Memory Keeper

The clouds hung low like whisps of orange and pink cotton candy against the pale blue sky of early autumn morning. Burnt red and orange leaves crunched below my tread. The tall grass soaked my socks and the hem of my pants with dew as I followed the wafting scent of pear and honeysuckle up the hill. It always trailed off her hair and skin, the calming aroma of my mother. Her joyous stride carried her several yards ahead of me. She swung her arms, palms out, like she was trying to catch the wind. She kept looking over her shoulder at us with a brilliant white smile.

She called out to my sister and I, almost in song, “Hurry up lazy bones! The sun is rising faster than the two of you!”

           I hadn’t wanted to hike so early. I hadn’t wanted to hike at all. She hadn’t always been so adventurous. Suddenly, without warning, we were shaken awake in the dark hours and paraded out the door in our slippers and pajamas. Streetlights illuminated our path to the forested hills hidden behind the last row of houses in our neighborhood. She was so happy.

We made it to the flat peak where we rested on an old trunk from a fallen tree that had been lonesome, waiting for just the right people to enjoy the state it was in. The weather-beaten bark was carved out into the perfect seat. We ate marmalade toast sandwiches and peanut-butter celery as the sun woke up our city below.

“It was amber vanilla,” my father corrects me, pulling me back to the present day from a distant existence.

“No, it was light,” I argue, “and sweet. And floral.”

“Floral scents gave her hives, I believe. No. I bought her the amber vanilla for Christmas in ’92. She wore it ever since.”

“No…no. Really?”

           He nods his head as he pulls another bin from the closet and swipes the layer of dust into the air. It swirls around us in the dim light from the overhead bulb. He passes the box over to my sister who pops the lid and peers inside. She tosses the contents immediately into the Goodwill pile without a second thought and ignores the glare I send her way. The odds of it all being random knick-knacks not warranting sentimentality are high, but her lack of interest bothers me.

“I don’t remember that at all,” Nina shrugs.

“You don’t remember the pear and honeysuckle?”

“No, I don’t remember hiking. I don’t think I was there.”

Dad is distracted by his old paddleball that he once thought was gone forever. It was only hiding in plain sight. He replies absently, “you were at camp.”

I protest, “No. It was autumn.”

“Mom planned an adventure because you were mad all day, every day, about Nina going to camp without you. You were too small.”

           The lapse in one of my most treasured memories stung my eyes and throat. A few details may seem meaningless to others, evident in the casual reaction of both my dad and sister, but to me it changes the feeling of it. I was so certain of every aspect. It was a solid, prized story to me. Now it feels like a piece of tissue paper melting under droplets of rain, disintegrating entirely in the pouring self-doubt.

Was my mother wearing her blue nightie with the tiny white and yellow flowers or was she wearing her lazy plaid pajama pants and my dad’s ratty, moth-eaten t-shirt? Was her hair long then, waving in the wind, or had she already cut it into that short pixie look? Was I happy when we reached the top of the hill or was I groggy and angry the way I always was when I was awoken before I wished to be?

I close my eyes.

The billowy orange and pink clouds marched across the pale blue sky, making way for a crystal-clear summer morning. The tall grass soaked my socks and the hem of my pants with dew. Under each step, the moist ground squished and sputtered. I followed the wafting scent of amber and vanilla up the hill. It always trailed off her hair and skin, the calming aroma of my mother. Her joyous stride carried her several yards ahead of me, floating up the hill effortlessly. She kept twirling back to face me with a brilliant white smile, her charming crooked front tooth— ehm, no, the bottom one. The one she chipped learning to play the flute in elementary school and was repaired oddly.

“Trumpet,” dad corrects. Right, right. She played the trumpet.

She basked in the beam of morning light shining over the tops of the trees. The light glinted off the silver heart hung on the chain around her neck.

She called out to my father and I, almost in song, “Hurry up sleepy slugs! The sun is rising faster than the two of you!”

           I hadn’t wanted to hike so early. I hadn’t wanted to hike at all. She hadn’t always been so adventurous. Suddenly, without warning, we were shaken awake in the dark hours and paraded from our beds right out the door without a moment to change. Streetlights illuminated our path to the forested hills hidden behind the last row of houses in our neighborhood. She was so happy.

We made it to the flat peak where we rested on some large rocks gathered together in the perfect arrangement. My parents on either side, me in the middle. We ate marmalade toast sandwiches and peanut-butter celery as the sun woke up our city below. She held my small hand in hers. I traced the freckles on her left thumb— no, her left index—no, her right index. They rested in points of a star. Her laugh soft as an exhale and melodious as a harp.

“Oh, her laugh was never soft or melodious,” my dad mocks in real time. A smirk spreads across his face. “Squeaky, yes. Loud, yes. The first thing I missed in the silence…never melodious, though.”

