A Promise Kept

There had always been an excuse. And they had all seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. She was too busy. She was married to her job, or she wasn't looking for a serious commitment right then. Or if someone asked her if she were interested in something more casual-- that she wasn't interested in starting anything, no matter how casual it might be.

Had Henry influenced her somehow-- influenced her to make her wait for him?

It was too ridiculous, Rebecca told herself. There was no way. But... why? Why had she never once gone out with a man? Why had she gotten nearly all the way to thirty without ever having been in a serious romantic relationship with anyone?

And why had she never realized that this was strange until now?

The only plausible explanation was if Henry were telling the truth; but that was too strange for Rebecca to accept. There had to be another explanation.

When she could find none, she set the question aside again-- it was too uncomfortable to dwell on for any length of time, at least as long as it went unanswered.

Having gone over some of the external (and internal) facts of her life, Rebecca next turned to looking through her external surroundings in her search.

She started at home, going through her house methodically. She found nothing out of the ordinary until she reached her wardrobe. She'd never really thought about it before until just then, when she was standing in front of it, looking at it with new eyes. But she had a lot of clothes that she never wore.

Sure, Rebecca had her set of work clothes, all impeccably tailored to make her look like a million dollars; a collection of pantsuits, blouses, skirts cut to there. Long enough to be decent and professional, but sharp enough to kill at the cutoff point where the fabric ended.

The rest of the clothes weren't like that at all-- they weren't even her style. They were a tangled collection of boots, and dresses; skirts and blouses too, but in a distinctly different style. More loose and flowing, less sharp and commanding.

She had worn a few of them on occasion, paired with the pieces that made up her regular rotation, thrown in here and there for a splash of added color and variety.

But if Rebecca dug back even further into her closet, she could find pieces that she had never once worn. Pieces that were still in the bags and wrap they'd came in at the time of purchase.

What had she told herself when she'd bought these? Rebecca tried to remember. Now that she thought about it-- she had said to herself that these pieces were only impulse buys; that she had a spending problem; just liked the feeling of buying things, and it was alright to indulge that feeling every now and then. Like the excuse she'd given herself about the fact that she never dated, they had sounded incredibly believable at the time.

In the boxes when she moved aside the tissue paper, and in the bags, when she dug down inside of them, Rebecca found lots of leather pieces; leather skirts, especially, in a variety of colors.

She also found more boots than she had seen at first, these ones which she knew she had never worn. They were too outlandish for her; thigh-highs that would climb most of the way up her legs and hide them. She would never wear things like this; there was nothing lawyerly or professional about any of them. They weren't to her taste at all.

Yet she had them; and she had so many of them. She had all these strangle clothes, some of which she'd bought with practically no intention of wearing, as if she were being guided by some unseen force at the moment of purchase.

Rebecca was drawn back to the conclusion she'd reached earlier, when she'd thought about her (lack of) romantic life. Henry having some kind of unseen influence over her could explain these strange clothes-- if some part of her had bought them to wear for him. To where once she had returned to him.

Rebecca didn't like that thought when it was coming to her into this context any more than she had liked it when it came to her on the topic of her romantic history. Every time the evidence led back to it as a conclusion, it was like turning a corner and finding herself face to face with a dead end. When she found herself in front of it again, she had the choice of accepting it, or going back to search through her life in the hopes of finding evidence that would point to a different conclusion. She chose the latter option and not the former.

Apart from the clothes in her wardrobe, the rest of Rebecca's house was benign. She had no other strange possessions which stuck out. She thought she was almost done going through her possessions. Then she would be free to move on to considering other external things throughout the rest of her life.

But then Rebecca realized her house, in itself, was strange. She was only one person, yet she had bought a house much bigger than only one person would need. It was really a size more suitable for an entire family; and a large family at that. And she'd chosen a house that was on the outskirts of town, tucked into the wilderness.

There had been a lot of other houses on offer at the time of her purchase. Some with locations much more convenient in relation to her place of work. She had turned them all down-- she'd been adamant that the secluded, oversized house was for her. She even remembered now that her real estate agent had been a little confused by her insistence on it.

Again, Rebecca had to ask the question of herself, even though she was beginning to feel that she knew where it would lead. Why? Why that house specifically, in that location, built to that size?

It was like so many of the decisions she'd made in her life so far had been made to benefit someone else... even though at the time, she'd been convinced that she was the one who was making them, and that she was making for herself, because she was the one who wanted things to be that way.

But if Henry was the one who liked oversized houses, and if Henry liked secluded properties, and she'd chosen it to benefit him... just like she'd bought clothes that he would like to see her in, and just like she'd saved herself for him and turned down all other comers... didn't that have to mean he'd influenced her somehow into doing it?

Rebecca had reached the same dead end again. She was running out of options; running out of places where she could go to hide from it. Running low on information she could use to fend it away. Running out of hope that any such information even existed, now.

