The young woman traced her fingers over the two reels and slid the cartridge that contained her fabricated image into the mouth of The Memory Box. It was half past ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. There was plenty of time before the post arrived. She cleared her throat and switched the recording device on. A buzz filled the room as she gazed at her earlier moments. The date “October 1945” appeared briefly on a corner of the dress she wore on that occasion. Isabella waved and saw her mirrored self manifest and transform. Her appearance hadn’t changed much. 

“It’s been half a decade of receiving letters from him, and I only met him once. I remember the trip daily so as not to forget any details. Mother says I’ve driven away other suitors, and maybe she’s right.” Isabella stated to her image.

Her cheeks reddened in her bedroom. The World’s Fair pamphlet was atop the container from five years prior. Its title, “The Memory Box,” debuted at the 1939 event “Be a part of the future. Create memories for your descendants!” The box declared. Once more, she cleared her throat.

“Five long years of battle have ended. It started not long after we returned home from New York City. Because of the war, Mother says we’ll never make that trip again. Oliver has sent me word every couple of months. I hope to hear that he is on the mainland. Mother and Father are unaware of how often I’ve beaten them to retrieve the post. They think the few letters they’ve seen are all I’ve heard from him as a distant family friend.”

Isabella flopped onto her bed and her hologram did the same. “I remember how his eyes crinkled when he spoke. How he shook my hand when he met me and when we said goodbye.” She sighed. “I’ve only imagined what the western United States might resemble. Would it appear similar to New York City? Or are there cowboys everywhere?” She smiled at herself. The image was so close that she felt its tingle of energy.

“Isabella! Come be with us,” her mother called in a sing-song voice from downstairs. She swung in an arc to send her fabricated twin returning into the recorder and watched its particles disintegrate.

“Back inside, genie,” she said to it.

* 

The three of them sat in the living room by the porch. A slow ceiling fan whirred and moved the humid air. Outside, not a palm tree swayed in the slightest way. Her parents flanked the room, each in an upholstered maroon chair, their faces covered by the newspapers they read. Isabella perched on a stool over a petite side table typically used for tea. With her nose in a tiny sketchbook, she painted a cross composed of red and yellow hibiscus flowers of Puerto Rico. A reproduction of the Madonna and child was displayed on one wall, a portrait of peaceful Jesus was showcased on the adjacent, and behind her parents, hung the sacrificed Son of God on the cross. News of the globe recovering from the recent war interrupted an orchestral compilation on the radio that sat between her parents.

“Love is in the air.  Marriages are reaching record numbers again now that the war is over,” Isabella’s mother announced, obscured by her newspaper shield. No one answered her. “Whatever happened to Rafi?” She clamped her arms down, crushing the paper. Isabella continued painting.

“He married Don Miguel’s daughter from the resort hotel,” her father said while concealed by his newspaper screen.

“Look at you, Enrique, on top of the gossip. What do you think of that, Isa? That could have been you.”

“Well, it was in the announcements section,” he muttered.

Isabella shrugged again, her focus intent on the tiny flowers.

“You showed no interest in him. This is why things ended before you even had a chance,” her mother said.

At this, Isabella sighed and put down her paintbrush on a rag marked with dabs of colored paint. “I’m unsure about being a wife. It’s a mystery to me.” Her parents chuckled.

“One that everyone unlocks with time. Plus, that’s what I’m here for. I’ll continue to guide you far beyond your married years,” Isabella’s mother said. “Does that Yankee Oliver still write to you?”

“You’ve seen his letters in the post. He is as well as he can be.” Isabella rubbed under her bottom lip as she stared out the open window. She left the smallest of red smudges behind.

“By your age, I was already married and caring for you.”

“That he’s written at all is promising,” her father added.

“I apologize for not being like other girls – that I’m lacking something.”

“What could you be overlooking?” her mother said. “We’ve given you everything.”

Isabella nodded, slipped off the stool, and went toward the door when the post was delivered. She sifted through the stack. Her heart quickened when she came to an envelope with her name on it, but it was not from Oliver, and she did not recognize the island address. With a butter knife from the kitchen, she cut open the mail. On the paper, someone had written in shaky cursive:

“God depends on you. He needs us to keep his work on Earth. Donate as an act of charity, and He shall bless you by fulfilling your deepest desire. He asks only for a dime wrapped in tissue and mailed to the following address by tomorrow, and you are guaranteed to receive a surge of blessings. Break the chain, and the opposite is certain to follow.”

