Picture Perfect

Well, this is certainly not how I had imagined spending this picture perfect, no clouds in the sky, warm but with a light breeze from the sea kind of a show off-y Sunday. But when the sweet, elderly, and somewhat tottery little lady that is your favorite neighbor asks you to help her clean out the attic then what are you gonna say? No, sorry, sun is out and all that, can’t help? I don’t think so. You give her a lovely little smile and say, “Of course, Mrs. Shackleton, I’d love to help.” Especially since she added a not so innocent little “I’ve made some special lemonade” to her request. Special, of course, means it’s the adult version of lemonade, hardly even deserving the name anymore. I don’t know what she’s putting in there; she keeps insisting that it’s “nothing out of the ordinary, just a splash of rum.” But I have my suspicions. She might be hiding some sort of secret ingredient from the public there. Everyone in the neighborhood has a story to tell about their first time completely underestimating the power of Mrs. Shackleton’s special lemonade. But it is really good. Which is what I tell Mrs. Shackleton when she asks me whether I want another glass while cleaning out her attic, nodding vigorously.

While she is getting our refills I’m sifting through yet another box of her husband’s old stuff. We’ve already unearthed a few treasures: a signed Jackie Robinson jersey, a model of a GT500 signed by Carol Shelby, a first edition of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” and a very eccentric vinyl collection. But for the most part it’s just old junk that’s not even good enough for the charity flea market. Mrs. Shackleton saw the flea market flyer at church this morning and wanted to go through these boxes right away to see if there’s something in them that she can donate to a good cause. Unfortunately, Mr. Shackleton passed away some thirty years ago and by the looks of it the bags and boxes have not been touched – or dusted – since. Between the things too valuable to just give away and the stuff too washed-up even for a flea market there’s not much that ends up in the charity pile. An old but not too worn leather jacket, some unopened puzzle boxes, a small and somewhat unimpressive model train collection and an old camera is all we have to show for after an entire day of work. The last box doesn’t reveal anything useful either, mostly some moth-eaten plaid shirts and a pair of shoes that look a bit like a rat nursery. So none of that is going on the yes pile but rather straight into the trash. Not a huge success then but after some mopping and dusting we are left with a very lovely looking attic. Without all that clutter on the floor and noticeably fewer cobwebs it has a really warm and cozy feeling to it. It’s also very spacious which is why the image of a dance party pops up in my head. It’s probably mostly due to the lemonade that I suggest to almost 90-year-old Mrs. Shackleton that she should hold a little neighborhood ball in here. It’s definitely due to the lemonade that Mrs. Shackleton agrees and starts making plans right away.

It's getting dark outside and I dimly remember that I had planned to clean my room. Or study. Or something. But we are having way too much fun coming up with more and more ridiculous ideas for that neighborhood spectacle. “How about a live band? A little brass combo?” Mrs. Shackleton suggests. “Ooh, Craig next door plays the guitar in a band, maybe they can perform! I mean, it’s a grunge band. So it would probably be more of a mosh pit than a ball. Which could be fun…” I chip in. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Shackleton is vividly imagining the whole neighborhood head banging and moshing around her attic because she is positively crying with laughter. I’ve never seen her like that. Sure, she is a very joyful person, always has a smile on her face but this is something else entirely. It takes a while before she can speak again. “Yes, that’d be perfect. I’ll ask him first thing tomorrow!”

We come up with some more ideas, actually writing them down to make sure we remember all of them in the morning. But the excitement is slowly being replaced by a profound tiredness so around midnight I head back home. I feel a little ashamed for not wanting to help when Mrs. Shackleton first asked me. But I'm glad I did. We had such a wonderful time.

-

Last night I had agreed to take the box with the things suitable for the flea market to church before college classes start. So I head over to Mrs. Shackleton’s first thing on Monday morning. She doesn’t answer the door, though, and since I’m already running a little late I get in my car and drive to college. She probably forgot about our arrangement. Special lemonade can definitely do that to you.

