In Memory of You

Barney Peters sat cross-legged on the electric blue shag carpet of his mother’s bedroom. The room’s stale air pressed on him as he stared into her closet, observing the window's uneven rays of sunlight piercing its dusty darkness.

“See anything you want, Barn?” His sister crossed the room to gently place a hand on his shoulder, lifting her feet around the room’s junk piles.

“Not a thing.” Barney shrugged away from his sister’s touch and loosened his grip on the shag to run a hand through his thinning brown hair. “As far as I’m concerned, we can trash it all. It’s not like she’ll be here to scold us for it.” As Barney finished his last sentence, he felt the pit of his stomach tighten with a sharp sting. He released his tension in a deep breath, bringing his attention back to the shag.

“Barney,” his sister said softly, “Isn’t there something you’d like to keep? To remember her by?” She gathered a stack of photographs that were scattered where his mother’s vanity used to be. As she flipped through them, a faint smile appeared on her face, followed shortly by a wet glisten in her eye. Barney then watched his sister’s smile break as the shine in her eye became a lustrous tear. The first tear of the day. He gave his finger one final twist in the shag before he lifted himself and turned to her, brushing off his loosely fitted suit.

“I should be getting to work soon. Can we at least get one more box done today?” Barney said as he motioned towards an unopened box tucked away in the dimly lit closet. His sister wiped her eyes with her sleeve and carefully placed the photographs on top of his mother’s dresser, the only furniture that remained in the room. Barney bent down and dragged the box from its hideaway, kicking it to close the distance from his sister. They knelt at the ground and opened the box.

Upon seeing the box’s contents, Barney sighed. It was full of more meaningless papers and mementos that his mother had ferociously guarded until her recent death. Barney and his sister had tried to convince their mother that she would be better cared for in a nursing home or with one of her children. Nevertheless, she insisted on remaining in her outdated home with her outdated things. Barney had always appreciated his mother’s tenacity but, at the moment, he did not feel appreciative of the mountains of junk that she proudly left behind when she finally succumbed to her sickness. Even when her memories faded, her stubbornness remained. Now, Barney and his sister were gifted with the privilege of rummaging through the junk to clear the crumbling house for the first person who proved they had the money to take care of it. As Barney thought of selling the house, he felt another sting travel from his fingertips to his chest. Of course, he took another deep breath to dispel the feeling.

Barney finished his careful exhale while his sister began sifting through the papers. She sorted each sheet into various piles on the carpet, putting 30-year-old legal documents on her left and irrelevant newspaper clippings on her right. Though Barney felt that both sides could be combined into a singular trash pile, he followed his sister’s example. As he skimmed through a faded newspaper clipping, something in the box drew his eyes away from reading. Barney laid the newspaper clipping at his right side - far away from its designated pile - and reached into the box to pick up the eye-catching object. Lifting it out of the box, Barney observed it was a small black notebook, its fore-edges shimmering with a gold finish. Though the notebook itself was thin, its pages were well-used and thickly packed, stressing the notebook’s binding and cracking the black leather on its spine. Curious to see the substance of this notebook, Barney turned to the first page.

The Best of My Memories, it read. By Martha Peters.

Barney flipped through the notebook. On each page was a different souvenir from one of his mother’s cherished memories. He turned to pages with ticket stubs from operas in London and photos of his mother, youthful and radiant, lounging at a French winery. Next, he turned to a picture of her standing in front of a newly built house, undoubtedly eager to install electric blue shag carpets in her first-ever long-term home. Another section of the notebook had foreign coins and shiny pennies sloppily glued to the pages, each one accompanied by an equally sloppily scribbled description. On many pages, Barney’s mother had taped photos of him and his sister as children. Barney smiled as he turned to a picture of his laughing mother holding him on her lap at his seventh birthday party shortly after he had decided to cut his birthday cake by karate chopping it. A young and shaggy-haired Barney looked him in the eye with bright blue eyes and a frosting-covered face, daring anyone who viewed the picture to just try to take a slice of that birthday cake. She put it in the notebook, he thought. She wanted to remember. As Barney sank deeper into the picture’s memory, the sting returned, rolling through his body in a wave of dread and hurt. Barney shook his head. A deep breath might not be able to get rid of this, but he could still try. He closed the notebook and stood up, tucking it into his work bag.

“Sorry Jess, I have to go,” Barney said, moving his eyes back to the shag carpet as his sister stood to meet him.

“Maybe we can get breakfast this weekend and head here to finish up?” Jess replied.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll talk to you then,” he said as he walked out of the bedroom. He kept his eyes on the front door to draw his attention from the empty kitchen and living room. The bright and full house of his childhood was now just a shell. The sting remained.

