CHAPTER TWO

SECOND CHANCE

The brisk fresh smell of the new fallen snow was heavy in the air. I stepped out the front door of the shop and took a deep breath, letting the cool crisp air fill my lungs. It made them feel clean and new. It always made me feel good. The blue-purple haze of the mountains were now replaced by white caps of snow. Much like the ice cream cones I used to devour in the summers as a child. Up close the trees were so beautiful. Their branches heavy laden with snow, almost to the point of cracking under the pressure. Snowbirds filled the air singing their joyous songs. It was indeed the best time of year. Tourist began to fill the streets of Aspen. Another season of happy-go-lucky vacationers. They were want-to-be preppy ski bums. Acting as if they had lived here all their lives, not for one or two weeks. Not that it made any difference to me. I didn’t ski much. Bit of a chicken. I ran this quaint little novilty shop, specializing in photography. I had several wooden cut outs that people posed in. Or if they wanted, took pictures of them and their families on the slopes. It seemed to be a profitable idea. The shop included the usual T-shirts, ashtrays and knick knacks that people wanted to remember their trip by. But it also had some photographs that I had taken in my stint in Europe and some from here in Colorado. We, Sophia and I, also offered a small coffee room where people could relax and enjoy a cup of coffee and doughnut if they were so inclined. We realized a few years ago, some people, like myself, didn’t ski. A place to relax and enjoy the beautiful sight of the mountain, was needed. Of course they had their hotels and bed and breakfasts, but the side of our shop held the most spectacular view of the Rockies. It wasn’t the place they skied down. It was the opposite direction. Untouched by humans. A free and open spirit calling down from the mountain. It said to me every morning, Hello Meagan! Sophia the owner of this shop, was a cheerful old woman. She had lived in Colorado all her life. The people who were running it for her had left suddenly, and she needed a clerk. I had just came here for the winter, like the other tourist. That was some five years ago. I had spent the first year after college in Paris. It was a kind of retreat for me. I needed some solace time to get my life back on the right track. My father was more than happy to send me away after the scandal I had created at college. So I traveled throughout Europe. It was exciting, yet lonely. I knew no one and spoke very little French. But, I survived and grew strong from the experience. I also found that writing wasn’t my only niche in life. I loved photography. I found it was true, that a picture is worth a thousand words. I think my inspiratino came from The Louvre. The museum filled with majical pictures. Nowhere I imagine are the sights so breathtaking as in Paris. It was more than I was expecting. Not only the usual touristy things like the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, and such, but people and small villages also. One village just outside of Nanterre, just off the beaten path, as they sayis where I spent most of the year. Stockpiled up with books, magazines, and a new camera. My first shot was of the cottage. It was surrounded with dozens of Lily’s, each in full bloom. The aroma could almost be smelled through the picture. From then on I took pictures of everything and everyone. I’m sure people thought I was nuts, at least. It was just before Christmas when I began to feel something strange going on. My pregnancy was uneventful until then. I really had not much of any idea what to expect. The nurses that I had been seeing just told me that I would know when to come to the hospital. Well, I knew then it must be time. Sure enough, Christmas Eve, I delivered a 8 pound 3 ounce baby girl. So beautiful were her screams. So unprepared I was to give her up, to keep her. Both. I don’t remember signing the final paper. I just remember the tears. They wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t make them. I wanted to curl up and die once more. I wanted once again to slap Steve across the face and make him feel the pain I was feeling. I wanted more than anything for him to hurt as badly as I did. But that wasn’t going to happen. They assured me that the baby would have a wonderful home. A loving couple who couldn’t have children of their own was going to give her a home. She would have a mother and a father. I knew I could never give her the things she needed. My father had forbidden me to contact him if I kept the child. He said he would not be shamed by me ever again. Gave me money of course to get rid of the problem and sent me here to take care of it. I knew he had meant abortion. I knew that’s what they all wanted me to do. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t kill the little life in me. It would be impossible. So I kept it a secret from all of them. My letters I sent back home were full of lies. Not that it mattered. How many lies had they told me? How many times had I been pushed aside to let their needs come first? At least his needs. What I remember of my mother were good things. Of course I was only 5 when she died. I wanted so much to have a mother. My thoughts were interrupted by Sophia. She was needing some help restocking the postcards. Nearly seventy, she was one in a million. Her eyesight was failing, and she didn’t quite get around like she used to, but never-the-less, she insisted on helping out every day. Sophia was unpacking a box of postcards that we just received. It was hard for her to distinguish the pictures and where they went on the carousel. The customers were beginning to stream into the shop, the Holiday’s were growing near. After Thanksgiving, that’s when they came by the busloads. I watched as the streets began to bustle with rented cars. The sidewalks were crowded with bright colored ski suits. No doubt the first time worn. Mid afternoon came quickly, and Sophia went to go lie down. I picked up the feather duster and began to dust off the small collection of books. I overheard a little girl say, “Daddy, may I purchase this postcard. It has a wonderful picture of a pony on it. See” Her voice had a distinct French accent. She held up to his face so he could examine it more closely. “Yes, I see. And you do love horses, don’t you?” He knelt down beside the little girl. Putting his arm around her, he said, “Of course you may have the postcard.” She kissed him on the cheek and smiled. “You may pick one at to send to your Grandmother too.” The little girls brown eyes lit up as she began to look through the carousel of cards again. The man patted the little girl on the head and began to look the framed photo’s on the wall. I tried not to be nosey and watch their every move, but there was something about them. I know I didn’t know them. Maybe it was the familiar French accent that had me entranced. He, this blond haired man, picked up the black and white picture of the Eiffel Tower hanging on the wall. I remember taking that one, I said to myself. I shot it just before a horrendous thunderstorm hit. The background showed the luminous black clouds with streaks of lightning flashing through. In the foreground stood the Tower, majestic and powerful. It was undoubtedly one of my favorites. I imagined he was attracted to it because of the familiarity of the picture. Something from his home, I would assume. “Daddy,” the little girl was tugging on his shirt. “I found another one with a pony on it. Do you think Grandmother would like it?” She was looking at the two postcards in her hands. “Oh yes, Molly. I’m sure she will.” He looked kind of somber. Not at all like the happy man I had seen just seconds ago. I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in the picture to make him sad. Maybe it wasn’t the picture at all, but a memory. I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. They came to the register to check out. The little girl proudly placed her selection on the counter. “These are for me and my Grandmother.” She looked up at her father, all smile. I looked at her and then to her father, did I know them? He fidgeted with her long brown hair as she spoke to me. “My Molly is a bit excited. It is her first time away from home.” He explained. “How nice you get to travel. Are you on Holiday then?” I asked, knowing that school was probably out. She looked up at her father, “Are we Daddy?” Her questioning eyes beckoning an answer. “Yes, we are on Holiday.” He said handing me the money for the postcards. “I couldn’t help but admire the photographs of Paris. Who took them?” I felt funny telling him it was I for some reason. He complimented me on my eye for the unusual. As they were leaving the shop, the little girl, who was holding her fathers hand, looked back at me again and pointed. “Look Daddy, we have the same eyes.” “So you do, don’t you.” Then he leaned down and whispered, “But it’s not polite to point.” My heart nearly stopped. It couldn’t be. I shook my head, wanting the memory to leave. I reasoned with myself. There must be a million little girls out there with beautiful big brown eyes. “Maegan, is something wrong?” I heard Sophia asking. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Maegan?” “No,” a choked back a tear, ” I was just thinking about closing up. I am kind of tired and it’s nearly 5:30.” She agreed and we began the task of straitening up the shelves. I was folding the shirts when something caught my eye. On the floor underneath the carousel of postcards was a wallet. A little pink and white flowered wallet. I squatted down and picked it up. My curiosity was stronger than my moral sense. I knew who it belonged to. I didn’t have to look inside for an address or name. Little girls don’t have identification cards. But I had to open it. I had to see what treasures she held dear to her. Slowly I undid the snap that held it shut. There she was. She looked to be about two years old. Her hair was not as long as it was today, but her eyes were the same. She was being held a woman who looked much like the man she was with today. She, too, was blond. The lady in the picture was smiling looking down at the young child she held on her hip. I looked closer at the picture. In the background I could see the unmistakable legs