Stories of Tie Up Games

Dear @LunaDog , I'm not sure I understand.

Sorry @Jenny_S your English is so excellent that i forget you don't actually come from or live in this country. It's an old 'slang' expression meaning returning to the routines of normal life after an experience that is far away from one's usual patterns. Such as just happened to Erica here.

Dear @LunaDog, so, you hit the proverbial nail on the head - like you always do.

Monday and Tuesday vanish in a blur.
Erica spends them half-functional - shuttling between meetings, inboxes, and the endless to-do list that somehow keeps growing.

She picks up folding boxes, adhesive tape, and packing labels at the DIY store, telling herself they’ll serve double-duty when she eventually relocates to Scarsdale.
Six months, give or take.
That’s what the contractor - recommended by Steve McKinley - said.
They had agreed to meet at the house on Thursday where she would sign the contract.

On Wednesday, the sky hangs low, pale and flat like a sheet pulled too tight.
Erica pulls her black Volvo into the visitor lot of Greenleaf Hospital.
The back of the SUV is cleared - rear seats folded down to make space for the boxes she stacked neatly last night, each one labeled in black Sharpie.
Today, she wears her oldest and most faded blue jeans, a Harvard University sweatshirt, sneakers, and her well broken-in brown leather jacket. She can still feel the hole in the right shoulder, a stark reminder of where Tony Maze’s bullet had smashed into her.

She hasn’t had it mended.
Some scars are meant to stay.

She grabs the first few boxes, balancing them easily against her hip as she strides toward the entrance. The hospital smell hits her the moment the doors part - disinfectant, overcooked vegetables, the faint, sickly tang of age and endings.
She pushes through it, unflinching.

In room 314, Aunt Elisa is ready.
She sits at the edge of her bed, her grey cardigan buttoned up, her handbag primly resting in her lap. Someone’s helped her with her hair. It’s smoothed back, the silver strands neat.
There’s a quiet dignity in how she waits - shoulders squared, lips pressed together, gaze fixed on the door like she’s already halfway gone.

“You look like you’re about to be knighted.” Erica says, setting the boxes down with a soft thud.

Elisa smiles - small, restrained. “Might be the last time I get to walk out of somewhere on my own two feet,” she says, the humor thin.

Uncertain if her aunt is trying to joke or if she’s serious about it, Erica starts folding Elisa’s clothes, packing them carefully into the boxes. “Don’t say that, please,” she murmurs.
And she really means it.

Elisa doesn’t reply. Her eyes are glassy but dry.

Erica straightens, brushing dust off her sweatshirt. “I figured we take with us what you have here but maybe we also get some things from the house.”
She pauses to give Elisa time to let the idea sink in. “Your books, clothes, the afghan, some cushions… maybe that little porcelain cat you kept on the nightstand.”

“I never liked that cat,” Elisa says sharply.

Erica pauses, startled, a wave of surprise washing over her. “I didn’t know that,” she says, feeling a little awkward.

Silence stretches.
Erica picks up the box, her throat tight. “You choose what you want to take from the house, Aunt Elisa.”

That offer draws a real smile. Faint, but honest.

Erica gestures to the door. “Shall we go?”

