The Collectible

As he lifted the coat out of the box, he ran his hand across the stiff fabric. He remembered this well. The coat was originally a dark forest green, embroidered with delicately placed birds of paradise. Whatever color had existed before was now caked in a deep layer of dust. The embroidered flowers were torn and ragged around the edges, leaving disfigured doodles where art had once resided. 

Glancing over his shoulder towards the door, which still stood just slightly ajar, he caught himself wondering who in their right mind would be spying on a man that was, quite literally, cleaning out his deceased Grandmother’s closet. Regardless, he found solace in the fact that he was alone. He lifted the coat to his face and breathed in, hoping to catch even the slightest hint of his childhood home. The crisp, clean scent of snapping peas. Rich, earthy garden soil. Freshly brewed coffee, staunchly black against a clean white mug. Something, please… Give me something, he thought to himself, acknowledging the desperation in his internal pleas.

He smelled nothing but the musty scent of an article long since worn by a woman that had long since lived.

Storm held the fabric to his face, long after he came to accept that no amount of hope could bring the memory of his Grandmother back. He stood there for moments longer than necessary, reconciling with the realization that he had flippantly skipped over any opportunity to reunite with the woman that raised him in his early years, and for what? For his degree? For his pursuit of a career?

Now he was charged with the task of finally cleaning out his deceased Grandmother’s home. His Aunt Betty had intentions to sell the old house, but she was overseas and unable to complete the work herself. Having recently relocated to Atlanta for work, Storm was the closest one to their North Florida home, and the task had fallen on him.

“I’m… I’m sorry?” His words broke through the silence of the attic. They felt foreign, not like his own. Bouncing between the walls and empty spaces, it didn’t escape him entirely that it sounded more like a question rather than the declaration it was meant to be. His hands tightened around the coat, his knuckles cracking. In a quick flurry, he flung the coat to the ground and spun around, his hands flying to his face to cover his eyes in frustration. Why couldn’t he just get this right? His experiences with grief, as a literal grief counselor, were typically one sided.

Every textbook, conference, and training session he had ever consumed meticulously accounted for every step of the grieving process. He knew them like the back of his hand, and yet-

He shifted his foot slightly, and it bumped into… something.

Slowly, he lowered his hands. He looked down, his gaze darting around the floor until his eyes landed on… well... something. It must have fallen out of the coat’s pocket.

Glancing at the door again and finding that he was still quite alone, he crouched down and reached out for the object. It was small, with a visible tuft of what looked like hair. He picked it up and looked directly at it for a few seconds before it finally dawned on him that he knew exactly what he was looking at.

He was five years old again.

He and his older sister were standing on the edge of his Grandmother’s bed.

“Just grab it already!” Norah insisted, coming into the attitude of a pre teen at her seven years old.

“I can’t- I can’t reach--” Storm had stammered through gritted teeth as he stretched his tiny arms upwards towards the shelf, reaching for the little treasure they so desperately sought. Norah let out a whooping grunt of annoyance and promptly shoved him off the bed. He tumbled to the floor, colliding with the wall along the way. The contents of the shelf above crashed down around him, including… the collectible.

In an instant, the discomfort of his fall was left behind. He gathered himself up on his knees and reached for it. Norah let out a dramatic gasp and leapt from the bed, landing on the floor beside him. Storm gingerly picked it up and cradled it in his hands. He’d only ever seen anything like it on TV.

It was no bigger than four, maybe five inches tall. It’s rubber skin was a dark, even tan and it was topped with a wild tuft of wiry neon green hair. Right in the center of it’s stomach was a glistening jewel. It couldn’t be missed, considering the toy was completely naked. As if on cue, Norah burst out in laughter. Storm joined her, slowly at first, as he examined the dopey, playful expression permanently etched across the doll’s face. They had the entirety of their childhood fawning over this thing, constantly just out of their reach as it sat on it’s perch above the bedroom dresser. And now, they had it.

“It’s my turn, Storm, give it here!” Norah demanded, reaching over his shoulder to snatch the troll away. Storm let out a shriek of protest, yanking his body forward to collapse around the toy in a feeble attempt to protect it from his (much bigger) older sister. At that moment, the bedroom door flung open and his Grandmother stood in it’s frame, a slight frown donning her otherwise immaculate features.

‘Now, what’re ya’ll gettin’ into in here, I thought I--”

She stopped as her sight landed on the troll in Storm’s hands. “What did I tell ya’ll about messin’ with Grandma’s collectibles?” She hissed, dramatically throwing her hands in the air. She moved towards them as Norah quickly scooted away, all but placing the blame on Storm.

Grandma Alice swooped down, her forest green coat with the flowers shifting slightly at her side. Although her face certainly read annoyance, her eyes were kind as she gently pulled Storm’s face towards hers. “I told ya once, and I’ll tell ya again, Stormie. These aren’t toys. They’re collectibles.” She carefully removed the troll from Storm’s hands and stood up to return it to it’s home on the shelf. “That means,” she continued, “They’re going to be worth some money some day.”

Norah tsked and dramatically flung herself backwards onto the bed. “Grandma, it’s just a toy. Everyone at school has one. They’re trolls. They’re like five dollars--”

“Well SOME day,” Grandma Alice interrupted loudly, “I’ll be dead and gone, and ya’ll can go back to squabbling over my collectibles. Maybe they’ll be worth some money when you’re grown-” 

Storm snapped back to reality. His sister Norah had long since moved to New Jersey with her husband Rick, and he was once again a thirty-six year old man, cradling a naked troll doll in a musty attic in North Florida. The sweet twang of his Grandmother’s voice echoed between his ears as the memory lazily began to fade away.

A lizard darted past his foot as he slowly raised to his feet. He clutched the doll, a smile slowly pulling across his features. His grip tightened around the toy and his smile faded. “I’m sorry.” He said again, definitively this time. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when you needed me. I’m sorry I spent so much time away, I didn’t think-” He paused abruptly, shocked to find that his eyes were wet with tears. He stared at the doll, it’s jeweled belly still as vibrant and tacky as he remembered it. He began laughing quietly at first, but it expanded into a sound so palpable, surely Grandma Alice could hear him from heaven. He was suddenly overcome with the sudden realization that this… this is what he was looking for.