Imitation Pearls

           A woman is crying. A woman is crying and a young woman standing near an open casket looks annoyed. She stands around 5’4”, and her athletic form is clad in a black pant suit creased perfectly down the front and a white silk blouse. In her hand, she clutches a white lace handkerchief. Her dirty blond hair is impeccably done in a tight severe bun.

           The crying woman is elderly, with a black dress from another era, imitations pearls around her neck and died white hair in the shape of a helmet. The young woman tries to ignore the wailing woman instead focusing her attention on the contents of the casket. The woman’s crying grows louder though, and the younger woman’s face grows increasingly irritated. Glancing back at the crying woman, the young woman cannot hide her contempt.

A slightly older woman with lose untidy blond hair dressed in a rumpled black dress and scuffed black heels approaches from the right and whispers, “What is with Mrs. Floyd? You’d think that her and mom were the best of friends.”

“I know,” the younger woman responds and adds, “I’m close to walking over and smacking the hysterical old bitty.”

The older sister lets out a chortle drawing strange looks from the gathered mourners, “I’d pay to see that.”

The sisters stand there quietly looking at the body of their deceased mother. The woman lays in a navy cotton dress with little white flowers on it, white hair cut in a pixie cut and around her neck is a plain gold necklace with a cross. The younger sister reaches into the casket and straightens the necklace so the cross lays neatly on her mother’s chest.

“Oh my God, Patricia, can’t you just leave it alone,” the older sister asks in whispered shock.

“I won’t have our mother go into the afterlife looking like a slob Jane. It’s bad enough that she lived that way.”

“You’re too uptight. You should loosen up and try to let life be a little messy.”

“You mean like you and mom?” Patricia asks. The adds, gesturing to the casket, “Look where she ended up.”

Jane’s face twists with hurt and tears well in her eyes when she says in a loud whisper, “That’s a cruel thing to say!”

Noticing their voices raise, people turn to look at the sisters. Patricia shifts uncomfortably before saying quieter,” Keep your voice down Jane. People are starting to stare.”

“Let them stare. I don’t care.” Jane responds in a harsh whisper. She then turns and starts away from the other woman and the casket.

Reaching out and taking hold of her arm, Patricia holds Jane back and leans forward to ask,” Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“It’s bad enough that mom didn’t finish the arrangements for this, and I had to finish all of this by myself! You’re going to leave me before the end!” Patricia says in shock and anger louder than she intended. Jane pulls free and walks more determinedly towards the exit.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You are perfect after all,” Jane calls over her shoulder before walking out the door.

The gathered mourners stand in stunned silence staring at Patricia. Mrs. Floyd has ceased her wailing and stares wide mouth at the young woman. Her forgotten paper handkerchief half raised to her nose.

Patricia smiles and adjusts a nonexistent flaw in her bun before walking to a nearby sofa and sitting down carefully. She looks at the people around her, the casket, and the flowers and sees that an arrangement is missing a couple leaving a hole in it. It is the last straw for Patricia, and she bursts into tears.

********************************************************

Patricia is on her knees with a pair of purple knee pads like those kids wear when riding their bicycles. She is scrubbing industriously at an already white tiled kitchen floor while New Kids on the Block plays from her Wi-Fi speaker. Her hair is held back in a tight ponytail with not a single loose hair. She is singing tunelessly along with the band when her phone rings.

Standing and wiping her sweat beaded brow with the back of her hand, she touches answer on the screen and says, “Hello.”

“Hi, is this Patricia Meadows?” A man with a raspy voice asks.

“Yes, it is. What is this about?”

“Hi, I’m Alan down at the storage facility on Chestnut. Your mother left you as an emergency contact. We’ve been trying to reach her regarding an outstanding bill. Do you know how we can reach her? If she hasn’t paid her rent in 2 days, we’ll be forced to auction the contents.”

“Sure, she’s at Lincoln and Simms.”

There’s a pause on the other end.

“Isn’t that Mount Olivet Cemetery?”

“Yes, it is”

There is another pause on the other end.

“I’m… I’m so sorry. I had no idea, “Alan finally says sounding genuinely apologetic and adds, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“It’s OK Alan. I’m not sure there’s anything in that thing that my sister and I would want anyway.”

“Are you sure? I can give you until the end of the week to come empty it before we auction it.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“OK well, I’ll still give you until the end of the week to decide.”

“OK, thanks Alan. Anything else?”

“No, thank you for your time Ms. Meadows. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you goodbye,” Patricia ends the call.

She puts down the phone and picks up a dust rag from a nearby table. Forehead creased in thought she returns to humming along to the music which has changed to Back Street Boys. She walks around the sparsely decorated living room dusting the tables.

