A Tricky Gift of Memory

A Tricky Gift of Memory

The person and the pages both brittle and yellow with age, she worries to reminisce through the photos inside for fear of forever losing the proof of her existence: there is no one left, only her and her photos. Without those, even her memory, more often than not, deceive her.

The binding cracks as her aged and wrinkled hands slowly open the album. A single tear drops from her chin onto a faded black and white photo of her lost love: the one that got away. The man she could not commit too, the man who would not wait until she could.

At the age of 92, she is surprised to hear the young giggle that escapes as she strokes the photo and remembers him. Oh, how he could make her laugh. Oh, how he could make her cry! The picture is black and white, but she remembers the day it was taken. Her mind drifts as she pulls her winter shawl around her, and she feels the memory as if it is the present. Looking at the page for other photos of him, she finds only one, from the day he walked away. “He always was one for style, wasn’t he?” she whispered to the empty room. In both photos he wore dark pleated trousers and a Cuban collar shirt of light pastel colors. But she remembers too, the leather coat and bad boy attitude he liked to show when out of his element: it was this part of him that resisted her to commitment. She was never sure which man he really was, and the latter made her shiver, even today as she takes this journey into her past. It has been so many years since she thought of him, even though he was the root of reasoning why she never married.

Shaking off the negative nostalgia of her younger years, she turns the brittle pages. Skipping one page and stopping at the next; a full-page head shot of her only child, 20 years dead by the wheels of a 16-year-old drunk driver. Again, she remembers the picture. How could she not? It was taken just two days before Molly began her month-long coma journey into death. Touching the picture, she notices a bulge and realizes there is something behind it. She carefully removes the picture and another photo falls to her feet. She bends to pick the photo up and notices a piece of paper still stuck behind the original photo. Sixteen-year-old Takes His Life: guilt or Karma? The headline says it all, but still, she reads the article underneath. She doesn’t remember ever seeing this before, so she looks at the photo that fell to the floor. “This must be the young man who killed you, Molly,” she spoke aloud: wondering still, how, and when the article and 2^nd photo were placed in the album.

Turning the photo over: something is written, but too faded to read. Sadly, she places them on her side table. Perhaps another time, when her eyes are not so tired, she’ll be able to read it. Looking again at the photo of Molly, she realizes with a broken heart that she has not thought about Molly in a few years. Is that normal, she wonders. My gosh, she was my only child. She should never have left my mind. But, alas, she did. “I’m sorry, Molly! Please believe I love you and miss you.”

Turning the pages once again, she stops at a photo of herself in the company of a man and woman: obviously twins. Oh my, she laughs aloud, then in the same breath hic-ups as she lets out a sob. Toby and Tami were three years younger than her and in the photo she’s about 30. Like Molly, it is the last photo taken of the three siblings. The twins died together in the same holiday house fire that took their father’s life. She realizes again, she has not given a thought to her brother and sister for years, or her father either. Looking out her window as the wind blows snow and ice, she is suddenly engulfed with a rage she fears may consume her: a self-hatred for not paying her dues with the years of grieving they deserved. She remembers her father as a kind but lonely man. She doesn’t remember her mother because, if she remembers correctly, she was never there, as if she did not exist.

Slamming the book shut and dropping it to the floor, “Hell, she probably died some horrific death just like everyone else, and it seems I’m such a cold-hearted bitch that I didn’t even acknowledge her,” speaking loud enough to be heard beyond her bedroom door, she rolls her wheelchair to her bed. Suddenly exhausted, she pulls the bell that will bring an attendant to help tuck her in for the night.

******

When Sue, the attendant, answers the bell, she finds Ms. Bangler slumped in her chair, a photo in her hand. Fearing the worst, she reaches for the photo, and jumps with surprise when the lady raises her head and pulls her hand back. Looking at the photo, and then at Sue, she asks “What is this?” holding up the photo. Sue takes the photo: but doesn’t recognize anyone in it. Showing it Ms. Bangler, she asks her if she knows who the three people are. Ms. Bangler does not know. “Just put it over on the side table and tuck me in, Sue. I’m exhausted for some reason. And Sue, did I eat dinner earlier? I can’t seem to remember, but sure as anything, I don’t feel hungry!”

“Yes, sweetie, you ate dinner. It was your favorite: pork chops, new potatoes, and creamed broccoli.” Sue lifted the less than 100 pound lady into bed and tucked the blankets around her. Kissing her on the forehead, she said good night to an already sleeping Ms. Bangler. As she left the room, Sue notices the photo album on the floor, picks it up, and without being nosy, places it on the side table. At this point, she sees the article’s headline, and her curiosity wins: she picks it up and reads it. She sees too, the photo and the writing on the back, but like Ms. Bangler, she cannot quite make out the message, ‘probably because the lighting is so dim’, she thinks. Feeling as though she has already crossed the boundaries of trust by reading the article, Sue places everything on the side table and closes the door behind her as she leaves the elder to her slumber. With a long night ahead of her, Sue doesn’t give the photos another thought.

