Mementos

She had always been the type of person to lose stuff. House keys, sunglasses, purses - none were ever safe from sudden, often permanent, departures.

For most of your espousal, you adored her for that. She was neat yet clumsy, gorgeous yet humble, forgetful yet thoughtful.

Perfect.

But as you grew old together, she began to unravel. She became more forgetful as she faded away. She became colder too, and all you could do was helplessly watch.

“There’s no cure,” the Doctor had told you both flatly. “But we can refer you to some care workers who can supply all the support you need to make you comfortable, Mrs Jones.”

Make you comfortable.

You knew what that meant.

Prepare for the worst.

"Perhaps you could make use of mementos? Small objects or tales to jog her memory - they can help keep people grounded," the Doctor had suggested. You took the counsel onboard, and later that day, from the cellar, you brought up a dusty old box of keepsakes that Greta had collected over the years. Each of them possessed a memory, some happy and some sad. Many were a mystery to you, but they were all part of her story nonetheless.

Emma's old toy car rattled around on top as you walked up the steps. That memento was gone when you reached the lounge room where Greta sat.

Best not upset her, you thought.

They say sorrow only hastens the process, although you weren’t sure that was true, but you made an attempt to stay upbeat nonetheless, for Greta’s sake, and so you kept your secrets locked up. After Emma's tragedy, you had always done that.

The truth would only hurt her, you told yourself.

***

The house felt more cluttered than usual that day. Stacks of envelopes and papers covered most surfaces, held down by random books and ornaments. Yesterday's coffee cups rested on the table board of the lounge room next to your scarcely used letter opener, and there seemed to be an unruly amount of dust on every edge.

She too seemed less clear that day, as though her thoughts were somewhere else.

You set the tea cups gently down on the table next to her, and placed an unsteady hand on her shoulder.

"Where's Emma?" she asked, her hands wrapped around Emma's old toy car. Your blood ran cold.

Where could she have found that? You wondered.

Your thoughts raced, but her gaze stayed strong.

The woman you loved sat before you, but all you could see was how much you had to lose.

All you could see was someone who craved the truth, and somehow she knew she hadn't had that for years. She looked healthy enough, but far below the surface, her neurons screamed for help as they were slaughtered one by one. She clung to every ounce of truth she could, every memory, every mood, the good and the bad, before they could be melted away.

Emma passed decades ago at only four years old. You were supposed to watch her when Greta was at the shops, but the few moments you had spent focussed on someone else - although your account of the event replaced them by 'a search for your glasses' that you always lost around the house - were all that was needed for Emma to run away.

She'd squeezed through the gap of the front fence your local handyman had poorly secured, stumbled onto the road, and met her end on the bumper of a car. The woman at the wheel had taken a new route that day, one she never normally took. She wasn't meant to be there, nor was Emma, but fate had other plans. Greta had wanted her locked up, but the woman ended herself before the court case had barely begun. You felt sorry for her when the news came.

You were both bereft, but Greta was utterly destroyed. She was your only baby, and you never had another. You blamed everyone but yourself: the deceased woman, the handyman, the emergency doctors who pronounced Emma dead before you were ready to accept defeat. But the truth was, you knew the fault had been yours.

"Where's Emma?" Greta repeated.

You felt tears well through your eyes, and then the words began to flow. They came out as a choked cry, but they came out nonetheless.

"Emma's dead, my dear. She's been gone for years, remember?"

Her eyes darted back and forth as she looked you over and then, when she found that you were honest, began to remember.

"You lost your glasses..." she wept.

Every utterance of the false excuse burned more and more. The obscured truth had eroded your soul as the years dragged by.

She has to know the truth before she passes. She'll never be at peace unless she has the truth, you thought.

Then, as you took a deep, shaky breath, the words began to spurt out.

"My glasses were never gone. The-they-they, were never gone. Emma was left by herself because we went to the bedroom, but just for a moment..."

"Who?"

"Dora and me."

"Dora? The woman from next door?"

You nodded. All those years ago but the memory never faded.

Greta's face went cold as the truth completed the story that had tortured her for decades. The betrayal of adultery burned, but the flames were made ravenous by the real betrayal.

Your daughter saw the consequence that you never faced.

Greta stood up from the couch. She looked taller than usual. Meaner. Her gaze was vehement, and you wondered whether that person had always been there, concealed beneath a fake persona.

Or worse, maybe you had created her.

You stumbled backwards and landed on the wooden floor. Greta's shadow loomed over you. Her left hand clutched Emma's old toy car. Her other reached for an object on the table board above you.

***

When the nurse came by to check on you both, she found Greta by herself on the sofa. The house was cleaner than usual. All the clutter had been packed away, and the dust had been swabbed from every surface.

"Had a clean-up today, Mrs Jones?" she asked.

"You could say that."

She’s always been the type of person to lose stuff. Even her dearest treasures were never safe from sudden, often permanent, departures. You were one of them. She loved you. Every second of every day together, she loved you, but somewhere far below the surface, on a cellular level, she knew you weren't good for her. She knew you had betrayed her.

Just as Greta's neurons screamed out for help, nobody had heard your muted calls, nor had they heard the screams of the others that had crossed Greta over the years. The ones who had taken her daughter away were examples, but there had been others too. So many others.

She kept that box of mementos, each of them had a memory attached, some happy and some sad, but they were all part of her story nonetheless, one that her neurons desperately attempted to preserve. She held each of them dearly, and remembered the battles - the people - she had overcome.

A necklace from Dora, the handyman's hammer he'd been bludgeoned by, the emblem from the woman's car that took her daughter, and so many more from early chapters.

She fawned over the box, and beamed as she pulled out another memento.

The search party had lasted only a few short days before they gave up.

They found your glasses, but that was all.