Elisa rises slowly.
She sways a little, and Erica steps forward on instinct - but Elisa steadies herself, a quiet strength in her slight frame.
She holds her ground.
The handbag strap is wound twice around her wrist like armor.
Together, they walk toward the hallway, ready to write a fresh chapter in the book of their lives.


~~~


The black Volvo rolls to a gentle stop in front of Sunrise Manor, tires whispering against the gravel. Erica kills the engine and glances at her aunt. Elisa sits upright in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly around her handbag.
She hasn’t said much during the ride, just the occasional murmur, her gaze drifting from the passenger window to the rearview mirror and back again, as if each passing detail is a memory she must burn into her mind, a final glimpse of the world she knows.

Erica climbs out, slamming the car door harder than intended.
The morning is unusually warm for April, but she still pulls her leather jacket tighter around herself, a nervous habit.
As she rounds the front of the car and opens Elisa’s door, she tries a brave smile. “Ready?” she asks softly.
Elisa nods. Barely.

Together, they approach the entrance, the heavy glass doors parting with a soft hydraulic sigh.
The lobby is spacious and warm, decorated in soft yellows and deep wood tones.
It smells faintly of baked apples and polished floors - not antiseptic, not clinical.
Just welcoming, a soft embrace of domesticity.

Then Erica sees it.
A whiteboard near the reception desk, bordered in lavender and blue paper flowers. Written in cheerful, looping marker:
“Welcome, Mrs. Teran. We’re so glad you’re here!”

She nudges Elisa gently. “Look,” she says, her voice lifting. “How nice of them.”
Elisa looks.
She doesn’t smile, but her eyes linger on the sign for a long, unreadable moment.
Then, she gives a small nod.
A flicker of something.
Appreciative?
Maybe.
Or just recognition.

From behind the reception counter, a woman rises and walks over to them.
Mid-fifties, tidy grey-streaked bun, wearing a sunflower brooch on her blouse.
Her presence radiates calm, a steady, unshakeable aura, as if she’s welcomed new residents a hundred times.
“You must be Mrs. Teran. And you’re Ms. Sinclair.” she says, shaking both their hands. “I’m Carol Albright, the manager. We’re very happy to have you.”

“Thank you,” Erica replies, offering a polite but distracted smile.
She slips a folder from her bag and hands it to Carol - Elisa’s completed questionnaire.
Everything the staff might need to know: medical details, dietary needs, language, even notes about the music Elisa likes.

Carol skims the top page, then looks up with a smile.
“You took great care with this. It really helps. And thank you for including the note about Spanish - yo hablo un poquito,” she adds, turning toward Elisa. “Es un placer tenerla con nosotros, señora Teran.”

Elisa’s posture loosens, just slightly.
Her lips part in what might almost be the beginning of a smile.
Erica watches this subtle shift, a profound warmth spreading through her, and makes a mental note: learn Spanish.
Even a little.
Flashcards in the glove compartment, maybe.
Or download an app.
After all, it was her mother’s native language, too…

They walk together down a wide, sunlit corridor toward the Southern Wing.
As they pass one open door, Erica glances inside and sees a dozen residents sitting in a circle, animated, leaning forward, interrupting each other with stories and bursts of laughter.

“Some of our folks have led extraordinary lives,” Carol says, catching Erica’s glance. “We do story time every week - it’s good for memory, but really, it’s more about connection. They enjoy telling their stories.”
She looks at Elisa. “I’m sure you have lots of exciting things to tell, Mrs. Teran.”

The smell of something sweet drifts in - caramel, cinnamon, maybe vanilla.
Erica breathes in deeply, the aroma a comforting embrace. “Wednesday is baking day,” Carol says, smiling. “One of our kitchen staff used to run a bakery in Yonkers. He’s still got the magic touch and some of our residents love to bake.”

They stop outside a cream-colored door.
There’s no number on it - only a small brass plaque mounted beside it, engraved with the name Elisa Teran in clean serif letters.
Erica feels her throat tighten unexpectedly, a sudden, sharp pang.
It’s a small thing. But it says: you belong here. You are seen.

Carol opens the door and gestures them inside.
It’s small, but bright.
A single bed tucked against the window, soft yellow and orange curtains filtering the light.
A cozy chair, a side table, an empty bookshelf waiting to be filled.
The room smells like orange peel and sandalwood.
Clean.
Human.
Nothing like the bleachy chemical fog of the hospital.

“You’re welcome to bring your own furniture, Mrs. Teran,” Carol says gently. “This is your home, not a facility.”

Elisa runs a hand along the windowsill, then turns to Erica.
“I will,” she says, quietly. Then, a pause. “Can you do this for me, niña?” Elisa asks, her voice a fragile plea.
Erica steps close, lays a hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “Of course, Aunt Elisa. Just tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen,” she says, her voice firm with a new resolve.

Carol offers to take Elisa to the dining room for lunch - waffles and fresh berries are on the menu today - and Erica nods gratefully.
She follows Aunt Elisa walking down the hallway with the manager, slowly but with a quiet sense of purpose.

Alone now, Erica returns to the car.
She carries in the boxes one by one, stacking them neatly against the bedroom wall.
There are clothes, Elisa’s slippers, a framed photo of the kittens she had fixed back at the apartment.
A few dog-eared paperbacks in Spanish.
A tiny hand-sewn pillow that smells faintly of oranges.

She opens the first box and begins to unpack, smoothing out the contents with care.
“Looks like we’re off to a decent start,” she murmurs.
Now and then her eyes flick to the door.
She’s not sure if she’s talking about Elisa.
Or herself.

