This month I will be participating in the “Blogging from A-Z Challenge”
What is it?
I will be Blogging everyday beginning on April First with a topic themed on something with the letterA, then on April second another topic with the letter B as the theme, and so on until I finish on April thirtieth with the theme based on the letter Z. The theme of the day is the letter scheduled for that day.
My theme will be short fictional (well mostly fictional) stories about women. Each woman’s name will begin with the appropriate letter of the alphabet for that day.
All of the women will have the common life experience of a loss of some type.
I invite you, Dear reader, to comment on how you interpret the loss.
Eve LynThe sign on the wall next to the door read “Finders” - “An Investigation and Location Service”.
After extensive googling and yahooing, I selected Finders because of their claim: “We Care About Your Loss”.
I needed caring.
“Evelyn?" the young woman at the desk called out. Since there were only two of us in the room and the other person was a he, I knew she was referring to me.
I went up to the window.
“I think you might be looking for me? But, it’s Eve Lyn, not Evelyn,” I said, noticing her name tag, which read “Lisa”.
How clever of my mother to make that little change in the spelling of a common name. She told me that she thought it would set me apart from other girls named Evelyn.
Perhaps it did in some ways. It certainly drew attention to me every time I had to correct my new teacher, on every first day of the new school year.
And so it went, on and on, all during my life.
"No, that’s Eve Lyn, not Evelyn. “
Sometimes, I wouldn’t bother. If the person was someone I most likely would never see again, I would just stay Evelyn.
But today, they had to get it right.
I sometimes wonder if having an unconventional name affected me in a significant way.
From early on I felt different. But was it because of my name? Perhaps it was one of those nature or nurture dilemmas.
Teachers would write comments on my report cards and mention it at conferences.
“She’s well, she’s a little shy,” they would say in a hushed voice.
“If she doesn’t come out of her shell, she is going to miss out on a lot.” They would advise.
Had I missed out on a lot?
Anyway, now, along with my distinct name, physically, I was also quite noticeable.
Nearly six feet tall, I was a ginger with thick wavy red hair, fair skin, and a face dotted with tan freckles.
“Since this is your first time here, I need you to fill out this form, the receptionist said.”
The form had questions about family history and what the purpose of my appointment was.
“Why was I here today?” Or rather the question should have been “How did I wind up here today?“
There wasn’t enough room on the form to totally explain why I was here today.
I handed the completed form to Lisa. She looked it over and told me to take a seat.
I generally find it hard to sit still, some part of my body is always in motion.
While I waited, my anxiety intensified. I sat on the edge of the chair, one leg crossed over the other, kicking my top leg back and forth.
I reached down to touch the box, making sure it was still down there on the floor, by my side.
An old red tin box, it was lithographed in gold with Asian designs of women in kimonos and ornate pagodas. It was filled with trifles and bits of clues hidden in odd novelties.
I had found it in the storage space above the garage while I was sorting through my mother’s effects. It was amongst old toys and other containers.
Strange, I had probably passed by that box dozens of times, looking for this or that.
That day there was a glint of rainbow light coming through the small window, playfully bouncing on that box.
When I took a closer look, I noticed my name in tiny letters on a piece of masking tape stuck to the side of the box. “Eve Lyn” was written in faded black ink.
I moved an old doll carriage and a crate of unused mason jars out of the way to get the box down.
I had to tug on the top to get it off. Then I spent the next four hours examining the contents.
After pulling out some official looking papers, a baby hat, which was knitted in blue yarn, a hospital wrist band, and a plain white legal sized envelope, I spotted the journal in the bottom of the box.
The book was leather bound in black with gilded page edges. The front cover was embossed in gold lettering.
A Line A Day.
The diary had a latch with a key hole, but it was not locked.
I opened it to the first page. I recognized my mother’s handwriting. It was dated January 1965. Underneath the date was my mother’s name, “Francine Elizabeth Padora”.
The receptionist was calling me,“Eve Lyn?” Mr. Spade will see you now.