Gone Mad

My mother, Judith, would always compare us to Agatha Black. She would say, “You are always wondering about aimlessly like Agatha Black!” Or “You are speaking gibberish like Agatha Black.” It wasn’t until our house burned down due to faulty wiring that we would learn the real story. They renovated the place and sold it off but it was beautiful midcentury mansion. The tales of how my family were eloquent, sophisticated southerners...that’s a different tale. My father could never recouperate from that loss. We were a poor family after our house burned down. We did the best we could and we would get by the tough times by reading books and telling stories. We always assumed that this “Agatha Black” person was some saying that everyone used...sort of a Benedict Arnold type expression. But it wasn’t. Agatha Black was a little girl, my mom would tell us. A little girl whom would roam the streets writing things down in this little black book. No one knew what she was writing. All they did know was that at some point she was committed to an insane asylum in the late 1800s.

Back in 1987, when I was merely 4 years old and as mention previously, everything we owned was destroyed in a house fire. Everything except a safe and a necklace my mother managed to grab before rushing us out of the billowing smoke. My mother passed a few years back, and I had yet to visit her grave in Yarbrough Cemetery, but I still remember the last words she spoke to me. Well, not exactly words. Just numbers. “4-9-7-5-3-6.” That’s it. That’s what she said to me. I had my own life now - husband, kids, and a career. All that’s left of my mother now was a heavy box that I received from the funeral home with her belongings, now in the attic collecting dust. I couldn’t bring myself to open the box due to my grief. I couldn’t bare to see the things left inside. The memories would drown me in an inescapable sorrow, one which I choose not to face. For that same reason I hadn’t visited her grave. Little did I know that upon opening this box, my life would change, forever. I didn’t mean to open the box. I came home from work one day and a box was sitting in front of the door. I assumed, at first glance, that the mailman had delivered the package however, there was no postage or writing anywhere. I asked my husband what was in the box, he said he didn’t know and that he was just going through some things. I opened the box to make sure he wasn’t throwing away anything that I didn’t want to be tossed out and there it was...a pile of mother’s clothes. After gathering myself for a moment I saw a corner of what looked like a metal object. I sifted through the clothing revealing the old safe that my mom rescued from the fire all those years ago. I forgot all about this safe. Probably all of her important documents from years past. On the front of the safe a dial with numbers 1-100, and then it hit me. The last word my mother spoke to me were numbers. Not a sequential line of numbers but a combination. 49-75-36. I began to turn the dial and with each rotation more and more chill bumps appeared on my skin. I couldn’t help but wonder what was in the safe. I turned to the last number and ‘click’ the safe was now open. Inside the safe was a little black book bound by a ribbon and a note on top that read, “She’s gone mad.” Inside the front cover was a name, “Agatha Black.” The strange thing about this book was the fact that there were no words in this book. The book was filled page to page with symbols. I never recognized these symbols before. I think back to the story of this little girl and now I see why she was clapped in the mad house. Gibberish, unexplained and unrecognizable symbols. Nothing else. What a waste, I thought to myself for a quick moment but that thought was soon dashed with another. Why would this be kept locked in a safe for a hundred years? I hadn’t had a second to think about it before I glanced down at one of the blouses left behind by my mother. On the tag of one of the blouses, a weird symbol like the ones in the book but this time with a corresponding letter. I riffled through all the clothing items and on each tag, the same type of symbol with a different corresponding letter. I rushed to get a pen and paper to write down what I had found. I opened the little black book and began going page to page circling each symbol until I had a phrase spelled out.

“Look in the Spine”

The Spine? The spine of the book!

I grabbed the corner of the spine of the book and ripped at the seams. Under the spin of the book was a small note that read-“Agatha Foster -YC- 147”

Foster? That’s my mother’s maiden name! YC? This was not making sense.

Yarbrough Cemetery! Wait! Was Agatha related to my mother. Was Agatha buried at the same place as my mother? This couldn’t be! I could believe that this mystery was unraveling right before my eyes. I had to find out for myself. The cemetery was only an hour away, so I jumped in the car and took off without a warning to my husband and children. It was nearly dusk when I arrived and the cemetery. I searched for plot 147 and the name Agatha Foster. And there it was Judith Foster and Agath Foster. Mother and Daughter, together. She was my grandmother! I looked down at the words engraved on the headstone. They read, “Find your own path” and underneath a keyhole in a the shape of a gemstone. I recognized this shape, it was the same gemstone stone in the necklace my mother had saved from the fire. The same necklace she gave me when she passed and the same necklace I wear to this day. I took off the necklace, stuck it in the keyhole, and turned the key. A door opened in the headstone. Through the cobwebs I noticed a stack of $100 bills. I took the money out, it had to be at least $20,000 there! Under the $20,000 was a deed to the mansion that burned down in 1987 - in my name.