“You’re going to need these. You know you will.” the disheveled old man says to me at the estate sale. The man- no younger than sixty with scruffy facial hair and stained clothing sat in a recliner in the living room of an old, and extremely dated house. The house was full of photos of what looked like a younger version of him with a woman next to him- but the woman was nowhere to be found in the house. Presumably dead, I thought as I made my way around the dimly lit living room. I got to the table that the man with tattered clothes and no expression was sitting next to. All I saw when I looked down at the table were old photographs in ornate, dusty, golden frames. “Just take them. No charge” The man sputtered out as I was looking them over for a price tag. I quickly thanked the man and made my way out of the creepy home.
I made it back to my apartment and set the frames on the kitchen counter. Grabbing a microfiber cloth and some cleaning spray, I started to wipe away the layers of dust that had been collecting on the frames over the years. The photos were no different than the ones hanging in the house I was in earlier, just the same couple standing in front of a small cottage about thirty years ago. Intending to use the frames and toss the photos, I flipped over the frames and started removing the back of them. Being very gentle, I slowly removed the back of the first frame. Peeling the frame apart, a yellowing envelope with water stains on it fell to the ground. What? I set the frame down to pick up the envelope. The envelope didn’t have an address written on it, it was just bare. I carefully opened the envelope to find a decaying piece of paper inside. I took the delicate paper out and unfolded it. It read:
To whomever is reading this letter;
You have been thoughtful enough to choose our photo. We never had children of our own, so Bill and I have decided to give the cottage on the lake to whoever is reading this. The key is enclosed in the envelope, and the papers have already been signed by us and are in the frame. Please keep the cottage well maintained, and we thank you for your help.
Sincerely, Genevieve and Bill Carnegie
I dropped the letter at the same time I dropped my jaw. No way this is real. I read the address left in the bottom of the frame.
101 Lakeshore Lane
Bellview Lake
I type the address into google maps. It’s a two hour drive? I can’t afford to spend another eighty dollars on gas to go to someplace I don’t even know is real. However, I do know someone who lives on the same lake.
The phone is ringing as I wait for my aunt Cindy to pick up the phone. Despite her age, she’s an incredibly active and fit person. She finally picks up, and I start rambling. “Okay.. let me grab my notepad… What’s the address again? Slow down a bit, will ya?” I speak at a more normal pace, and recite it again. “101… Lakeshore.. Lane.” “Lakeshore?” she spurts out in a shocked tone. “That’s where my Grandmother used to live when your mom and I were kids” “I haven’t been up there in… say.. twenty five years?” “But I will warn you, there is only one house on that lane, and it’s Grandma Alice’s old place.” “I will check it out, and get back to you.” The call ends, and all I can think about is the small world connection. How did my great grandmother and “Genevieve and Bill Carnegie” live on the same road? It has to be a coincidence, right?
The next day I’m making breakfast as my phone lights up with multiple messages from Aunt Cindy. I open our chat, and it’s flooded with pictures. The first picture I see immediately blows my mind. A photo of the cottage in the photos from the estate sale is in front of me. Aunt Cindy writes beneath it, “Yup, only Grandma Alice’s is here.” I run to grab the photos and compare them to the ones my aunt has sent me. It’s the same place. I finally grab my laptop and do some digging. I find the census from 1980 and go to the “C” names.
Carnegie, Alice
Carnegie, Dorothy
Carnegie, Cindy
And what I see last shocks me to my core.
… Carnegie, William
William Carnegie is my uncle. William Carnegie is Bill Carnegie. Since my mom, Dorothy Johnson, and my aunt, Cindy Sprague have both married and since the 1980 census, I didn’t even think to remember their maiden names. I never knew I had an uncle named Bill. Why would mom never mention him? Why would my whole family keep this from me?