When Rebecca looked around at her social life, and her dating history: she found the conclusion there. When she looked into her wardrobe, at all her unworn clothes: she found it there. When she took the long drive back home from her firm to the edges of town where she lived: she found it there. Then when she arrived home, and stepped out of her car to look up at her house, and its large size, she found it there too.

It was starting to turn up everywhere that Rebecca looked.

But she still wasn't quite ready to accept it yet. Instead, she decided she would start asking around throughout her personal network about Henry... to see if there might be any evidence waiting for her there.

She asked some of her coworkers at the firm about him; and was surprised to find that most of them knew exactly who he was. Many of them had met him in person; one of the senior partners at the firm who had been on her interview panel when she'd first applied to be a paralegal seemed to know him particularly well.

They spoke of him to her with great familiarity; described him and conversations they'd had with him, or experiences they'd shared with him so vividly that Rebecca felt as if she could see him.

Some of them talked about seeing him at social events, or going out for friendly outings with him, to nightclubs or shows at the theater. Some of them spoke of him as a charitable donor, writing generous checks to their pet causes.

But it struck Rebecca that everyone she asked at her firm was able to speak about him knowledgeably. They knew him; some of them knew him better than others, but they did all know him, to one degree or another.

She asked more people in her network; some of the people who worked at one of the legal journals she sometimes submitted to; some of the people at the news network.

They all had stories of him too, stories which traced Henry's outline all through her life, but always one degree of separation removed from her.

When she found Henry popping up, like a ghost, even in those unexpected places, she realized she had reached the same dead end again. But once more, instead of accepting it, she to explore further, holding out hope that there was something she'd missed. Some alternate explanation which could wave it all away.

Rebecca asked her family, and her close friends with whom she had no professional affiliation. Henry appeared like a phantom there too.

Her family and personal friends did not speak of him with the knowledge that some of her colleagues and professional peers had done. But they did offer observations about him; times they had seen him out around the town. That they had often known him to be in the orbit of her firm; that they'd heard rumors of him moving when she moved, and moving to within half a mile's distance of her.

When she'd gone away to college, Henry had taken a job in the city she'd travelled to, and moved there too, they said. The same had been true when she'd gone to law school. He'd followed after her to live in the same city as her that time as well.

Then when Rebecca had come back after law school, when she won the paralegal job at her firm, he'd come back just after her. And when she'd lived in her previous apartment before buying her house, Henry had had an apartment four streets over, they said.

This information shocked Rebecca. But it also gave her the idea to follow up with some people she'd know during her school days. People she'd known during both her pre-law degree and her law degree. Had they known Henry? Did they have stories about him?

It turned out they did; one of the men who had done her college interview with her had much to say about him, to her shock.

It was at this point that Rebecca had to admit it. She had exhausted her social network. She had asked everyone she could think of about Henry, and she had gotten so many stories back in return. More than she ever would have expected, even in her most generous estimate.

What did that mean? What did it mean that Henry seemed to have been omnipresent throughout the past ten years of her life, yet invisible? How could it be that so many of the people she knew knew Henry as well, and could speak of him so easily-- yet she had never once heard his name mentioned by anyone in the ten years since he had dropped out of her life?

Unless... Rebecca had heard these stories all throughout the past years, had heard him mentioned constantly, and only failed to realize it until just now? Perhaps Henry's influence-- if it did in fact exist-- was so powerful that he had somehow been able to make her forget it every time she'd heard him mentioned?

He had told her to "remember" in the second note he had sent to her. As if the word itself had been a key in his hand that he had slotted confidently into a lock which he knew was there. He'd slipped the word into the note with such nonchalance, such ease, that it was like he'd slid a key into a keyhole with his eyes shut; but knew the placement of the keyhole so well that he could guide the key in blind.

Could Rebecca really deny it any longer? Everywhere she looked, she found Henry. The people in her life spoke around him, tracing his outline for her to see-- her own wardrobe traced out his silhouette, and the location of her house and her house itself did too. It was like all things in her life were working together to draw a picture of Henry-- everything was an arrow that pointed back to him. She had only failed to see it before; and perhaps she had only failed to see it before because Henry had told her to.

And now that he had given permission for her to realize this, she could; but before that, she had been unable-- only because Henry had wanted it so...

It frightened her that Henry could have such powerful influence over her as to make her forget things if he wanted her to. Or to be able to dictate what she could realize and what she couldn't. But it seemed impossible for her to deny his influence any longer. It also seemed impossible that Henry had been lying. Or that he was delusional as she'd first told herself when she'd read his first letter. There was just too much evidence to support what Henry had claimed. She couldn't ignore at any longer. There was no other explanation.

She must have made a deal with him, though she didn't remember doing that; and he must have carried out his side of it, just as he had said.

At least now that she knew, she could go to him. And maybe she could convince him to let her out of holding up her side of it. She still wasn't entirely clear on how she was supposed to hold up her side of it. Maybe he would free her from their agreement if she only asked. Or maybe she could forfeit the help he'd given her, and ask him to revoke it, in order to secure her freedom.