~~~

This Carol seems to be a really decent, caring, human being. Just the right person to be the manager of a care home.

Dear @LunaDog, Carol is based on the manager of the care home I worked at a few years ago. She is a kind person and - as you said - the right one for the job.

“In a few days, you’ll know the building like the back of your hand, Mrs. Teran,” the staff member says gently as she escorts Elisa back to her room. “Just remember: go through the green door, follow the corridor.”

Erica folds the last moving box flat.
Neat.
Done.

“Your aunt had quite the appetite,” the staff member says with a chuckle. “How did you like the waffles, Mrs. Teran?”

Elisa pats her stomach. “Very good,” she replies simply.

Erica smiles.
Her aunt ate.
She smiled.
She talked.
The waffles were good.
The place is quiet, warm, and clean, the staff is kind.
Perfect. A small victory.

She watches Elisa ease herself onto the edge of the bed, then slowly lie back.
There’s a soft grunt - half tired, half testing the mattress.
Erica remembers that Elisa always liked a hard bed.
She’d once slept on the floor, on a folded blanket, just to “sort her bones out.”

The afternoon hush settles across the care home like a gentle quilt.
Most of the residents are taking their nap.
The hum of the HVAC system is quiet and low, the faint scent of orange and linen - everything is still.

Erica pulls the chair closer and sits beside her aunt.
Hands folded.
Watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Elisa’s chest.

“I really hope you’ll like it here,” she whispers. “I’ll come and visit as often as I can. I promise.”

Elisa doesn’t stir.
Just breathes.

“I think… Mom would’ve wanted that.”

Luisa.
Her mother.
Elisa’s sister.

A certain warmth blooms in Erica’s chest - painful, tender, curling like a snake beneath her ribs.
Regret has a shape now, and a name.
It’s made of half-remembered melodies, of missed birthdays, of long silences that said too much.

“I hope you can forgive me,” she whispers, fingertips brushing the Rolex on her wrist. “Because I don’t know if I can forgive myself. Dad always taught me to stand up for what’s right - and when you needed me, I shut the door. Pretended you didn’t exist.”

She glances at Aunt Elisa’s right hand.
The one with the missing pinkie, a stark, brutal absence.
And she wipes a tear away as she tries to imagine how terrible it must have been to lose everything in a storm of violence.
With her right hand resting on her aunt’s, the old woman suddenly starts talking, her voice surprisingly firm and clear.
Erica isn’t certain if she’s talking in her sleep, because Elisa’s eyes are still closed.

“They came in the night,” she says.

“Los Vatos Locos…”

“They climbed over the walls of the compound and kicked in the door…”

“They dragged us out of our beds…”

“Bernardo resisted… They hacked him to death with their machetes.”

Erica freezes.
For a moment there is silence, only Elisa’s slow breathing.

“I struggled, tried to get to him…

“They tied my hands and feet with a rope… tied me to a garden chair.”

“I cried… they stuffed a rag into my mouth to silence my screams…”

“Then they shot Sandro… my boy…”

“Made me watch… he begged… they murdered him…”

Elisa lets out a sigh coming from deep within.
One of regret, of pain uncoiling.
Maybe this is the first time she really speaks about that horrible experience.

“They robbed us… took everything of value we had.”
Her breath catches.

“One took my wedding ring…”

“Then he saw my gold signet ring… but he couldn’t get it off.”

“He cut my finger off with garden scissors to get the ring.”

Erica swallows hard, wraps her hand around her aunt’s.
Protective, but much too late.
She notices that her aunt, that frail old woman, looks even smaller now, as if her story has physically diminished her, and time finally caught up.

“Then they left…”

“I struggled… spit out the gag. It took hours to get my hands free.”

“I stood in puddles of their blood… buried Bernardo and Sandro… and left Cochabamba.”

Elisa’s eyes open slowly.
Cloudy, but seeing.

“I begged for money in the streets, stole food, and rode trains…Till I came to your door.”

