can see the dark gleam of his eyes as he carried my fingers to his lips, very gently kissing each one in turn before sitting up in bed and drawing me down into his arms, into the bed, against his naked, warm, body. I feel my own body start to tremble helplessly in mute response, not just to the feel of his, but to all the memories it evokes.I hear him whispering my name between kisses, repeatedly. Like a refr
C H A P T E R 9 : R E A L I T Y V E R S U S I L L U S I O N Reality is merely an illusion. Albert Einstein ~ “Who are you?” I stare at the stranger in confusion. I know who he is, he was the man in my dream, but I have no idea that he could visit me in reality as well, standing on my porch with a mischievous devil may care smile across his lips. I thought dreams are just fickle of our own imaginations. “My apologies, where are my manners?” he replies, though he does not look sorry at all. “My name is Remliel Deveraux. I believe you are Julie St. Matthews, Katherine’s daughter.” I blink. “You know my mother?” So I have been dreaming about my mother’s friend?? Ew, how gross is that?! “I’m here on her behalf, actually.” He smiles again, yet it still doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s somet
C H A P T E R 1 0 : T H E S T A T E O F M I N D Truth depends upon the intensity of imagination, not upon facts. Neville Goddard. ~ Right after I tried and failed to convince Bob to take on the new story instead of Toby’s, I find myself once again behind the wheel again on the way to the orphanage. I need to gain more information about Juliet Matthias, her life at the orphanage, and where she is right now. I have to prove to Bob that this story is bigger and more interesting than Toby’s.Something, call it writer’s intuition, tells me that the nurse will be helpful in gaining this information. It does not take longer than the previous visit to get to Sister Margaret. It almost feels like she is secretly waiting for me when I see her in her usual spot under the tree in the garden. “Good morning,
C H A P T E R 1 1 : C O N F U S I O N Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you. Roger Ebert ~ “No, you’re mistaken,” I shake my head firmly, refusing to pretend to be Juliet again. “My name is Julie. Julie St. Matthews.” A voice in my head is asking me if I was trying to convince her or myself, but I shut it off. With almost everyone I met saying thinking that I am Juliet, I can’t help to doubt the truth. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She raises her hand and tucks a few strands of her blonde hair behind her ear. “You just remind me of someone from my childhood. You both look so much alike.” “Was it by any chance, Juliet Matthias?” I decide to ask and see if there’s an opening. I know I am not going to pretend that I am Juliet, just like what I did with the nun, but I know if I say the correct name, there is a chance that she migh
C H A P T E R 1 2 : F R A G I L E T H I N G C A L L E D M E M O R Y Memory nourishes the heart, and grief abates. Marcel Proust ~ As I am driving home, I remember that I have not called my mom today, so I fish out my phone and dial her number. Strange enough, she does not pick it up. I give it one more try yet still no answers. I toss my phone to the seat next to me as I focus my eyes on the road. Nate. My high school buddy. Why did they have the same name? Is it really just a coincidence? If it is, there are so many coincidences so far. Starting with everyone mistaking me for Juliet, Juliet’s friend has the same name as my baby sister. And now, her brother has the same name as my best friend. An idea pops into my head like a lighting bulb. Maybe I should go to Ardmore, visit my parents, and check my high school
C H A P T E R 1 3 : L I E S A N D W A R P E D T R U T H Be careful who you pretend to be, you might forget who you are. ~ “I’m sorry, Ms. Saint Matthews, but according to the record that we have, the house at 211 Roberts Rd, Ardmore, PA 19002 does belong to Mike Dawson,” says the short plump guy in a white dress shirt and brown pants. A gold-framed spectacle hung on the bridge of his nose. I frown. “Are you sure? How about the Saint Matthews? Do you have any records of them, their whereabouts?” I fish out my phone and text Stella while waiting for Pete, the officer, to search through the data on his computer. He’s the first person here who doesn’t mistake me for Juliet. Maybe the fact that he’s a fan of my books has something to do with that. Stella, call me as soon as you get this. I think Mom and Dad are missing.
C H A P T E R 1 4 : T H E T H I N L I N E B E T W E E N D R E A M A N D R E A L I T Y Sleep occupies a third of our life. It is the consolation to the woes of our days or the woe of their pleasures, but I have never found that sleep was a rest. After a swoon of a few minutes, a new life begins, freed from conditions of time and space, and doubtless like the life which awaits us after death. Who knows whether there does not exist a link between these two existences and whether it is not possible for the soul now to bind them together Gerard de Nerval, Aurélia