Hadrian's Wall by Felicia Jensen Read Free Book Online Page B

winter coat and my brown sweater? How would I endure
the harsh winters of New England without them?
    I was disappointed. I kept digging through
my meager belongings, hoping to find something that let me fill the
gap between New Hampshire and Maine. It seemed ironical to me that
both states were neighbors, yet in my mind it seemed that the
distance between them was the same as that between the United
States and Africa.
    As for my books, there were not many.
Although used, they were in good condition. I’d brought some of my
favorite novels and my drawing book. Had I left my other books at
the orphanage?
    Beside them, I found some small envelopes
containing some memories—teen magazine clippings, postcards that I
saved because of the landscape photos, and my dear keychain with
little dolls that I loved! Miniatures. They were all there—the
panda bear, a Chinese girl, the Maltese dog, the dancing pig, the
three huskies on sled, the golden retriever wearing sunglasses, the
puffy lion, the squinty-eyed rabbit, the miniature of the old barn
from Dailey’s Crossing—a reminder of my “fortress of solitude.”
    I also found a kit containing brushes and
graphite pencils, a feather beak, and a transparent plastic bag,
large and misshapen, with small pots of gouache, fabric paint for
painting tissues (this was impromptu), nankin, watercolor, ink and
water-based.
    I remembered that I did not have the full
range of colors to paint my drawings, because all my utensils were
second hand. I considered these color tints as my greatest
treasures, some donated to my art classes in high school, others
purchased by myself with much sacrifice.
    Stirring up the bottom of the suitcase, I
found a small, effete photo album. I felt beads of sweat appear on
my forehead. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and boldly
flipped through the frayed pages to recap some of my dull life.
    That’s funny! Looking for those few photos
where people appeared smiling, I did briefly reflected upon the
world’s irony. An onlooker seeing them devoid of necessary
information could really believe that my mother was a wonderful
mom; that my father was not dead (that he’s still around, playing
his guitar); that the girls and boys at the orphanage or at school
were actually my good friends; that all tutors and teachers dealing
with orphans liked us—the lost boys and lost girls of a perfect
society!
    I closed the album firmly. It was not good
to be looking at the past. I know it. This conclusion was also true
with regard to the only toy I had kept all these years—the doll
that my father had given me...the one I had with me at the time of
his death. I recognized her, pressed against the bottom of my
suitcase...another ghost from my past. Tears welled up in my eyes.
I carefully placed the doll next to the album on the couch so that
I did not to have to look at it a second time. Why had I kept those
things if make me so sick? I knew why. Having an unhappy past is
better than have no past, which only showed me that I am
masochistic by nature and I did not like seeing myself like
that.
    I took a few deep breaths before
continuing.
    At the bottom of the case I found two pairs
of socks. Where are my shoes and my slippers? Wait! In a
transparent baggie I found a thumb drive. This item wasn’t among my
things that I remembered. I was curious. I opened the small object
and turned it between my fingers. On one side was a sticker that
read: “File & e-books.” The calligraphy was not mine...
    I plugged it into the USB port of the laptop
and clicked to access the files. Some literary classics appeared;
comic books; articles on art history; images of sculptures,
pictures; engravings; summaries on the major world museums—their
collections and their email addresses. Wow! I was intrigued. How
could this happen? There are many mysteries surrounding the
frontier between Maine and New Hampshire.
    I shut the files, clicked on the request to
“safely remove” and pulled