CHAPTER 8
The attic brooded over generations of treasures. The history of the Aldersons was reflected in the lovely things crowded into this enormous room under the eaves. Here was a massive wardrobe, its doors intrucately carved, out of service since the old house was remodeled; there a lovely table, with a brilliant lustre even the dust couldn't hide, one leg broken. The room was overflowing with period pieces -- chairs and sofas, tables, old-fashioned coatracks, trunks, portraits -- a wealth of cast-off possessions speaking eloquently of money, tradition and close family ties.
Sondra escorted Farah to the attic, explaining that the dust covers had been removed from many of the finer pieces because they were to be repaired and donated to a museum.
Farah scarcely heard what Sondra was saying. Her eyes were riveted on the corner where she was told Farah's possessions were stored. When Sondra excused herself and left, Farah went swiftly to the wardrobe trunk and opened it. Now she was no longer Farah; she was Donna, who had come to sift through the dead girl's things in search of her own identity. She needed to know more about this girl whose name she had appropriated. This other Farah, what had she been like?
After she had spread out the schoolgirl clothing, the little keepsakes, books, records, albums, greeting cards and letters saved over the years -- all the treasures of a sixteen-year old girl, she was able for the first time to perceive this young Farah as a real person. She felt regret that life had ended for her so tragically.
Suddenly she couldn't bear it. She pushed the things roughly away and sprang to her feet. She began pacing the floor, filled with revulsion for herself. I've pounced of Farah's past like a vulture, she thought, hoping to benefit from these touching tokens of a life that was snuffed out prematurely.
Now she mourned for this girl and loathed herself for trying to step into her shoes. Guilt and anger at herself and at Jason for what they had done rode heavy on her mind. It's wrong, she thought. I have no right to this girl's secrets or her life. When I accepted the necessity of taking a new identity, I never counted on pretending to be someone who had really lived. It's not ethical; more than that, it's goulish.
She moved to a window and gazed out, unseeing. Why don't I drop this whole charade, she thought, and just pick a name out of the air, one that will belong to me alone? This is too complicated. Look at the lies Jason and I have already told. And if I submerge my own identity in Farah's, how will I ever know who I really am? It's unfair to her memory. It's unfair to me. And who can guess what Pandora's box I may have opened?
But of course there was Jason. He had been so kind. Could she now embarrass him by backing out? He had publically declared her to be Farah and that he intended to adopt her. If she were to deny all that, how could he ever explain? The whole secret of his irregular experiment might somehow leak out. His credibility would become suspect, his reputation tarnished. It could ruin him as a man and as a scientist. The web of deceit they had woven (and make no mistake, Donna, she told herself, you cooperated willingly enough) had threads reaching into many lives. No, she was committed.
With a sigh she returned to the contents of the trunk and reluctantly resumed her examination. Opening one of the boxes, she found, nestled inside, Farah's diary. Three volumes of it. In spite of herself, she reacted with excitement. Here was exactly what she needed to make this imposture succeed. This was the very essance of Farah. It was necessary for her to probe that essence. She couldn't become Farah unless she did. But for a long time she couldn't bring herself to look inside. What secrets might be hidden in these pages that would reveal a young girl's heart? Or break her own?
She took the diaries and crossed to a windowseat. Taking a deep breath, she opened the earliest one with trembling hands. On the first page was written, "This diary belongs to Farah Somersby. Open at your own risk. May any snoop who reads these pages break out in boils and warts." In spite of her misgivings, Donna smiled, fancying she could hear a girlish giggle.
Farah had been nine when she began the diary. Set down in a round childish hand were details about her life at school, the difficulties of adjusting to new customs and languages, the sadness of leaving old friends, the joy of making new ones. Donna skimmed through the pages, absorbing as much as she could in a short time. She would study them later.
In the last of the three volumes she found Farah's account of her parents' death, her panic at being left alone in the world, and how she had clung to Louise for comfort. She had been fourteen at the time, with no immediate family. With Farah's consent, Louise had petitioned the court to appoint her the girl's guardian, and Farah's relief and gratitude were reflected in her writings. She had soon entered school in Paris and was caught up in a new life.
"There is this neat girl in my geometry class," she had written. "She has been helping me with my lessons. Imagine trying to understand geometry in a foreign language. My French is very good but it doesn't extend to geometry. Her name is Simone Rochet, and I hope we can be friends. Even though she is a blonde, she is exactly what I always expected a Parisienne to be. So self-confident and sexy."
Later entries confirmed that they had indeed become friends. They "hung out" together, exchanging confidences, discussed boys and dates, their plans for the future, all their hopes and dreams. Snapshots of Simone revealed her to be pretty. Donna thought that self-confidence and sexiness were things that didn't show up well in a snapshot.
All the pictures in the albums, of Farah and her parents, with friends, of places where she had lived and traveled, were all identified as to location, date and full names of everyone pictured. This is going to make things a lot easier, Donna told herself. When I have time I'll study all this material carefully and memorise everything. She had found that along with other changes her memory had become amazingly retentive. This would now stand her in good stead.
One of the last entries in the diary concerned Farah's locket. "I almost lost my locket today," she had written. "The catch broke and it fell off without my knowledge. A stranger picked it up and handed it back to me. I'd have died if I had lost it. It was the very last present my parents gave me. When I mentioned it at home, Uncle Jason offered to have it fixed with a special safety catch."
In the silence of the attic, Farah whispered, "I'm sorry I doubted you, Jason. Forgive me."
Tucking the final diary and the snapshots into her purse, she put everything else back in the trunk and went downstairs.
Jason gave her a penetrating look. "Did you find your roots, Farah?" he asked gently.
How understanding of him, she thought. "Yes, Jason, letters, pictures, diaries, everything." She turned to Sondra. "Thank you for saving them so long."
Sondra laughed. "It's fortunate I have a great aversion to cleaning out attics. If anybody pressures me to do it in the future I'll have a perfect excuse."
After lunch Farah and Jason returned to town. As Margaret and John were out for the afternoon, Farah went to her room to study the diaries and pictures. In a couple of days they would be in France, and who knew when she might encounter someone from her "past?"
Farah had asked for Jo's help in choosing a fall wardrobe, saying she was out of touch with what girl's in the States were wearing. Shopping with Jo was a pleasure. She told Farah what was "in" and what was appropriate for different occasions, and helped her in her selections.
Farah's liking for Jo and all the Aldersons grew with each encounter. They were such nice, decent people. How could she have considered putting Jason in the position of having to explain to them that she wasn't really Farah?