Part 8

     I try flipping through the rest of the photos I took of Evelyn, and each time, I get the same error message. Some have a flicker of a tiny scrap of the image, others have nothing but the error. Still... there has to be some fragment of the--- oh, crap, and there goes the battery! The camera turns itself off, and I frown at it for a long moment. I wonder if the computer will read the card any differently?
     I'd left it on while I was at work today, downloading a batch of new music Dad sent me yesterday. (Obviously, Dad being Dad, the file sizes are huge. He may condescend to send me mp3 files, but they're sampled at as high a bitrate as my iPod will handle.) I pop the memory card out of my camera, and into the card-reader I leave permanently attached to the computer. While it's reading the files, I pop the batteries out of the camera, and swap them out with the set I've left charging, in a charger which is also left permanently in place, attached to the wall. Coming back to the computer, there's a message on the screen asking me what I'd like to do with the files. I have it just load up the file browser, so I can take a look at what all I've got.
     First thing I do, is copy everything off the card, and onto my harddrive. I won't delete them off the card yet, like I usually do, I want to keep a second copy of everything around for now. Alright. So there's a hundred million other pictures. I skim down until I find the troublesome batch. Ha! Oh good. The file sizes are in the same ballpark as all the rest – that means the image information has to be there. The file extensions are all correct and everything, on the face of it, they look just fine.
     I double-click on one, and let Windows pull it up in a generic viewer. A long wait... and then nothing. “Drawing failed.” Back in the file browser, I switch to a thumbnail view – and no luck there either. Damnit.
     I sigh, staring tiredly at the screen. I know they're there... but how to get to them? All it would take is a couple of bits thrown off, and the system won't read it as an image--- but, no, the camera knew it was an image, and it's not like the computer's telling me it's an unrecognized file.
     I'm suddenly filled with an almost violent longing for a good old-fashioned strip of film in my hands. Even if the film got a little funky, even if it's developed incorrectly (a circumstance that I'm familiar enough with that--- well, that I've switched to digital photos), you can still see something there, some ghostly trace of an image, and all you need do is push the light through it a little harder...
     I'm sure there's a way to get the image out of there, but it could take me days to figure it out – I can do some basic troubleshooting, but, my eyes glaze over pretty quickly when things start getting technical.
     Well. The pictures are backed up, anyway. I'll deal with this another day, my butt's already protesting about sitting here for these few minutes, plus the few minutes reading the sketchbook. Sketchbook! I grin, eternally grateful to my self of ten minutes ago. I'm so glad I left the rest of it to read over after trying the camera, I do need the pick-me-up. I grab the book off the table, and head over to--- no, I'm not going to curl up on the couch, it was too mean to me last night. Sorry couch. Instead, I head to my room, curling up on my bed and skimming through the light gray lines of loops and swirls.
     “Oh! What was I like? Do I grow up to be as pretty as Mother?”
     I giggle again at this. It's such an innocent little vanity, that I can't fault her for it, I could only see guileless curiosity and hope in her face.
     “You're beautiful now, you silly goose. And yes, you continue to be so. But, tell me about everyone? It doesn't matter what, I probably won't know it!”
     I mentally groan, yet again, at my crass handwriting set so close beside her elegance. She's just a kid, and I call myself an artist! I swear I'm going to work on my script again... heck, maybe I'll look into whatever pretty style it was she used, it shouldn't be too hard to sort out what was commonly taught in the 1890s. Or thereabouts. She was probably fifteen when the place burned--- that means it burned down only shortly after Calvin died, I hadn't realized that before. But if that was 1902... alright, 1890s is about right, if she was around ten this time, it must have been 1897 or so. It's still so strange to me, to accept that I've held the hand of a girl in the 1800s, that I've breathed the air of a hundred years ago, without it having the slightest staleness to its taste.
     “There's me, and Avery, and Mother, and Father. And Mother says I'm to have another brother or sister soon, but I think it makes Father angry, so she doesn't talk about it much. Avery is my older brother. He is thirteen, and very tall. He acts like he is much more grown-up than me, but I am nine years old, so he isn't much more grown-up than me. Mother is very beautiful, and very kind when she is home, but she has lots of social obligashuns, so she often hasn't time for fussing over us she says. But Miss Kate and Miss Mary and Mister Scotts come and give us lessons now. We used to have Nurse to watch us, but Father says we are too old for her now, and sent her away. Father is a very strict sort of person. He buys us all kinds of toys, when Mother reminds him, but he never thinks of it himself. Mother says he loves us all very much, but I don't think she believes it either. He is often shut up in his library, or goes away on business. I think his father must have been very rich, because he doesn't go to work every day like I think other fathers do. I only talk to other young ladies in town when I go to church and socials with Mother, because Father doesn't like to have them visit and be underfoot around the house.”
     Oh this poor, lonely girl! No wonder she's always so happy to see me, and opened up to me so quickly – so few people have been open, and honest, and kind, and any degree of affectionate with her! I wonder how her relationship with her brother really is. There's always some amount of bickering with kids that age – God knows I thought my sister was pretty useless until I was nearly in high school. But if anyone was mean to her, you can bet I was there in an instant to--- well, not beat them up, it was never really that extreme. Seeing an older sibling step in with angry eyes was usually enough to shut up any snarky little kid. I'm sure Avery must have been protective of Evelyn, with a father so neglectful and abusive as Mr. Mason.
     “Rollie is our dog – well mostly Avery's dog, but mine too. He's a very good dog, though Father often scolds him for being in the wrong places at the wrong times. But Rollie can't tell time, how is he to know when it's time for Father's walk, or when he will have company and doesn't want to be bothered? Father can be quite unresunable. We have cats too, but mostly they stay in the kitchen and yards, because Mother doesn't want to have their fur all over the house. Mother often has company, when she's not making calls herself. I wish I could have company too, but at least I have Avery, and we will have another brother or sister soon. And I have you for a friend, too, even if you aren't always here when I hope you will be.”
     I blink rapidly, and realize there's a lump in my throat at this. Dear little girl... I wish I could be there for you every time you're sad, or lonely, or afraid, or hurt.
     “I don't know much about Father's brother or his wife, just they built the house and made the gardens, and his wife was probably very beautiful, because Mother is beautiful, and I think Father's brother would like the same kind of lady, wouldn't he? But I think, somehow, that she was a kinder person than Mother, because Mr. Meres loved her enough to make her such a beautiful place to live in with him. I think Father is angry that he doesn't have someone to love so much, but maybe he just doesn't know how. I have a grandmother and grandfather, that are Mother's parents, but we haven't ever seen them, only gotten letters. I don't know about Father's parents, though I guess he had some. All the other children have cousins, but I”
     And that's all I've got from her. It ends with a rough scrawl of pencil trailing away from the “I” across the page – she must have seen me fading then, or whatever it is I do when I shift back to my own time.
     From the mouths of babes... It's not a lot of technical information I didn't have before, but it confirms a lot of what I'd guessed. I'm sure her parents have no idea how clearly she sees them, they're simplistic sketches of a person, but I'm sure very accurate. She doesn't have any idea of the motivation of her parents to be the way they are, but she knows quite well what the end result is, and that's all that's important in her life.
     Mr. Mason, what the hell happened to you, that you created a family you hate so much?