Imogen's Feather Part I

Inspired by a river, a feather and the mystery genre
 as suggested by Nicole Alfaro.

It was early morning when only the birds were awake, that Imogen once again wandered the shores of the river.  She liked the dawn and the colors the sun made against the clouds.  Imogen liked to find glass smoothed by the water’s rough play against the rocky sand, or odds and ends that invariably found its way to shore. 

Imogen had grown up a short distance away and could never bring herself to move away from the river.  It was a place she went first with her grandmother, where they would sit and sketch the life that thrived around the water.  Next she would go with her grandfather, who taught her how to fish.  Now, grown up and living on her own, she would come here before her shifts at hospital.  Maybe to remember what it was she helped people fight to live for.

Imogen wore high, rubber boots in case she found something worth wading into the water for.  On this morning she saw something that triggered a memory.  It was a memory from long ago when she was a little girl living with her grandparents.  Imogen rubbed her eyes and looked closer.  It was floating on the surface but at least a yard away.  Careful to find firm footing, she reached out and grabbed it.  The object was a feather; a now limp and sad feather but in it’s hay day had been upright and bright blue. 

Imogen breathed in sharply and thought hard for a moment.  Was it?  Could it be?  Her grandmother had kept a trunk in the attic of all of her clothes from when she was young.  Imogen loved to go up there and carefully take each piece out.  She would spend hours looking, inspecting and trying on the items; these pieces of clothing that PETA would cringe at. Sighing, Imogen knew it was about time for work and begrudgingly, with the feather in hand, trudged to her car.

“Nurse!  Nurse!”

Imogen pulled the curtain aside.  “Yes?” she asked.

“I asked for another blanket an hour ago, don't you remember?  An hour ago I told you I was freezing and while that hour may have passed by quickly for you, for me, I have spent it shivering,” said the patient.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Gerring.  I’ll do my very best to make you comfortable,” said Imogen. 

You old bitch, Imogen thought.  Most days she did not mind being bossed around but today she had that feather on her mind.  Her patients were wearing down her patience, as it were, and she tried hard to care about every little thing, which didn’t seem to amount to much in her esteem at all.

“Hey Immy, can you take lunch now?”  Anders had a way about him that could always make Imogen smile.  Anders was the only one who could ever call her Immy.

“Yeah, I just need to get an extra blanket.  Meet you in the caf?” she responded.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said and fell into step.

They went from the closet where extra blankets were kept and then back to Mrs. Garring’s room.  When she was all tucked in and happy as a clam, they took off for the cafeteria.

“You seem distracted.  Hard morning?” Anders asked as he scooped up a box of cereal.

“Strange.  I’ve been waiting to tell you,” said Imogen as she chose yogurt over a pastry.  These fucking deals we make with ourselves, she thought.

“Oh yeah?”  Anders picked up a whole milk and Imogen woefully wondered if he wouldn’t have chosen low fat had he been a woman.  He also helped himself to a cinnamon roll and Imogen tried not to snarl.

“Yeah.  Really strange, I found this feather?  That is exactly like one from an old hat that used to be my grandmother’s,” she said.  Imogen gave the cafeteria lady exact change and put a dollar in the tip jar and waited for Anders.

“Like, obviously man made feather or from the wild?”  He joined her and they found an empty table.

“It was a real feather but dyed an unnatural blue.  Or at least, I think so,” said Imogen.

“What happened to the hat when your grandma died?” asked Anders.

“Nothing.  I mean; I still have it.  Or, I thought I did.  It should be in the trunk it’s lived in for sixty years at the bottom of the closet in my spare bedroom.”

“I guess you have to check,” said Anders, taking a bite of cereal.  “See if its still there.”

“No shit?  What do you think I’m gonna do first thing I get home?” asked Imogen, eyeing his pastry.

“Unearth the trunk from one of the most packed closets I’ve ever encountered and see if it’s still there,” said Anders.

“Yep,” said Imogen, trying to feel satisfied from her yogurt and apple.

“Want me to come over?” asked Anders.

“If you want,” said Imogen, trying not to sound over eager.

“I’ll bring a sixer.  Oh, and I got this for you,” he said as he pushed the cinnamon roll her way.

“Damn you!” but Imogen was smiling when she said this.  Life without pleasure was not living, after all.

 “Turn on the radio!” Anders said, barging through the kitchen door.

“What?” but Imogen went to the radio on the counter and turned it on.

Anders had already put the beer and snacks down and pushed Imogen out of the way to change the station.  He turned it to the local station.

“…Says local authorities.  If anyone has any information on this Jane Doe there is a line they can call…” the disembodied voice was interrupted by another voice, “They can also go onto the website right Brett?”

“Yes John, and that’s www…” Anders turned the radio down.

“What is this about?” asked Imogen.

“There was a dead body found at the river, like, close to where you were,” said Anders. 

That was surprising news because nothing like that happened regularly, not in their smallish town.

“Really?”

“Yep, and get this; she was wearing a hat with feathers.”

Imogen didn’t respond but instead tore down the hall to her spare bedroom.  Anders followed.  She opened the closet and moved boxes about until she unearthed the trunk.  Anders helped her pull it out into the room.  He sat on the bed as she carefully but also impatiently emptied the trunk.  There, under some stoles, was the hat.  Imogen held it up.  Anders shrugged. 

“I guess it wasn’t yours, which would have been strange anyways,” he said.

“But this feather,” she pulled it out of her pocket, “Is exactly like these ones.”

Holding the feather she found up to the feathers on the hat, Anders saw she was right.  Same feather.

“So, it was a popular hat?”

“I guess so,” but Imogen didn’t sound convinced.  Without putting anything back in the trunk she stood with the hat.

“This might call for something a little stronger than beer,” she said.