of the Eiffel Tower. At that moment there was a banging on the glass of the front door. I jumped at the sound. It was the man and little girl. I couldn’t move for a moment. My head was spinning. It was Sophia who unlocked the door letting them in. “My little Molly seems to have dropped her wallet. . .” He stopped seeing it opened in my hands. “Yes. I think I have found it.” I closed the snap and handed it to him. His smile was somewhat forced as he thanked me. The little girl’s tear streaked face lit up as her father handed her the wallet. “Now I have Mommy back.” she boasted as she hugged her father. A puzzled look came across my face. She must have meant the picture of her and her mother. The father turned to me and quietly said. “Her mother died three years ago. This is her favorite picture of her mother. Thank you for keeping it for us.” He picked up the little girl and left. “Bye .” she waved as the door shut behind them. I was unable to move. My heart had stopped. I felt as though all the life was slowly draining out of me. I wanted to run after them and ask, foolish or not, if she was mine. I felt a disconnected, confused, and elated all at the same time. I felt crazy. What made me think this was little angel was the same one I had given birth to five years earlier? Molly. What a wonderful name. The next week was unusually busy. The must have been some kind of a convention in town. I had never seen so many non-skiers in town before. They were hustling from one establishment to another, taking back mementos from their trip to those left behind. I wrapped more ashtrays and ski figurines that week than the last two months combined. They enjoyed the comical photo scenes too. Grown men laughing behind the twisted paintings of skiers. Scrunched faces in the holes made the pictures even more hilarious. I couldn’t help myself but giggle at each shot. My favorite was when the other men decided to throw snowballs at the ‘targets’. You would have thought they were school boys once again. I enjoyed the busy time. It made the memories not so readily available. I had actually spent two whole days without thoughts of Molly running constantly through my head. I had just about resigned myself as being insane. Luckily I had come to the conclusion that it was the time of year that had me on the memory merry-go-round. It was exactly 5 years to the day that I had given birth. December 24. Every year at this time I would buy a handful of balloons and go somewhere, like the park, and release them. It was a birthday celebration of sorts. A special moment where I could wish my daughter a happy birthday, where ever she might be. It was nearly noon. Sophia was going to have a sandwich and tea and asked if I would like to join her. I politely declined. Knowing my balloons would be waiting. I headed to the party shop on East Cooper Street. It was just a few blocks away. There I picked up my colorful assortment of helium filled balloons, all tied with festive ribbons. I grabbed a notecard and wrote, to my baby, Happy 5th Birthday. I paid the clerk and headed to the park for my solitary celebration. I found an empty bench located on the east end of the park. There I sat down and had some quiet time reflecting on the years past and how my life had changed so dramatically. Was it time now to seriously think about settling down and starting my own family? Martin, who worked across the street at the restaurant had been hounding me for several months now to date him. We had been to the movies a couple of times, and he was nice. But he didn’t stir any emotions deep inside me. Maybe I was still bitter about Steve. Maybe I would hold a grudge on men all my life and end up an old maid spinster. Maybe I would end up with no children of my own. No one to watch grow up. No little tears to wipe away. No skinned knee’s to kiss. No first steps, first smiles. No nothings. There I was again, drowning in my own sorrows. I was nearly 29 years old. I had put my life on hold long enough. Somehow I had to get out of this slump and get on with living and loving. Stop being driven insane by the men in my life who had abused me and used me and just plain ignored me. Right then I decided today and the rest of my life would be different. I would right this very minute start anew. I stood up, wiped the tears from my cheeks, looked up into the blue white sky and shouted, “Happy Birthday!” and let my parade of balloons go. Instantly they caught flight and headed towards the mountains. I felt as though I was being lifted with them. As though my burdens had been torn away. I shouted again, “Happy Birthday!” Just then I heard her voice again. I turned around to see her and her father. “Look Daddy, it must be her birthday too.” Did I hear her right? Was it truly her birthday? My head began to spin. I felt hot and cold all at once. I saw the man smile at me but I couldn’t respond. I felt sick. “Oh my God.” I couldn’t move. I pleaded with my feet to move towards them. I urged my voice to ask. To just say hello. To do something other then just stand there with my jaw open. Once again I had missed my chance. I watched as the two strangers got in their car and left.