******

After breakfast the next morning, Betty Bangler can’t remember the last time she felt this good. Sitting at the window of her suite, she notices the photo album and wonders where it came from. At the age of 49, she sure is becoming forgetful. She should call Molly and see if she wants to go shopping this afternoon. It’s a cold, wintry day, but the sun is shining, and the roads look clear from the window. She reaches for the phone: “What the … where is my phone?” She doesn’t realize how loudly she has spoken until the door opens and a lady walks in. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” She is scared by the intrusion, but not as scared as she is minutes later when she tries to stand and realizes she is in a wheelchair, and unable to walk.

Confusion and fear envelope her as she seems to shrink in size. The lady who entered the room, Amy, speaks in a soft and soothing voice, trying to de-escalate the situation. At the same time, Amy pushes the panic button next to Betty’s bed, summoning a doctor to administer a sedative.

Once sedated, but still able to communicate, she asks the doctor to call Molly. With sad eyes, the doctor explains the realities of her situation. As he speaks, Betty’s eyes drift to the side table, and the album that sits there. When the doctor finally leaves, she asks Amy to leave her with a pitcher of water on her side table. She plans on looking at the album to see what the heck it is. But first, she tells herself, “A mirror, I want to see a mirror!” That doctor said I am 92 years old. Molly is dead, my brother and sister are dead. My dad is dead! I am all alone. Finding no mirror in her room, and her wheelchair unable to access the restroom, she uses the black screen on the television to get of glimpse of her reflection. With a sad heart, her reflection proves the doctors claim. She most definitely looks 92! Alzheimer’s! Wow, she thinks, what a crazy thing. Here I am, thinking I’m 49, and not remembering all the years between then and now. She picks up the photo album.

As she opens the book, she is so tired. She doesn’t remember eating breakfast; but is not hungry. “How nice, someone left a pitcher of water of my side table.” She whispers; and looks at the first page in the album. She sees the picture of her first (and only) love. The one she lost, the one that walked away. Turning pages, she comes to a blank page, and remembers the last time she saw the book, (it was only last night, she believes), and the picture of Molly. Frantically, she searches around her; finally finding the photos and the article sitting on her side table. Reading the article a second time, she cries at the loss of both Molly, and the young boy who took his own life because of her death.

She remembers then; there was something written on the back of one of the photos. She found the message on the back of the smaller photo, the young boy. Last night, she remembers, she could not read it. Hoping her eyes are better today, she looks closely; shock overcomes her, as a smile takes over her face.

I was saddened beyond words to hear of Molly’s death. Though you never told me of her existence, I have always known. I have followed her life until the end of it. I wish I had known you both and our lives had been as one. Unable to fulfill that dream, because her death ended any chance, I planned the death of this boy, who took our daughter from us.

Love you always, your one lost love!

Lucas

P.S. I too have lived all these years alone. By choice. Because I could not have (you would not give) what my heart desired. I knew nothing would ever measure the dreams of what our lives would have been.

Reaching for the bell to summon an attendant, she readied herself for a battle with her doctor. When Amy called for the doctor, explaining Ms. Banglers’ request, he dropped everything to attend to her wishes.

So tired; time to put my head to rest. The doctor said he would do as she asked but she would have to do her part as well. He needed her to hold on a bit longer. The doctor wanted to fulfill her final wish; and he knew that medically (and perhaps mentally) she was running out of time.

Three days later, a very weak and tired Ms. Bangler sat in her wheelchair by the window. As she watched, a sleek, black sedan pulled up the drive. A very old looking gentleman dressed in dark pleated trousers and a lime green Cuban collar shirt stepped out. The driver and a walking cane assisted him, as the man walked up the salted walkway, avoiding small pilings of snow.

Minutes later, Amy knocked and entered Ms. Bangler’s room. “You have a visitor.” She said. But her message was sent to deaf ears. As Betty watched the man get out of the car, she recognized him immediately, and the shock of seeing him was more than her heart could handle. Lucas entered the room just as her death was discovered. He ran to her, just in time to give her a last kiss before her lips turned cold.

Lucas sat in the sitting room that had housed his only love for the last years of her life. She never knew it was he who paid for the care she received. If only he’d had the courage to be the man she wished he was all those years ago. Lifting the photo album and opening to the first page, he sees the two pictures of himself and smiles. He turns to the next page, (the one Betty skipped, if you remember), and he saw a picture of the two of them, the picture showed a bulge where Betty’s flat stomach should have been. As he fell into his final rest, he wondered, “Did she know then, that she was carrying our Molly?

Lucas and Betty found love in their younger years, ignored it, found it again, and it killed them both. Betty’s discovery of the album took what was left of her sanity and her health. Lucas found the album and died looking at the picture of his beloved Betty, pregnant with their child. They both died happy: and fulfilled.