When she comes to her mantle, she pauses to pick up a frame. The kind that holds several different photographs and traces a finger along a picture of her mother sitting crocheting a blanket. Placing a finger on her lips she purses them in thought and puts the picture frame down again.

She walks quickly into her bedroom and approaches a chest at the foot of her bed. Throwing open the lid, she begins rooting around in it. Not finding what she searches for, Patricia steps back and thinks a moment. She turns and walks determinedly to her closet and sticks her head in it. It does not contain her goal either. Patricia returns to her living room and stands in the middle, and after a moment of thought picks up her phone and dial.

The phone rings a few times before Jane answers with, “Hello.”

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?”

********************************************************

Patricia storms out of the house with Jane on her tail. If possible, her hair is more tightly done than usual. She wears a new looking pair of overalls and work boots. Jane follows her towards a dark sedan parked on the street with her free-flowing hair in disarray and attempting to put on her other shoe. She wears an angry and tired look on her face while hopping down her driveway.

“What’s your problem, Patricia?!” Jane calls after the other woman.

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour in my car for you to come, and when I finally decide to come inside and wait, you start yelling at me the minute you wake up!” The younger woman yells back.

“Well, you were moving all my stuff around the place.”

“I was cleaning your mess. I couldn’t find anywhere to sit.”

“Did I ask you to clean?”

“I’m sorry. I thought that I’d be doing you a favor.”

“Well, mind your own business,” Jane says while finally getting her other shoe on her foot.

They reach the sedan and Patricia gets in the driver seat while Jane climbs in the passenger side. Patricia starts the car and angrily shifts into drive and begins pulling off while Jane hastily puts on her seat belt. She barely registers the honk of a fellow motorist that she cut off by abruptly pulling into the road.

It is a tense ten-minute drive to the storage compound. The two do not speak until they pull up to the gate and not even then. Patricia puts the car into park and motions her sister to wait. She climbs out of the car and goes to the office.

She enters into a cool airconditioned room filled with racks of packing and moving supplies. The fluorescents glint off padlocks and plastic mattress covers and behind the counter stands a young heavy-set woman with brown hair wearing blouse and dress slacks with a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her name tag reads Cindy.

The woman is busily filling out a form attached to a clipboard while another customer waits patiently leaning against the counter with elbows on the top. He is a middle-aged man with hair more white than brown and wearing a denim jacket and jeans. He turns at the sound of Patricia entering and smiles which she ignores. The clerk finishes with him and hands him over to a young man who comes out from the back gesturing for the older man to follow.

Seeing Patricia, Cindy smiles and says, “Hi there. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Patricia Meadows. An Alan called me yesterday about a storage locker that my mother rented.”

“Ah yes, Alan mentioned you. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“If you need, you can have an extra week to empty it.’

“No, I just as soon figure it out today. My sister is with me, and I have a friend stopping by with his truck to help haul things to the dump.”

“OK, Ms. Meadows,” Cindy responds. She grabs a pair of bolt cutters off a hook behind the counter and says,” I’m guessing that you don’t have the key.”

“No, I’m afraid that’s somewhere in my mom’s condo which also needs to be cleared out.”

Cindy walks around the counter and motions for Patricia to follow her. Patricia follows the woman and notices that she wears two different socks. Her bad mood lightens as she giggles a little. Cindy turns and looks inquisitively at her.

Motioning towards the woman’s ankles, Patricia says,” I’m sorry, but you have two different socks on your feet.”

Cindy laughs and responds, “I know. I grab what two socks come to my hands and put them on even if they don’t match”

“Why do you do that?” Patricia asks curiously.

“Chaos is inevitable. You might as well prepare for it. If you insist on everything being perfect, you’ll never be happy.”

With that, Cindy pushes through the door and holds it open for Patricia. Patricia walks back to her car and climbs behind the wheel. Cindy punches a code into the keypad and waits for Patricia to pull through the gate before following. Patricia pauses the car and rolls down the window.

“Climb in the back Cindy,” Patricia says unlocking the back door, and Cindy gets in the car.

“Just go down this aisle and turn right,” Cindy advises pointing.

Jane turns and says with a smile, “Hi, I’m Jane.”

“Nice to meet you Jane. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” Jane responds with a sad smile.

The storage units with their gray padlocked doors creep slowly by while Patricia drives down the aisle. She reaches the indicated turn and pauses to check both ways before turning the corner. She sees that way ends at another right turn which brings them to another row of large storage units.

“It’s unit 345 on the left,” advises Cindy, and Patricia pulls up to the indicated unit.

Cindy climbs out of the car and walks to the padlocked door. She sets her clipboard on the car roof before turning back to set the bolt cutters on the lock. Giving a mighty squeeze accompanied by a grunt, Cindy manages to severe the lock which falls with a clang to the ground. She bends and picks up the pieces which she hands to Patricia.

