The Truth Is Out There

My future is as uncertain as my past. I’ve pondered it for my entire life and still have few answers. The truth is out there - like the quote from the television show, The X-Files. They say to look within, but what can I find in an empty shell?

Yesterday, I quit my job after 8 years. It was the longest time I’ve held a job. I felt a burn in my shoulder blades from the stares of my co-workers as I walked away. It was a deep, hot ache at first, but once I got into my car, I inhaled freedom. Freedom, yes, but my rent was due in a few days, and that will clean out my account until my final paycheck lands.

My thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of my tracking device. Damn, this thing makes my wrist sweaty. Should I replace it with an Apple Watch? NO! You don’t have a job and can’t spend money, stupid!

“Hello? No, I don’t want a survey.” Damned pests—another number blocked; I must have a thousand by now. Crap, now it’s my boss. Former boss. “Hello, Richard. Yes, I know everyone’s sorry. I’m not sorry. Richard, you’re nosy; I don’t have a job waiting for me. Why are you calling? A key? What do you mean, a key came in the mail? Why are you calling me about a key?”

“The item came addressed to you, Jacquie. Did you want to come and get it?”

“Who is it from, Richard?”

“No return address.”

"How do you know it's a key? Why open my mail?”

“Now, don’t go nuclear on me. The envelope was torn, and the postal service put it all into a baggie with a label. Whoever sent it should have used a box or a padded envelope. It was in a legal-size envelope that ripped. Do you want to pick it up?”

“Legal-size? So it is a large key?”

“Damn, Jacquie, this is exactly the kind of crap that got you into trouble at work.”

“Asking questions?”

"Yes. Always asking, never answering. So—are you coming for the key?"

“I will be there in the morning.” He is such an asshole. Damn! I’m glad I don't have to work with him any longer.

I went to bed early, knowing I’d need a clear head for the next day.

“Hi Jacquie! Are you back?”

"No, Clem, I’m just here to pick up a key." He wore an Oxford button-down shirt and tie - his usual work clothes. Today, his shirt was pale yellow, brightening his deep hickory eyes.

“Okay. Let’s stay in touch. We can have dinner or have a movie night. Maybe go roller skating or bowling?”

"Sure! Saturday - come to my place?"

I knocked on Richard’s door, which I never did while employed under him. I’ll be courteous so I can grab my item and skedaddle out of this hellhole.

“Hi Jacquie.” Look at him waving me in – so important. “Here it is. I put it all inside the manila envelope. What do you think it’s for?” None of your damned business, is what. And, I haven’t a clue, but if I did, or when I do know, I won’t be sharing the details with your sorry ass. I see you holding court behind your executive desk, with the neatly stacked piles of paper. Stop waiting, you dweeb; there will be no forthcoming compliments on your charcoal-gray suit with notched lapels, nor on the bright plaid tie. No one is impressed! I abruptly stopped my inner dialogue, straightening to my full height of five feet ten inches (three more than Richard).

Glowering down at him, I replied, “No clue. Thanks.” I grabbed the envelope and went home. Mail had arrived, and as I flipped through, I noticed a pale lavender envelope without a return address. I scraped under the scalloped edge with my hot pink index fingernail. A short note was inside, written in flourished script in brown ink. Only three lines:

I sent the key separately. It will unlock the house at 8893 Baker Street, Catalina Island, CA. Love and good luck wishes are conveyed, Jacqueline.

No one calls me that. As I pondered this new mystery, I pulled out a photo enclosed with it and gasped. It was a photo of me. No, it wasn't me, it was too old-timey. Turning it over, I saw a date from the Kodak developer, from the year before I was born. Mom?

Now agitated, I wanted to get to that address. Catalina Island is a half-day’s drive. I wasted no time getting on the road within the hour in my black Subaru Forester, an overnight bag and snacks beside me. I knew the route and stopped only once for a pit stop.

The house was a petite bungalow, white with black shutters. The front porch ran the entire length of the house, with original retro red metal chairs, circa 1955. The porch deck was a pale gray. Chintz blue-and-yellow tie-back curtains hung in the upstairs windows. I parked a few houses away and took a walk around the block. The postman was driving up the street. Lucky day! “Sir? Can you tell me who lives here?” I pointed to the bungalow with the address 8893 in large black numbers.

“No one lives there. Haven’t for years.”

“Years? Then how can it be so well kept?”

“I don’t live on this street, Lady. Somebody obviously pays for a caretaker and a gardener. Have a nice day.”

Gosh, how rude. Maybe his ass hurts from all that driving. Should I go try the key now?

I dialed Clem. “Hi. Yeah, I’m okay. I was just wondering if you could help me with something in Catalina?”

I checked into a bed and breakfast a few miles away, then spent time driving around town. I passed the library and a cute church before driving by 8893 again. Lamps were lit in the upstairs windows as dusk settled. The house was inviting and cozy - nothing like how I had grown up. I imagined a family inside, having dinner, then gathering near the fireplace. I’ve never had a home with a fireplace.

The roses were beginning to bloom, red, pink, and white, some curling outward fully, while others were just buds. Beneath them, groups of deeply hued tulips stood in contrast to the dirt. I noticed a planter box on the porch, full of blooms and trailing plants. Quietly (furtively?), I approached the side of the house and peeked through the window. The room was a den with a white roll-top desk and walls lined with colorful frames of turquoise, mauve, and black that held family portraits. An oversized oil painting of children playing at the shore, parents watching from the beach, in an ornate frame, hung opposite the window. I was startled when a Tiffany lamp on the desk lit up. Then I saw it and gasped. A large version of the woman's photo from the violet envelope stared at me from its easel.

I walked to the back yard, and the mullioned windows of the back door revealed a kitchen with a gas stove and a hanging pot rack. There was a prep sink and a butler's pantry. The island had been redone with a white-and-gray quartz top. Four counter stools covered in turquoise velveteen waited patiently for guests.

I tore myself away from the delightfully homey house and went back to the bed-and-breakfast to wait for Clem. He and I ate dinner at the shore. "So: you got a photo in a tiny envelope, the key goes to the bungalow, which is well kept, but no one's there. You peeked through a window and saw the same picture, but larger?" Clem summed up what I had told him.

“I didn’t sneak. I walked right up.”

"Okay. But when you looked in the window, it was the same picture?"

“Yep.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe my mom? No one told me anything, or showed me, or ever talked to me about how I came to be.”

We sat quietly, enjoying the crickets in the spring night, the smell of the sea, and the moon reflecting on the glass-like surface. Seagulls floated close to shore, and shorebirds were wading for dinner.

“What do you want to do, Jacq?”

“Let’s go to bed and head back there in the morning.”

I woke Clem at sunrise. We had coffee and headed to 8893, where we found the groundskeeper quietly weeding. It was too early to wake the neighborhood with a lawn mower or a leaf blower. His iced tea was in a yellow-lidded pitcher set near the steps, next to a container of wet wipes, ready for the day to heat up. Seems he planned a full day in the yard.

“Howdy,” he greeted us. “I wasn’t making too much noise, was I? Are you the one who came around last night?”

I dangled the oversize key at him, and he laughed. “Over there is the one that works.” He pointed to a key hanging from a fuchsia basket next to the front door. “You look just like her, you know that? Go on - tour the inside.”

I paused on each of the porch steps. Reaching the top, I gazed at the front door, my stomach in knots. Inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly to calm my nerves, I pulled the tiny photo from my jeans pocket. I could barely swallow with the enormous lump in my throat. A slight breeze gently swung the key on its chain, and it tinkled like a wind chime.

Copyright © 3/19/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin

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