Erica leans forward, elbows on her knees, head bowed.
She cannot imagine what kind of a long and hellish journey her aunt must have endured to get from Bolivia through half of South America, Middle America, and Mexico, and then all across the USA.
One penniless woman, alone, fighting for survival each day - trying to get where she knew the only family she had left, lived.
The sheer scale of it overwhelms Erica, a weight in her chest.

Her voice barely more than a breath.
“I was so wrong about you,” she says. “For so many years. I thought you were trying to replace my mother... take my dad’s attention. I didn’t see it. I didn’t want to.”
She pauses, lips tightening. “You were just... trying to survive. You needed help. And I shut you out. I failed you, failed my parents. I know it now.”

She wipes quickly at the corner of one eye, then laughs quietly, bitter at herself.
“I used to think I was so strong - keeping my distance, keeping it all locked up. But it was just pride. How stupid I was…”

A rustle.
A breath.

Erica looks up.

Elisa’s eyes meet hers. Mild, knowing.
“No, niña,” Elisa says softly, her voice weak but steady. “Not pride. It was fear. For both of us.”

Erica straightens, startled.
She’s out of words, her mouth is dry.
She just nods and presses Elisa’s hand tighter, because she can’t speak yet.

“I failed, too. I should’ve come to you. I was too ashamed. I didn’t want to be a burden. I was never brave enough to say what I needed. And I never stopped having those nightmares. Every week, still, after all these years...”
Her voice quivers now.
“That night… there was nothing I could do. I relive it every time I close my eyes.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
“I tried to bury it in silence. But I should’ve known - pain always leaks out.”

Erica stands quietly by the bed, still holding her aunt’s hand.
“I didn’t know,” she whispers.

“I never told you,” Elisa says. “But now... now I’m glad I’m not alone anymore. I hope you can forgive me, niña, even if I don’t deserve it.”

Erica squeezes her hand gently. “I do, Aunt Elisa. Just as much as I ask you to forgive me. I’ll not leave you alone. I promise.”

Elisa nods, her lips trembling into a faint smile. “You’re just like your father. Stubborn. Brave. Too hard on yourself. But you have Luisa’s good heart.”

They sit like that in the soft hum of the room - two women shaped by loss and fears, finally sharing the weight of it.

~~~

First of all? A wonderful Picture: Erica holding Elisa´s Hand. It captures the Chapters Essence perfectly. Now we learn what Elisa went through, what a Horror! Erica did good, did real good. Transfering her Aunt to a new Home free of Care. This Tale is in some ways a Journey back to her Roots for Erica.

I feel some real ghosts have been gently and peacefully laid to rest here. There is now an understanding between the two women, previously, for whatever reason, denied them.

Dear @Caesar73, this story is in effect, part of a trilogy which started with #16 "Trek of Tears" and #20 "Legacy" as its third part. There's a lot yet to come for Erica. Big promise.

Dear @LunaDog, it took them both a while to realize that they are what is left of their family and we will see how their relationship develops.

“I’m tired, niña,” Elisa murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Erica smiles gently. “It’s been an exciting day. Try to rest. I’ll grab the rest of your things from the house.”
Her aunt nods, eyes already drifting toward sleep as Erica tucks the blanket over her legs.

“I’ll be back later,” she promises.

“I know,” Elisa replies, soft but certain.

Erica walks the corridor alone now, the hush of early afternoon settling over Sunrise Manor like fine dust, a quiet blanket of peace after the storm of revelation.
Past the muted shuffle of slippers in the common room, through the soft hum of background music and colored doors, she reaches the lobby.

“How is Mrs. Teran doing?” Carol asks, glancing up from her clipboard as Erica approaches.

Erica exhales. “I don’t really know. She’s used to being on her own. The dementia doesn’t make it easier. But she ate well and now she’s napping.”

Carol nods warmly. “She’s in good hands here.”

“She’s tough,” Erica says, a note of awe in her voice. “Tougher than I gave her credit for.”


~~~


The short drive back to 12 Taunton Road is quiet.
Trees blur past, sunlight flickering between branches like broken memories.
Scarsdale is peaceful, a stillness that settles deep into Erica's bones.
It is a far cry from downtown Manhattan, from the relentless hum she usually inhabits.

