WHO: Edgar Figaro (Open to reactions from Sabin Figaro and Margery Redmane) WHAT: Picking up the pieces of lost time. WHERE: Master's bedroom of the Figaro Estate in Galbadia. WHEN: Backdated to the morning of August 31, Monday. Shortly after this. WARNINGS: N/A
Three weeks ago, Edgar received a call from his friend and right-hand man Chancellor that his father had returned to life. Three weeks ago, he would have taken that for a cheap joke. Dead men didn’t come back to life, his father had been dead for 13 years besides. He saw him wither and breathe his last with his very own young eyes, felt the life fade from his strong hand no matter how much he held onto it. Three weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed that Stewart Figaro could return.
Three weeks later, he found it was impossible to believe that they had gone.
Their bed was still unmade. Stewart hadn’t finished his cup of coffee before the morning came. The book his mother was reading was still on the foot of the bed. He reached for it. Somehow his muscles protested every inch that was lost between his fingers and the leather-bound cover. Don’t believe it! they seemed to scream. Not yet! There is still time…
It was a shame that Crystale had failed to finish the book before she had to go. She only had about a hundred or so pages left, starting with Chapter 33: The Duel.
A word of caution before you proceed, the note within it warned, but you might find two names in this scene: Ralse and Ralph. I have learned it the hard way that both names refer to the same character. The author just forgot it. Or was maybe drunk most of the time.
Edgar closed it carefully. He wouldn’t want his mother’s last words to disappear under the bed where it was blown. He set the book on the corner of the folding table, just next to the chessboard. He and his father had just started decimating each other’s troops before he set the game aside to give his son a talk. The last one. Hovering over the army at a standstill, his hand paused. And then a white pawn was removed from its square to be replaced by a black knight, conveniently close to the white king.
“Check,” he whispered.
He set the pawn aside, and turned to the empty writing desk.
And before I forget, look within my writing desk. He could still hear his father’s voice, feel the depth of it as clearly as if he was just next to him. There’s a leather folio there addressed to you. Remember to take a look at it.
The slender drawer slid back with the sigh of shaven wood. The leather folio Stewart was telling him about lied within but it was not only addressed to him. Edgar, Sabin, Margery read the post-it, written in his father’s precise handwriting. He took it back with him to the folding table, from which he’d removed the unfinished game, the unfinished coffee and the unfinished book, setting them carefully on the floor next to his feet with the precision of a man who was frightened to offend the ghosts. The folio was then set on top of the surface. The button snapped free. He spread it open.
There were sheets of paper laid out in every side of the folio, loose, attached, drawn on and written on. Three envelopes in the middle where the spine was awaited their readers in patient silence, addressed to Sabin, Edgar and Margery* in Crystale’s thrifty cursive. Letters, he realized belatedly as he picked them up. His and Sabin’s were sealed in perfection but Margery’s had been forced open with a note of apology at the back of it:
* I didn’t have time to seal it properly again. I only wished to add another note within. I hope you wouldn’t mind but I know Sabin and Edgar would never read your letter.
Edgar wouldn’t. He was taught not to for all his nosiness. He folded the hanging flap and pressed it firmly against Sabin’s name. He took the one addressed to him, found a letter opener within the pockets of the folio and ripped it open carefully. His mother’s script spread out in four folds. Edgar, it began.
Looking at this blank page, I find myself confused and uncertain with what I can write to you. Briefly, I considered one last attempt on comfort but understand where you might have no use for cold sympathy. Next, I thought, perhaps I should impart with you a lesson. You have always learned them from your father and as your mother, I thought I should do the same. (He thought he would have liked that.) But time has run away from us and I think it is too late for me to become the mother that I described. Now looking at my third sheet, I wonder, but what should I tell you?
Anything, he thought in futility, his own voice choking in his head to match his snivelling as he rubbed his burning eyes dry. He had to preserve the letter. It was the last missive he would ever get from his mother and it was precious. The paper shook in his hand while he carried the weight of his aching head in the other. He read on as his mother told him, Words frozen in time are unpredictable and unreliable. Like memories, they can be treasured, twisted and forgotten.
And so I realized what I must ask you to do: do not, then, linger in the past. (He gasped, the tremors with it.) Listen to our lessons and learn from our mistakes but do not treat us like a bible where everything is sacred. It is good to miss, it is healthy to look back to your roots and remember, but roots are only meant to plant your feet firmly in the ground as you grow. (A shaking fist pressed its weight against his quivering lips. Their nourishment is good, but useless if you cannot bear fruits. So I ask you to keep growing, Edgar. Do not worry about abandoning us, you’ll find us if you look down. But keep your eyes on the skies. Dangers lurk and storms threaten, but you are strong and you are brave. I know you can do it. Not just for us, but for yourself and the future. x C
A sob betrayed him, like a reluctant cough that ended in sniffles and encouraged more to follow it. He had to drop the letter so he could wipe his face clean on his hand and his shirt. It was pertinent to preserve this letter! But tears passed and he sniffled and choked. One page, two paragraphs. His heart broke, he wanted more.
