by T. L. Ingham
had been replaced with old Tupperware and Ziploc containers. Silverware was dwindling at an alarming rate, and she had used every glass and mug she owned; half of them stacked in the kitchen, the other half littering the bedside table and dresser-top. One of the bottles of sleeping pills was empty, and the other rapidly on its way there. She disinterestedly wondered what she would do when she ran out.
She was so groggy from all the drugs sloshing around in her system that she didn’t dare to try and drive, and she didn’t know anyone who she trusted to bring them to her. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it, she decided.
Meanwhile, photo albums were strewn all around the living room, pictures had been removed and scattered here and there. Some of them had been trimmed down to fit the locket, their trimmings remaining on table tops as well as the floor, and two or three pairs of scissors were scattered around the living room. All in all, her home was in complete disarray, the likes of which it had never seen. And she didn’t care. Not in the least.
She was preparing for her third round of sleep Sunday night, this time a picture of the whole family ensconced within the confines of the locket. The picture was one of the happiest memories she could recall in her groggy state. Glowing smiles radiated from the faces of Eldon, Scott, Cynthia, and herself. It was Christmastime, the year before Cynthia had died. Even then the little girl was sick, though none of them knew it. They could never have suspected what the new year would bring, or how quickly she would go, while her suffering seemed drawn out and never-ending.
Gilda was stumbling her groggy way to the bedroom, trying to devise a plan to make this easier on herself (maybe she should just move all the albums to the bedroom, and maybe take a couple jugs of water with them; but she was too weary to contemplate the effort just now), when it happened.
Her foot caught on a time-worn rumple in the rug. A ridge she knew all too well was there, one she had deftly avoided for years, but in her drug-addled state, had completely forgotten about. She pitched forward, throwing out her hands instinctively to catch herself. Not that it helped. In fact, it only made things worse. She went down like a tumble of bricks, while at the same time, the locket flew from her hand, struck the wall, and fell to the floor in two pieces.
Completely ignoring the pain shooting through her hip, she crawled forward and grasped at the locket. She hauled herself to a seated position, leaning against the wall, and tried to fit the two pieces together again. It was no use. The hinge was broken, as was the clasp, and the picture hung lopsided from its original position.
“No, no, noo, noooo!” she moaned.
Tears trickled from her eyes as she tried over and over again to fit the locket together. But it was to no avail. It simply would not go back together.
What if it didn’t work now? What if all the magic in it was broken in the same way the hinge and clasp were? What if her blessed dreams were gone? What then? She had finally found something worth living for. What was there now without the wonderful escape of that magical dream-filled sleep?
No! She would not have it! Could not have it! She would fix it. There was more than one way to skin a cat!
Stumbling to a standing position once more, she made her way feebly back to the kitchen. She was going to have to be very careful. Very careful indeed. A quick glance at the clock told her it was just now getting on to evening. With any luck the jeweler would still have his shop open. He could fix it. He must fix it. At any cost! She had been about to slip on her jacket when she realized that she was still only dressed in a nightgown. There was nothing to be done about it. She had to take the time to clean up a bit and get dressed. She couldn’t go stumbling into the jewelry shop in a nightgown and slippers at five in the evening. They’d lock her up for sure.
As rapidly as she could, she dressed, washed her face, and combed her hair, (the first time she done so in over a week); and then headed out to the car. If she weaved a bit on the road it was really no surprise, she only wanted to get there in one piece. Having dropped the locket off at the jeweler’s (just in the nick of time, he was preparing to close up shop when she went barging in, she headed back home. It was difficult, no, nearly impossible, to return home without the locket, but there was nothing she could do about it. He had explained it would take some time to do the repairs, but she had made it clear to him how vital it was to get the locket back as soon as possible, and he had agreed to do rush and have it available for her the next day by the time she got off of work.
She had already decided to go to work; there wasn’t anything else for her to do at home. Without the locket and her lovely dreams, there was nothing to occupy her time.
She was beginning to sober up somewhat as she stepped inside the house. For the first time in days, she took in the state of her home and was flabbergasted by what she saw. At the same time the urge was very great to put some order to the mess, her concern for the locket, and the possibly broken magic, was greater. She sat up most of the night, in a state, between wringing her hands in worry, to crying in certainty that it was done, it was over, and her life would never be the same. It was another death to her, the loss of the locket, one she was certain she could not overcome if it truly was lost.
The next morning she got herself together for work, dressing with little concern, fixing her hair enough to be considered passably neat, and then headed off to the library. She knew how badly she looked. If anything, it would only serve to cement her story of being ill. Her coworkers all eyed her in shock upon seeing her, the looks they gave her suggested to her that she may look far worse than even she had realized. But she didn’t care. She had only one thing on her mind, and she spent the day with one eye on the clock. She left about half an hour early, which no one questioned; unbeknownst to her, her coworkers were concerned that she was far more ill than she had let on. They all thought they were watching a walking corpse, and it made them more than a little uncomfortable. It was a relief to them to see her go, though not one of them would ever have admitted it.