She parks across from the house, the Volvo’s engine clicking as it cools, taking in the familiar lines of the house, imagining how the property will appear once the contractor has finished renovating it.
Soon it’ll be gutted, rebuilt - a clean slate.
Just like so much she is rebuilding.
And that includes herself, piece by painstaking piece.
She steps out, shuts the door, and locks it with a soft beep.

Her phone buzzes.
Without even thinking, she slips it out of her jacket pocket and takes the call.
“Erica Sinclair.”

“This is Assistant District Attorney Martin Barnacle, Westchester County DA’s Office,” a male voice says crisply. “I’m assigned the case of your shooting of Mr. Julio Ramos.”

That grabs Erica’s attention immediately.
She switches into professional mode, the transformation instantaneous, a click into place.
“Go ahead, Mr. Barnacle?”

“I just wanted to let you know that we dropped charges against you. You’re aware that it was a formality given the circumstances. But still. It’s good form, I think.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” she says curtly.

“You’ll be subpoenaed to testify against Ramos. I’ll get you the notification for the trial. You’d be available, right?”

Memories she’d rather keep buried stir in the shadows: her testifying against Tony Maze.
Maze, whom she helped put away for life, who had stared at her when he was sentenced, his lips silently shouting “I will kill you, Sinclair.”
And he had tried to do just that.
She can still feel where his bullet hit her in the shoulder when the weather changes.
Maze was a hardened criminal with a record for violence and murder, unlike Ramos, who makes his living slinging drugs.
Still, Ramos tried to kill her with his knife.

She shot him, and she knows one thing: should he ever try to get back at her, she’d shoot him again, without a second thought.

“Sure, Mr. Barnacle,” she says.

“As for your father’s .45: if you want it back, you’ll have to apply for a permit at Scarsdale PD. They will guide you through the process.”

The pistol.
Right.
She definitely needs to pick it up.
“I will. Thank you.”

On that note, the call ends.

Erica pockets her phone and pops the boxes open in the hallway.
Elisa’s room, the former guest room, is upstairs, clean and tidy.
Her aunt, she remembers, always looked after the details, a meticulousness Erica now both appreciates and mourns.

She opens the closet and sorts through the dresses hanging from the bar, blouses, skirts, slacks.
Most of what she touches, however, her receptionist and resident fashionista Holly Beck, would class as shabby-chic - probably more shabby than chic - is ready to be replaced.
Nonetheless, she folds each item carefully and takes the boxes downstairs.
She considers asking Elisa if she’d like to go shopping for some new clothes these next days.
Maybe even tomorrow after the meeting with the contractor.

After the clothes come the smaller items.
Surely, her aunt must own a couple of things which mean something to her.
Erica selects some of the books she knows Elisa loved to read, but when she looks at the nightstand, her heart skips a beat.

There, leaning against the little cat statue, is a photo.
A printed one.
Glossy, small enough to be carried in a wallet or a purse.

Erica’s breath catches, a sharp, icy intake, as she stares at it - a selfie, snapped with the kind of casual intimacy that doesn’t lie.
Elisa, smiling faintly, her silver hair pulled back.
And next to her, arm slung loosely over her shoulders, is him.

Julio Ramos.

There's no mistaking it.
The angular face.
The smug grin.
Erica’s stomach tightens, a hard knot forming.

She turns the photo over.
No date.
No note.
Nothing.
Just silence screaming from the glossy paper.

He wasn’t just some junkie breaking in to use the basement.
He was in her life.
Welcomed.
Smiling.
God knows how long it had gone on - how many lies he had fed her, how much trust he siphoned away while pretending to be family.

She stares at Elisa’s eyes in the picture - calm, but distant.
A softness that might’ve passed for trust.
Maybe a secret longing for company.
Or confusion, a tragic vulnerability Erica now sees clearly.

“What else did you take from her, you son of a goddam bitch…” Erica says, loud, the words ripped from her throat. Bitterness in her voice.

Her hand tightens around the photo.
Maybe it started with the basement.
But maybe it went further - one withdrawal at a time, until there was nothing left.
Maybe she gave freely, because she thought he was kin, because she needed a person who cared - and he pretended to care.