But he sealed the letter again within its envelope, fingers so tender, her words may as well be made of sand. One slip and they were gone. He had to be careful, he had to be so careful…
“Sa-- Sabin?” he called out to the open door, slipping the envelope under the memo pad on the right side of the folio. “Red! Sabin, please, I’m in the bedroom! Red!!” They had letters. His mother had written them letters. He pushed them aside so he could look at the loose papers beside them. These ones looked more familiar. Blueprints, schematics.
His father’s work.
One of the blueprints was entitled “Jukebox”. This is a jukebox, his father went on to explain in a corner note. Or at least a part of a jukebox. I have tried to repair the old one in the attic but some machines have simply gone on for far too long. And so this is all I can leave to you but you should find it easy to fill in the blanks. I wanted to give you the actual of this jukebox as a housewarming gift but found myself short of time. This will have to suffice, son.
Crystale has a painting for you, fitting of the era, she said. You should find it in the study but you will have to mount it yourselves.
Dated about a week ago, when he showed his father pictures of the house he and Red had rented.
It is not that I wish to still be a part of your future, his father had said. He remembered his voice saying it as he passed one blueprint after another, although that is not an unwanted prospect, but I don’t think it is wrong for me to break the ground for it.
Now he knew what his father had been hiding in the study for. All that time he thought he was scrutinizing his work, crossing his errors...but he was just making plans for the future.
So am I a dead weight then? All this time, have I been holding you back from your ambitions simply because I wish your tomorrows ensured?
The “Baby Room” was an old room in the eastern wing Stewart wanted remodeled for when he and Red started a family. Window facing the sunrise. XX” x XX” read one arrow. Quick escape I (Sabin’s bedroom), read another, pointing to the wall. Ventilation, read several. Sound proof to seal out SE.
I will leave the interior decoration to you and your wifefuture wife, read his tilted note. But consider this an initial inspection of the boudoir. Dated four days ago.
Figures and lines littered the entire page. The one beneath it followed the same pattern but achieved a closer sense to harmony than the one before it. The design was symmetrical, and as it turned out, it was done that way for a purpose.
It was Sabin’s “Sunroom”, previously called the “Green room” until it was crossed out. Plants surrounded the entire area and Stewart was careful to leave the middle space clear of clutter by marking it with Meditation, practice, etc. Hidden discreetly in corners were Cabinets (for tea, for tools).
Hide the refrigerator, instructed one arrow. It had its own Escape chute and Ventilation written all over the place.
Extend the SW face, Edgar. Be mindful of the plants, they must be afternoon sun. Present to Sabin before you build. Plants to be his choice. Dated three days ago, hence the hasty handwriting.
Details were scribbled alongside the Great Plains and a list of things he should Consider before he purchased the land as a Potential Site for Lab.
NOTE: he warned them, This venture is expensive. Refer to attachments for faxes from Esthar. They were made to consider several things again.
Consider: Convert wine closet to walk in refrigerator. Notes attached. Consult Sabin re: storage how-tos for herbs, etc.
Consider: Additional transport for staff use. Old golf carts feasible. Draft of schematics attached. For your improvement.
Consider: Update library. Add screens. Proposed plans hereunder. Also: Books are too dated. Consider the following for Margery’s education...
It was like his father speaking to him all over again. The words blurred behind his tear-filled eyes but the hum of his voice was clear within his ears. Build the walls that Sabin needs, he’d said. That Margery needs, and that your children and grandchildren need.
There won’t be a better time for you to start than today, Edgar.
He wailed like a mute. But how could he start with so many plans he couldn’t share with his father? Each page was meant to give Edgar a foothold that would bring him and his family to the future but they felt like layers being peeled loose from his heart, until his muscle was raw and tortured.
At the bottom of the blueprints was another envelope but he would not find it until he’d unwrapped the outer sheets that surrounded it. Emergency Funds, the topmost one read, stapled at the corner. To be activated upon pin change.
The answer to which, he felt within the thick envelope branded, For Sabin’s eyes only.
And now that he's cut off his ties, what shall I do? About the plans I've been making in my short time here, what shall I do with them? How can I die peacefully, knowing that he could one day leave again without word of when he would come back? Should I simply be satisfied that some door will be open for him? Is that supposed to be enough?
“Dad!” Edgar gasped, dropping the envelope and the statement when curled fists pressed themselves against his forehead and his frame was racked by the strength of his tears. “Dad, I didn’t know, I wish I’d known! Dad, I’m sorry! All this time, Dad...all this time…!”
And now there was none. All those days wasted with the past when they could have been talking about the days to come. Now all they had were these pages that were supposed to draw for them a roadmap of the future.
One that began with the sunrise and the coldness of an empty room.