“Squeaky?”

“Yeah like…” He tries his best to replicate it but chokes on his tonsils instead. It comes out unrecognizable. “You know what I mean.”

Nina adds, “Sleepy slugs. That was always nana’s phrase.”

“Mom picked it up from her. Didn’t she?”

“Maybe. But I don’t remember that.”

“My mother. Nana, not Grams.” My dad calls over his shoulder as he moves to the chair in the corner of the room. He flicks through newspaper clippings, another of his long-lost treasures.

“She could have picked it up over time.”

“She could have.”

           The shriek of the tape gun interrupts the room as Nina pulls a piece across the length of a box and punctures the end with the serrated teeth. She scribbles ‘clothes & accessories’ on the side of the box quickly.

“Hey, wait!”

“What?”

“I want to find her necklace.”

“Go on.”

           Nina walks back into the closet as I tear open the box she had just sealed. I maneuver around scarves, hats, and a few dresses until I find a tiny Kay Jewelers box. The lettering is faded. I have no idea how old it is. She wore the necklace as long as I knew her, though, I never knew how she got it. I lift the lid. Inside, on a tiny velvet pillow rests a gold heart necklace. No. It is wrong.

           I drop it back into the mess of mom’s remaining possessions.

           I walk into the stale closet beside my sister and begin pulling things out and putting them back. An old box of Father’s Day ties, worn-down and dirt-caked tennis shoes, sweaters that are nothing more at this point than yarn homes for dust bunnies.

“What are you looking for?”

“Mom’s necklace.”

“I put it in that box on the bed.”

“No that one isn’t it.”

“No?”

“It’s yellow gold. Her necklace was silver.”

“Was it?”

“You don’t remember?” I groan, a little too childish for her liking. She strikes back.

“You don’t remember.”

I close my eyes.

It was early morning. It was summer. The tall grass on the hill was wet with morning dew. It soaked my socks and the hem of my pajama pants. We were wearing our pajamas as we hiked. I know I was. It had been mom’s idea to get me out of a funk because my sister wasn’t there. She was away at camp. My mom smelled of amber and vanilla, not of pear and honeysuckle. Her smile was gorgeous, however, crooked on the bottom. She played trumpet. She wore a gold necklace. We ate marmalade toast sandwiches and peanut-butter celery, that I was certain of. She laughed, apparently, squeakily, and she was happy. We were happy. We were happy and she wore a yellow gold necklace.

When she died, I was 16. In spite of the passing years, I remember intense, aching pain that took my breath and weakened my knees. As though she were my left leg, keeping me upright, I lost my balance after her. All I could do was watch the world tower around me. Things operated accordingly, but all I could do was see it at an inch tall. Everything, I remember, was a distant echo of my former life.

I remember things were dark for a very long time. The color had drained from my life with her passing. When the color returned, it was fiery red. I cursed at the blazing sky and the ticking clock. How dare it pass another minute without her here. For a very long time nothing was pear and honeysuckle or amber and vanilla. Nothing would be again. I was furious.

I remember when the anger subsided, a feeling of nothingness took its place. The feeling when you step outside and there is no breeze. At the same time, it isn’t too cold or too hot. All you feel is your skin. All you feel is existence as it is. These things I can feel and remember. Monotonous things plague my mind.

           I remember every lock code sequence I have ever had. I remember the phone number of our old landline from 20 years ago. I remember the sound of our dial-up computer when I turned it on to do homework. I remember the name of the DMV worker who gave me my license. I remember the taste of marmalade toast sandwiches. I remember every class schedule, every teacher’s name, every street name of my childhood friend’s homes, and every line of every song I have ever heard. I even remember the old librarian from the downtown library who would give me a sucker when I returned a completed book. Her name was Helen. She had long, frosted mauve fingernails that clacked on the desk and the keyboard. She had voluminous, auburn Elizabeth Taylor style hair and always wore a denim vest with book appliques on the pockets where she kept stickers and suckers. I want to forget her.

I want to forget all of it to make room for my mom in my mind. Her eyes, her smile, her voice, her scent, her laugh, her touch. I want to relieve my mind of every unnecessary detail to make way for what matters most now that I live in a world devoid of her. If some great spirit, bigger than me and my life, could take every pointless memory from me and allow me to keep my mom, maybe I can move forward even with her gone.

I step out of the room while dad and Nina aren’t looking. Being a spiritual person and not a religious one, I surprise myself with the thought of praying.

“God, Being, someone listening…” I whisper while folding my hands unfamiliarly beneath my chin and squeezing my eyes so tight I see static. “You can keep her. Not because I want you to. No.  Because you have to, for some reason. But I beg of you, let me keep her memory. Let her live in my mind.”

Please. Please. Please…