When Barney arrived in his office later that afternoon, he emptied his bag, taking out the already forgotten notebook. Unsure of why exactly he took it in the first place, Barney placed the notebook on the far corner of his worn oak desk. As he logged into his computer to face any of the tasks that had accumulated in his absence, the notebook rested boldly in his sights. Frustrated at his inability to focus on anything other than the raggedly bound black book, he shifted the papers on his desk to cover it. Even though it was out of his sight, the notebook’s presence still dominated his tiny office. Barney stared blankly at his monitor, anxiously noting the white walls of his office closing in toward the book and the fluorescent lights shining brighter onto his face. As Barney desperately tried to ignore the feeling and continue working, the dull sting intensified and his stomach knotted. He rose from his desk and paced the small space between it and his door, preparing to inhale. No. No deep breath this time, Barney thought. He scoffed and snatched the notebook from its resting place, storming through his office building. Moving through the building’s back entrance, Barney stepped outside to face a quiet alley. Staring at a large and mottled dumpster, Barney held the notebook in his hands, ready to throw it in and hoping furiously that the sting would follow it into the trash. As he raised his arm with the book in hand, Barney felt his heart beating in his head.

Stop, he thought. This isn’t yours to throw away. Barney remembered the notebook’s first page. The Best of My Memories.

Barney lowered his arm, the second tear of the day rolling down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and re-entered the drab building. As he slunk through the sea of cubicles on the way to his office, one of his employees stopped him.

“Hey Barn, I’m glad to see you back. Are you doing okay?” The employee examined Barney’s tired and wrinkled face, standing squarely between Barney and his destination.

“I’m well, thank you,” Barney said, hoping the emptiness in his voice went undetected.

“That’s great, man,” the employee paused and shifted on his feet, unsure how to respond to Barney’s pleasantry. “What’s that you’re holding?” the employee asked, motioning to the notebook that Barney so tightly clutched.

Barney glanced at the book in his hand and then shifted his gaze back to the employee. I can’t throw it away, so I might as well tell someone, Barney thought.

“It’s nothing, just a notebook that I found going through some of my mom’s stuff.” Barney flipped through the pages and showed the various souvenirs and pictures, stopping on the messy coin page when the employee interrupted him.

“No way! Can I take a look at those? I collect.” the employee eagerly stepped toward Barney, closing in on the notebook just as the walls of Barney’s office had.

“You know what? Just take the whole thing. I was gonna get rid of it anyway.” Barney said, apathetically handing the notebook to the surprised employee.

“Oh Barney, I couldn't. I know this belonged to your mother, so I wouldn’t want to…” the employee trailed off, waiting for Barney’s blessing.

“It’s fine. I promise. Best of luck with your collection.” Barney stepped around the employee and continued to his office, ready to attempt focus once again. In a matter of minutes, the employee joined Barney in his office.

“Barney, I don’t think you want me to take this notebook.” the employee said, his voice shaking.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Barney replied without moving his eyes from his monitor. The employee approached Barney’s desk and laid down the notebook, opening it to the messy coin page. He moved his finger to one of the shiny pennies.

“Barney, this is a 1943 Bronze Lincoln penny. It’s worth thousands of dollars and it’s probably not even the most valuable coin on this page. I really don’t think you want me to take this notebook.” The employee said.

Barney’s breath hitched and his eyes drifted from his monitor to the penny. “Are you sure?” he asked. The employee nodded. For the second time that day, Barney snatched the notebook off his desk and walked briskly out of his office, giving his gratitude to the employee.

Arriving at the nearest pawn shop, Barney could feel his heart pounding once again. He entered the shop and wandered through its cluttered floor to the cashier. After selling the coin for twenty thousand dollars, Barney stepped outside and took a deep breath. Energized, Barney called his sister to share the news that mattered most to him.

“Barney?” Jess answered. “What do you need?”

“Jess, no more rushing to get rid of mom’s stuff. We can take care of it now.” Barney smiled, inspired by the vision of a once again bright and full home with electric blue shag carpets.

*****

Sitting on the carpet in what used to be his mother’s bedroom, Barney Peters flipped through his worn black blook, a dull sting in his chest. Though he had sacrificed some coins for the house’s repairs, the notebook still glowed with the best of his mother’s memories. Flipping past the final picture of his seven-year-old self, Barney turned to the end of the notebook, a single forgotten empty page. Taking a pen from his pocket, he titled the page The Best of Our Memories. Underneath, Barney taped a picture of him, Jess, and their mother. Barney gazed at the photo and, focusing on his mother’s face, let the sting return to his fingertips. As the third, fourth, and fifth tears of the day fell down Barney’s cheeks, he hugged the notebook to his chest, excited for the memories to come.