When she got to the jeweler’s she was encouraged to see that his repair work, neat and capable, had been done on schedule as promised, and she paid him without any qualm. If the price seemed a little cheap she wasn’t concerned at all. After all, the week’s worth of overdosing on sleeping pills had rattled her brain in a way she was certain she could never recover from. And all that mattered was that she had her precious locket back. She made a quick stop at the drug store, where she purchased another bottle of sleeping pills, this time without bothering to hide it amongst a ration of other unnecessary purchases, and then returned home.
She didn’t bother with dinner, didn’t bother in fact with anything other than slipping on a night dress, clean this time, and then putting the picture back into place inside the locket. Climbing into the bed with a resolve she hadn’t felt in years, she snatched up the bottle of pills and the newly refilled glass of water.
She had learned her lesson. It wasn’t worth taking any more chances. The unending night before was all she needed to recall, to know for a certainty that this was all she had left. And if this picture wasn’t true bliss, then so be it. She would settle for happiness. She knew better than to be greedy, knew better than to expect more. Happiness was all a person deserved, anything more was icing on the cake. She’d take her cake, without icing if necessary.
Minutes later she was sprawled on the bed, deeply asleep, the locket clutched to her bosom.
“Mr. Butler,” the Medical Examiner greeted the forty-something year old man, shaking his hand resolutely. “I am so very sorry to have to meet you this way. Come, let’s head into my office and have a seat. I understand you wanted to review the findings of my report. Certainly, I’ll be glad to answer any questions you may have.”
“Thank you,” Scott’s answer was terse, which was to be expected. As the ME understood it, this was the last existing family member the man had. He sat silently behind his desk, watching and waiting quietly as Mr. Butler read every word of the report, even re
scanning one or two of the pages.
“So that’s it then? A suicide?”
Put as bluntly as it had been, the ME was unable to form words for a moment. Then finally, “Well, if you read my findings you’ll see that she was suffering from cancer. It is my supposition that she was aware of the disease and wished to avoid the suffering she knew was bound to occur. I’ve been informed that your father died of cancer?”
“Pancreatic.”
The ME cleared his throat. “Yes, and I understand your sister had a similar disease?”
“Childhood leukemia.”
Startled by the stark clarity in which the information was delivered, the ME took a minute to consider how to proceed. “Yes, well, one can only assume, having firsthand knowledge of these types of diseases, your mother must have been trying to avoid the same for herself. And, I would venture to say, an attempt to save you from having to watch her wither away.” Somehow the ME could not picture this man sitting vigil by his mother’s bedside.
“At any rate, from what we’ve been able to gather, she’d been calling in sick the last week or so to work. Only returned one day, the day before she, er, passed. That’s not unusual for suicides. Tying up loose ends so to speak. She may have wanted to see her coworkers one last time. And judging by the condition of the home, she had been suffering from extreme depression, hadn’t been taking calls, hadn’t been keeping house. Have you been in the home yet?”
Scott nodded.
“Well, you’ve seen the photo albums then I suppose?”
He nodded again.
The ME was completely out of his realm. Sometimes the dead were so much easier to deal with than the living.
“Then the only thing that remains is deciding what to do with the, er, the, remains.”
“I’ve already contacted the funeral home. They’ll be here to pick up the body today.”
'The body.' It was his mother.
“Is there anything else then? Anything I need to sign?”
The ME watched him for a moment. Some malevolent force rose in him for a moment, and for that single moment he reconsidered his original decision. But ultimately integrity won out, and regardless of whether he was doing the right thing, he slid open his desk drawer.
“Only this,” he said as he passed the locket over to the son.
“What’s this?”
The ME did not answer since it seemed to be self-evident. He watched as the man turned it over in his hand, once, twice, three times; then opened the locket peering at the picture inside.
The ME knew, from having looked at it earlier, and recognizing the features on the woman’s face, drawn and ill as she may have been, her younger self was still recognizable in the photograph. Just as the young boy was recognizable as the man he had become, the man now sitting across the desk from him.
Was it just his imagination, or was there a mist up 'til now nonexistent creeping into the man’s eyes?
“I’ve never seen this before,” the man murmured to himself, as if completely unaware of the audience he had. “I wonder where this came from?”
The ME took the chance to respond, “She was holding it tightly in her hand when they brought her here. I thought you may want it.”
The spell was broken as soon as he spoke, and he almost regretted his words. He never could be sure if the emotion had really been there, or he had only imagined it. Whatever the case, Mr. Butler quickly stood, and even more quickly took his leave. The ME sat back in his chair shaking his head. Thank God his kids hadn’t grown up to be like that. At least, he liked to think so anyway.
Somewhere, across town,