After all, Rebecca had been established in her career for a few years now. Even if Henry had pulled the strings for her to set her up in it, now she was set up, and her work had spoken for itself. Even if Henry pulled out of giving help to her, she had a professional reputation now that she could stand on.

Rebecca found that when she decided it was time to go and see Henry, she knew exactly where to go. She hadn't thought she knew his address. But as it turned out, she did. When she was thinking about him on the drive home from work, she found his addressed came suddenly into her mind.

As her friends and her family had implied; he lived only a short distance away from her. She recognized the street name.

Rebecca decided to stop by her own house first, to change out of her work clothes. She'd worn a gray blouse that day, and a matching gray skirt, but it felt a little formal for seeing Henry, even if she was only seeing him to ask him to release her from their agreement.

Besides, she was nervous about going over there and seeing him after so much time. She wanted something she would be comfortable in, while also looking presentable.

Once she got inside, she went to her room and opened her wardrobe. From it she retrieved her softest pair of pale blue jeans, and her soft, close-fitting golden sweater to wear with it. It was night, it was chilly, and if she wore this sweater, she could get away without taking her coat. It was warm enough; and she wasn't planning to stand outside for very long. Hopefully she could have her conversation with Henry quickly on his porch, then get back in her car and go back home.

She was hoping it could be that fast and that simple.

At least it was a quick journey to get to Henry's. That was starting on the right track, she though. She hoped the pattern would continue in that way. She stood out there on his doorstep, in the halo of illumination that came out of his porch light, and knocked on his door.

He opened the door to her; there he was. The outline that everything and everyone in her life had traced of him was suddenly filled in with the real thing.

Henry didn't look at all surprised to see her standing there, but he did look a little relieved. Or maybe pleased-- but not surprised.

"You've come," he said, simply. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"I've come," Rebecca repeated. "I've come to ask--"

Henry placed a finger over her lips; silencing her with delicate pressure.

"Come inside first. We can talk there."

He removed his hand from the vicinity of her mouth, and beckoned for her to come in.

The feeling of him silencing her with a touch had affected her-- she followed his beckoning across the threshold, and he led her through his house to a room tucked away in its back corner. It was a small room, but it had large windows, though they were curtained to obscure the night outside.

The room held a fireplace; and two comfortable chairs in front of it. They were not placed too closely together; and there was no fire burning in the hearth at the moment. The room was currently lit by overhead electric lighting, and not flame.

Somehow this filled her with relief; both the fact that the chairs were separated by some distance, and that the room was brightly lit in neutral white lighting, provided by lightbulbs. Henry had stopped the words in her mouth-- had even stopped the words in her mind, for she had entirely lost her train of thought when he'd done it-- with only one single touch. It seemed truer than ever that he had some kind of influence over her; and clearly, it was even more powerful than she had guessed.

Henry gestured for Rebecca to take a seat in the chair he indicated; she did. Then he took the other seat for himself, and looked her over again. "You said you wanted to talk. Talk."

Again, his prompting seemed irresistible; he had given her an opening, an invitation, and it didn't even occur to Rebecca not to take it. The words he had silenced in her had been given back; he had granted them back to her. She would use them.

"I came to say that I see you have influenced my life," Rebecca said. "I--"

"And how does that make you feel?" Henry interrupted, his eyes watching her closely.

Rebecca swallowed. "Frightened," she confessed. The confession fell so easily from her; not only because of the strange influence he seemed to hold over her. But because somewhere underneath that, there was knowledge resting there. The knowledge that he, Henry, had been her most trusted confidant once, and in those days, she had been in the habit of sharing her every thought with him, whether he asked to hear them or not.

That was a long time ago now; but old habits died hard. Rebecca believed in that moment that she would still have confessed to him that easily, even without his added influence over her.

And yet he wasn't like the boy she had known at all; though she had found his outline everywhere throughout her life, as she sat before him now, he seemed a complete stranger to her.

"Say more about that feeling of fright," Henry invited her.

Rebecca swallowed. "I'm frightened because-- you've been everywhere in my life, but I didn't know it. You made all of this happen for me-- my career, my success... you did something to influence all the people who have ever come into contact with me, to give me helpful pushes along my way... and you've used that same influence on me, to make me forget things that you wanted me to forget, or do things you wanted me to do-- to do things for your own benefit, and not mine, and I never even realized at the time that I was doing them for you... All the time you've been pulling the strings for me, and I never realized you were... because you didn't want me to..."

"I won't argue with the second part," Henry admitted. "But I will challenge you on the first part: yes, I'm acquainted with many of the people in your network. And I did give slight pushes at strategic moments, but I was much less involved than you seem to imagine."

Rebecca looked at him in confusion; Henry went on. "I didn't give your career to you," he explained. "You earned it yourself. You're a hard worker, you're intelligent, you're good at what you do. All I had to do was grease your wheels; but you drove the car. I only took a meeting or two with admissions departments, pointed out your desirability as a candidate. Or encouraged particularly skilled experts in your field to mentor you. But it never took much convincing. You were desirable as a candidate, even without my help; I just made it a little easier for you."