I love being able to live at home with my mother while going to college. Most of my friends are insisting that I’m missing out on a valuable life experience by not living on campus. But the arrangement saves me a lot of money, comes with an always fully stocked fridge and a parental laundry service. Plus, I love the 30-minute drive to college. With music blasting at almost full volume I really enjoy that quality me time. It helps me getting ready for the day. I’m definitely not a people person in the morning. So the drive helps getting into the right head space. Today, however, I’m feeling a little uneasy. I can’t quite put my finger on it but for some reason my heart beats a little too fast and my stomach is in a bit of a knot. Could be the lemonade’s fault. But then again, we only had two glasses. I shake my head, skip the depressing song that just started on my playlist and try to think about today’s classes instead. I didn’t really study or did any of the suggested reading so maybe that’s why I’m a little apprehensive.

Luckily classes aren’t as bad as I thought they would be, they go by in a flash. My most dreaded class – empirical studies in sociology – is cancelled today as the professor is out sick. So I even have some time to catch up on the reading in the library. I love studying in the library even though it’s not an overly pretty one. Books are stored in the basement and you have to order them online beforehand. There are no long rows of musty old books, no shelfs stacked to the brim with gilded volumes of literary master pieces. But still, the college library always has a calm and serene feeling to it which helps me focus on my studies. No distractions, no one talking, just people typing away on their laptops. Or the occasional weirdo like me who takes notes using pen and paper. I like that. By the time I’m heading back home my spirits have improved greatly. I even put on my “retro” playlist and sing along to “What’s up” by the 4 Non Blondes.

The good mood only lasts until I turn onto my street, though. I can already see the flashing blue and red lights from here, even though Mrs. Shackleton’s house is quite a bit down the road. My stomach drops as I stare at the scene before me, feeling numb, detached. I know what happened, even before I see the stretcher. A white cloth covering a small human figure. A bunch of paramedics and police officers in Mrs. Shackleton’s yard. My mom standing to the side, face hidden behind her hands. Shaking. Seeing my mom like that makes me snap back into focus. I’d stopped the car in the middle of the street without meaning to. So I slowly pull up into our driveway, get out of the car and walk directly to my mother, hugging her as tightly as I can. We stand like this for a while until a police officer interrupts us. “I’m sorry Miss, are you the neighbor who saw Mrs. Shackleton last?” “Yes. I guess so. I saw her last night.” He asks me to come to the station to give a short statement. Only procedure. Nothing to worry about. Sorry for your loss. His words sound muffled, like I’m hearing them from a distance. My vision starts getting blurry and I realize that I’m crying. I look at the officer and nod.

-

The next few days go by in a haze. Every now and then I wonder whether it’s my fault. Whether I should have noticed something. Done something. Not have left for college when she didn’t answer the door. I try to ignore these thoughts. Other times I’m surprised that this is hitting me so hard. Sure, I’ve never had to deal with death before fortunately. But Mrs. Shackleton was only a neighbor, I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. But she really was much more than that. As a kid I’ve spent countless hours at her place, waiting for my mother to come home from work, doing my homework, learning how to play cards, watching tv shows. I remember going to her place whenever I had a fight with my mom. She always made time for me. Listened to my ridiculous little teenage dramas. Or to me complaining about life, college, boys, whatever. How is it we never really appreciate people like this until they are no longer in our lives? Why do I only now realize what big a role she played in my life? Once again I feel ashamed. For not being more appreciative. For not letting her know how much she really meant to me.

Mrs. Shackleton’s wake is organized by the entire neighborhood. She didn’t have any family. Or more accurately, this neighborhood was her family. We decide to hold a little ball in her attic, just as Mrs. Shackleton and I had planned. Well, not exactly. It’s not as joyous an affair as we had imagined it. No one's laughing, there's no special lemonade. Craig is here, providing the music. It’s just him on the old piano Mrs. Shackleton has in her living room. No band. No grunge music. Just some soft, sad tunes waving through the house.

I wander off to the book shelf in the attic. I never brought the box of Mr. Shackleton’s old stuff to the church. Instead I kept the leather jacket and old vinyls for myself and had the film in the old camera developed. I had framed the pictures late last night and put them up on the bookshelf. Looking at them now I can’t help but smile. Mr. Shackleton must have taken them just after the two of them moved into this house. They mostly show Mrs. Shackleton painting the rooms, splatters of color on her clothes and face. Every room in this house is painted in a different color but it all fits together nicely. She had created her own little world, colorful, optimistic, and just full of life. The old black and white photographs show a person full of hope. Of joy. Of confidence. They show Mrs. Shackleton. My neighbor. My confidant. My friend.

If only I had let her known that when she was still alive. If only I had let her known how much she meant to me. If only...