Something opened within her as she reread the message. The letter’s author seemed to speak for God and they understood her long wait for a change in life. There had been a glimpse of it when she and her parents had sailed to New York City before the war. Since that marvel of a trip, she had awaited what possibilities would unfold as her future. A planned life at home on the island festered like a stagnant puddle of rainwater. In her bedroom, she continued rereading the note. A donation for her deepest wish? There was no choice but to comply. Obey or pay the consequences.

The letter further instructed her to copy the message and send it to five more people. Isabella copied and recopied the letter, frequently beginning again if she made a mistake. By the fifth note, she had the words memorized. Next, she wrote the names selected in a tight cursive script. Oliver, her two grandmothers, a former classmate, and the brother who had long left for the other side of the island were recorded on the postcard.

She took a dime from her savings stored in a carved wooden box and wrapped it in a tiny square of tissue paper as if it were a gift. On her way down the stairs, she put the envelope by the front door.

Not a week later, Isabella opened Oliver’s latest letter, the first one stateside, location unknown. Isabella scanned the words, squinting more with each examination as if scrutinizing its validity or searching for a hidden meaning. With a yelp of glee, she hurried to where her parents maintained their positions in the parlor.

“He’s coming for me!” She blurted out. Her mom jumped from behind her newspaper, and her dad lowered his voice.

“What are you screaming about?” her mother said.

“Oliver,” she exclaimed, taking a deep breath. “He’s asking me to marry him.”

“He has? Why, his family said nothing to me about it.” Her father said.

“This new generation. The war’s end, and everyone’s going wild, getting married on a whim. You met the young man once. How can you be so sure he means it?” Her mother remarked and shook her head in disapproval.

Isabella let her arms drop to her sides in defeat. The excitement drained out of her. “We’ve been writing for some time,” she stated. “And I have faith in him.”

“Faith?” her mother said and tilted her head. “Have you been scheming to leave us?” The statement was more of a declaration, a decision she might have deduced after thorough consideration, and not simply her opinion.

“I thought you’d be happy for me. You said you hoped I would marry soon.”

“Is he moving here?”

Isabella stared blankly, unprepared for the question, as if called on in class.

“I didn’t think so.” Her mother said and raised the newspaper.

“But—he wants to wed me.” Isabella’s throat constricted, and a pit of sorrow threatened to burst. The news had set off a cascade of questions and repeated accusations of a hidden relationship and of sabotaging her own prospects for tradition. 

“Is that how you see it?” Isabella’s mother said. “I raised her under my mother’s guidance and was going to do the same for you.” She pointed at Isabella as if she could bore a hole through her. A rebellious coil of hair came undone from under a hairpin and hung over her eye.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut. Thin, hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She rubbed a temple. “You are only pleased with me if it benefits you,” she said in a low voice.

Her mother slapped her. “You are taking my unborn grandchildren away from me.”

*

Isabella lay in bed, her mind an endless reel of that day’s events. In what way did God’s grace for happiness turn into her curse? How could her quest for joy take her into such a distant, unwritten void? She closed her eyes and prayed. When she awoke in the morning, she did not remember closing her prayer with thanks to God. Taking The Memory Box from its packaging, she whispered, “You need a man, but he must be the ideal one. How is someone to be certain?”

“What do you want your future self to understand?” Her hologram asked. The image always stood. It could never genuinely interact with her as a friend; it could only repeat the prompts each session to fulfill its programmed purpose.

“To comprehend that I loved and experienced life beyond the island. Inside, I know my destiny,” she told the reflection. Although it was not an actual picture, the portrayal of herself within The Memory Box had helped her.

She dressed in a plain yellow dress for the Sunday service and joined her parents for breakfast. Her mother avoided eye contact and focused on her toast. Her father smiled at her.

“Have you made a decision?”

Isabella nodded.

At church, a heaviness persisted and pulled down on her from within. Holding her head up and paying attention took much effort. The traditions weighed on her. Do as you are told, was the message she perceived. Her eyes constantly teared up, and she coughed occasionally to cover her sniffling. Isabella distracted herself by studying the stained glass as she often had as a child. The largest panel was of Jesus’ miracle when he called the apostles to fish at sea. The longer she observed the display, puzzle pieces of the water rose like the waves of a storm. She would ask herself how to live with her decision.