“There you go. Just have your friend drop by the office when he gets here, and I’ll bring him back.”

“Thank you very much.” Patricia answers.

Cindy starts to walk away then pauses and turns, “If there’s anything that you think is worth donating, Unit 1 and 2 near the front are open. You can put them in there. Someone picks up donations from us once a week.”

“That sounds great. I’m sure mom would love that.” Jane says.

“Yeah, that’s great Cindy. We’ll be sure to leave whatever is worth anything.” Patricia adds.

Patricia turns to the gray door and stoops to grab a hold of the handle. She pulls and stands up and the door slides open. Once it picks up momentum, the door rolls up on its track revealing a storage space stuff to the eaves with boxes and various furniture.

Patricia steps back in stunned disbelief while Jane starts laughing. After a few moments, Patricia shakes her head and goes into her car to retrieve a couple of pairs of work gloves. One pair she hands to her sister, and the other she dons.

Jane pulls her hair into a messing ponytail tying it up with an old pink scrunchy and asks, “Well, shall we begin?”

Jane grabs a box from the top which comes away easily surprising her and throwing her off balance. She manages to stay upright and sets the box on the ground. Patricia following suit grabs the next box on the stack setting it down by the first. They continue this way for several minutes until arrayed in front the yawning storage unit are several shorter stacks of brown packing boxes. Patricia notices that Jane has paused in her work and his rifling through a box. Walking up behind Jane, her shadow falls across the woman, and she peers over her shoulder.

Noticing Patricia’s presence, Jane looks up and gestures with a hand full of notebooks saying, “Look what I found.”

“Put it away. We can go through it later. I want to get everything out of there first and sorted before Tony gets here.”

“Aren’t you curious about mom’s thoughts?”

“Not really,” Patricia says gesturing to the storage unit,” Clearly she was insane.”

“Is that what you think of me? Is that why you never visit?”

Patricia looks at Jane blank faced,” I don’t want to talk about this right now. Get back to work.”

Patricia turns away from Jane and makes her way deeper in where she discovers racks of clothing in various fabrics and colors and designs. The racks roll easily out as she pulls them into the daylight. Daylight reveals many brand-new dresses, shirts and pants still with the tags on them.

Jane approaches and says, “Wow, look at this stuff.”

Patricia says in a stunned voice, “I know. It’s ridiculous.”

“Mother was never practical.”

“Don’t I know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, we can donate these.”

“I want them,” Jane says defiantly.

“You have plenty of things cluttering up your place, and you don’t need any more clothes.”

“Who are you to tell me what I need?”

“Be serious none of these clothes would even fit you.”

“I can have them altered.”

“Do you want to end up dead under a pile of things that you don’t need like mother?”

Jane’s face clouds in anger, “I’m tired of your superior attitude.”

“Now, what is that supposed to mean.”

“You think that you’re so much better than me and everything you do is perfect. You’re just a control freak.”

“I just don’t see why you would want a bunch of out-of-date clothes when some poor person could really use them.” Patricia says back defensively.

“It’s not just the clothes. It’s everything. It’s how you never call except to dump on me about my life. It’s how you’re never there.”

“I am too. Who planned the whole funeral?”

“You only did that because you didn’t trust me to do it. The truth is you think that you’re better than me. It’s no wonder because mom treated you like her favorite. Her precious little baby.”

“That’s the craziest thing that I’ve ever heard.”

“Of course, it is. We’re all crazy, and you’re sane. Well, I’m done with your judgement and living in your shadow!” Jane yells as she turns to walk away.

“You’re supposed to help me with all of this!” Patricia yells after her

“Have Tony help you.” Jane yells not turning back.

Patricia turns to the half empty storage bin and surveys the work. Work that she now has to do alone. Alone she stands and begins to cry.

********************************************************

Patricia sits cross legged with an afghan across her shoulders sifting through a box of photographs. She takes out a picture and looks at it. It shows her sister and her in front of a garishly decorated Christmas tree smiling happily. She turns the photograph over and writes their names and a date on it before slipping it into one of the transparent sleeves of a picture album.

Her phone rings from across the room, and Jane stands running her fingers through her loosely worn hair tucking it behind her ears. Crossing the room, she picks her phone up from a table and looks at the screen which displays Jane’s picture. Touching the icon that sends the call to voicemail, Patricia sets the phone back down and return to the photos and album.

Looking down at the photograph, her hair falls freely by the sides of her face. She wears sad look, but she does not cry. Instead, she picks up her afghan and wraps it around her again settle back onto the floor. With a deep sigh, Patricia grabs another picture and writes something on the back before tucking it neatly into the album.