Shattered

Out of the blue, the call came, Sara was out walking the dog. Grace had still a whole stack of papers to grade. Fuck, she thought how would I tell her what just happened, how would I deliver this gentle, why this now with everything that had happened?

George was more than a foster dad to them both, he was genuinely open and kind. In a way that reminded Grace of Mr. Rogers — like uncanny kind and helpful. He was often misunderstood, and maybe if it was important he would be on the spectrum as they say in some way. They knew he loved them, he wanted the best for them, that was clear.

The three of them had gone for a picnic in the woods that Saturday prior. And he was simply wanting more and more of a chill scenery to see them. His hope was that the scenery would somehow seep its way into their psyches', to brew like Darjeeling does, leaving long legs of deep medicine. Grace was adopted first, her parents had passed away in a car accident, though currently his heart was more concerned with Sara.

He sat on the blanket waiting for them to arrive, scribbling in the little black notebook that he seemed to always have handy. It was secretive in some way, it was a mystery what was inside or what he wrote about, drew about, dreamt about.

There was a sense of mystery, but one that was also protected, as a small girl Grace had many opportunities to look inside. In her mind, there was only one notebook, she only just realized there must have been more. She had never seen a stack of them in the house or anyplace. The girls slowed their chatter when they saw him under the big Oak tree, the branches stretching out wide in the mid-day sun, the breeze fluttering the leaves bringing with a feeling of contentment. Sara sighed. Grace turned to see her smiling, her shoulders sinking away from her ears. The earthy fresh smell mixed with the pickles sitting on the blanket beside George startled Grace and nearly tripped on a root just before the blanket. George was also startled by this and snapped his black book closed looking up with a scrunched-over feeling. He listened better than anyone either of them knew. It felt like to be listened to by him was like snuggling deep into the coziest bed ever known, even the wrinkles and crinkles of the bed were welcomed.

Grace stood in the kitchen now. Blank. Starting at the red and white checked curtains, the lines forming the checks blurring, her heart loud as the death metal the neighbors played late at night. Her cheeks felt like a hot mess, the tears escaping leaving her vision ever more blurred. Her hands felt something cold, suddenly she realized that she was on the floor now, her knees must have given way, and also somehow holding her breath while waiting for Sara to reappear... It was a feeling of despair and confusion, she needed to know someone else knew about this. She couldn’t speak, let alone clear her mind, it felt like mush, and like she was being beaten over the head and stabbed in the heart. She was too in it to know anything different.

The dog came jingling in, his claws clicking on the tiled kitchen floor, the light streaming through the curtains giving everything a pinkish tinge. Chewy started licking her tears and nudging his head into hers, whimpering.

"Oh my god, Grace what happened, what is it?"

She stepped over the broken teacup, that Grace had forgotten she had dropped. And came so close that grace could smell the onions from her greek wrap at lunch, The odor brought her back into the moment briefly and she groaned.

"What is it Grace?"

There was panic in her voice. Sara and grace were fostered together but were otherwise not related. They considered each other sisters in each and every aspect of the word. The panic reminded her of the many gravities that the two traversed over the years.

"It. It. It is George. I just got a call from the woman who brings him soup on Thursday afternoons."

It rang a bell in Sara's mind today was Thursday. "She found him on the floor of his kitchen, she said the EMT thinks it was a heart attack, and if we wanted they could do an autopsy."

"Wait, what woah…… George? Our George?" No how can this be true, the horror ran through Sara like an infusion — filling her with more confusion and more waves of grief. Her tears were loud where Grace's were constant. Sara sobbed and screamed and physically felt like her veins were being separated from her body. The two of them creating a symphony of sounds both lead by deep sadness, confusion, disbelief, and grief. The two girls lay half on the floor half in each other's arms wailing and wriggling, feeling helpless.

Days past and the two both dressed in the same clothing as that dreadful Thursday afternoon— their hair making knots of itself, especially Grace's red curls, framing her tear-streaked cheeks. It was their attempt to stop time, no food, no real sleep, just staring into space. The teacup chards still strooned across the kitchen floor, the milky honey tea dried and dirty on the floor.

The dog was restless and starving. Whimpering anytime he sensed movement. One of them put a large bowl of water and food out on Tuesday, since both of them worked late on Wednesday, Havarti was still finding his way through this mound of food that in truth would have lasted for a week.

The girls lay facing each other. Staring through one another in the mix of emotions. Instead of seeing the other, they looked deep into their own memories and also nothingness, into the void that starts with disbelief. It was numbing and helpful right now.

On the 4th day, Sara got out of bed. She started the shower, and just sat on the bottom. Letting the water pound on her back, she did not wash her hair or use soap. She just sat there, the same blank stare seemed to wear her. The water eventually got cold and she got out….finding something else to put on and went in search of some water to ease the dull ache in her throat.

…

The two of them braved the steps to George’s house. They were all he had, sure he had friends and acquaintances but these girls were his life. They used the spare key which lived on the same shoelace George had given Grace when she was six to let herself in after school on the afternoons that he was working. They held hands and walked in slow. There was such a silence in the space that it immediately had Sara crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. Grace was squeezing her hand, a signal meaning -- it's going to be ok.

There on the kitchen table was the black book, Sara gasped and took it and held it to her heart. The two girls looked at each other, having this same thought, there has to be more. They looked through the closets, drawers, linen closet. Nothing. Holding the black book felt like holding George.

Grace was close to giving up when Sara remembered the garage, George liked to tinker in there. As children they were given free rein in terms of building, creating, and taking things apart. It was a way they processed and were allowed to discover without being told they were wrong or right. There, in the garage, the oil-spotted cement floor stood a big chest, it was wooden, and it was part workbench, especially for a small child body. The top of it was covered in indentations and grooves and markings that scarred the wood, leaving messages, and memories of these tinkering times. Secret languages engraved their deepest inner unravelings upon this special bench. Sara for the first time noticed the latch on the side of the bench, "it opens?" she thought, her hand gently musing over a few deeper grooves.

Grace and her holding hands again since crossing the threshold of the garage. Felt a jolt between them, warmth. They opened the bench to find many many stacks of little black books, all with the same clean edges and band to close them shut, or mark them open.

"Can we lift this?"

They struggled but eventually made it so they could take the bench to the car.