Erica knows predators like him, knows their patterns.
Ramos didn’t just stumble into the house.
He embedded himself like a parasite.
This wasn't just trespassing, it was calculated exploitation.

Pocketing the photo, she has to stick to the protocol.
Detective Flaherty - the one in charge of the Ramos case - needs to see this.
She will pass the selfie on to him as evidence, ask him to look into Elisa's financial records.

A thought flashes in her mind - unwanted but with brutal clarity: if Julio Ramos had died when she shot him… she wouldn't care.


~~~

A rather unwanted development, sure. Just how much of Aunt Elisa's mind did Ramos destroy?

Dear @LunaDog, we will find out, I promise.

Jenny_S wrote: 2 weeks ago Dear @Caesar73, this story is in effect, part of a trilogy which started with #16 "Trek of Tears" and #20 "Legacy" as its third part. There's a lot yet to come for Erica. Big promise.

Looking forward to it dear @Jenny_S !!

Dear @Caesar73, but first we'll wrap up this story today. Enjoy!

With several boxes of clothes and various smaller items packed up in the trunk of her black Volvo, Erica drives back over to Sunrise Manor.

She carries the boxes inside, setting them carefully down at Elisa Teran’s new doorstep.
A beat, then she knocks politely.
Dementia or not, she owes her aunt the respect for privacy.
No reply.

She carefully and slowly opens the door, sticking her head inside the room, looking around.
The bed is empty, the blankets perfectly smooth.
“Aunt Elisa?” she calls.

Her voice bounces off the walls, hollow and alone.
No reply.
Her breath hitches, the unease comes fast, sharp, a cold hand squeezing her chest..

Spinning on her heel, she strides down the hallway, bursts through the green door, heart thumping.
Dr. Parker told her that demented patients can - and sometimes do - strange and unexpected things, like wandering off.

The reception desk in the lobby is unmanned.
No staff member is in sight.

She slams the bell, the sharp ring tearing through the quiet lobby.
Again.

Carol Albright appears from her office, surprised. “Ms. Sinclair?”

“I can’t find my aunt.”
Erica slows her breathing, tries not to look too alarmed, not to sound hysterical.

Carol doesn’t hesitate. “This way, please.”

They move swiftly.
Down another hall, around a corner, a blue door swings open - and there, behind a wall of glass, a group of residents sits in rows, voices rising in fractured harmony.
A piano plinks out halting notes.
In the center sits Elisa, glasses perched on her nose, singing.
Her face is serene, and something like joy flickers across it.
Not quite a smile.
But close.

Erica watches quietly through the glass, unmoving.
The woman who once slept on a floor to “sort her bones out” is now seated among strangers, her voice - however tremulous - blending into something whole.

“We asked her if she’d like to be part of the choir,” Carol explains. “They meet every Wednesday afternoon, some meet in between to sing.”

Erica chuckles softly, a shaky, disbelieving sound, the tension slowly ebbing. “I… see.”

Glancing at her watch, Carol says “Choir practice should be over in ten minutes or so. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Erica shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’ll wait in her room.”

As she walks back, the green door swings shut behind her.
She moves quietly, the silence wrapping around her like a blanket.

There’s still so much she doesn’t know.
About this place.
About her aunt.
About herself.

But she’s learning.
And she’s not alone.
Elisa Teran might forget her tomorrow, but Erica will remember her.
That much is certain.



The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the gripping thriller “Erica Sinclair – All or Nothing”

A good ending to a pleasant, Julio Ramos's activities aside, story. I guess that we'll see if Erica does make her father's former home her own, in future tales, of which i sincerely hope there are more to come.

Dear @LunaDog, I'm happy you enjoyed this story. Here's where you find story #18 "Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing" starting tomorrow evening: viewtopic.php?p=213162#p213162

As for more from the Ericaverse, currently, I'm working on story #25, so, rest assured, there - definitely - is more to come. We will see 12 Taunton Road again as well as Aunt Elisa at Sunrise Manor. I promise.

[quote=Jenny_S post_id=213163 time=1763496897 user_id=95471

As for more from the Ericaverse, currently, I'm working on story #25, so, rest assured, there - definitely - is more to come. We will see 12 Taunton Road again as well as Aunt Elisa at Sunrise Manor. I promise.
[/quote]

Looking forward to it!