Known

The funeral had been quiet, not in an eerie way, but because nobody had anything to say about Morrigan Walsh, who had died from cancer the week prior. I had worked with her for years, greeted her countless times, yet I my thoughts had never once drifted in her direction. Cubicle blindness, I kept thinking, as our boss eulogized this dead woman, giving ode to her timeliness and how neat her desk was.

Soon after the ceremony, everyone from work was notified that we were to get first dibs at the estate sale. There was no discussion, no planning of ride shares, no acknowledgement, but as I drove up, ashamed and a little curious, I saw the same cars I saw most mornings. Eshu, one of my best friends from work, greeted me as I got out of the car, his smile lasting a thought’s time before he remembered we were mourning. “Poor Morrigan,” he said, turning towards the yard. “There are four bedrooms in this monstrosity and three of them were vacant. It must have belonged to her parents. I guess she died alone.”

The house was enormous and old, but with newer wings attached in the front and on the left. The yard was dead, with far more plastic plant pots than actual plants. “She had a dog, at least,” I respond absentmindedly. “Named Scrabble, I think.”

The driveway is cleaner, a study basketball hoop with a backboard covered in stickers protruding over it. I have trouble imagining Morrigan playing basketball, as stout and frumpy as she was, but I vaguely remember she had moved in a certain way, once or twice in the office, miming dribbles and head fakes and jump shots. It must have been an odd spectacle; it is strange that I thought so little of it.

As we head inside, I see a couple of other people from work. Thana and Freyja are both in the dining room, looking at delicate china stacked in an equally delicate cabinet. Meng is off to the right, measuring the television. My attention, however, leads me forward. There, on a small marble table, is a lamp, its glass shade composed of oceanic colors, its base dark base old and dignified. It could be Tiffany.

I’m walking towards it when I’m cut off by Meng, the TV tucked under his arm. My irritability, predisposed against him, flickers to life. But, before it really gets going, I’m struck by an image—crows in a field, dead men and women under foot and inside beaks. I gag, forcing myself back, away from the lamp, away from the TV. Eshu asks if I’m okay but I ignore him and run upstairs, wings flapping.

The second floor is barren, lacking the temptations of the first. I think I should want to mourn, to at least think of Morrigan while I’m in her house, but I just can’t piece together any worthy memories. I picture her sitting at her desk. Her hips stick out on either side of the chair, her hair rumbles down her back. She sits across from Eshu, who is looking back at me, trying to get a word in before the boss comes back; I can picture him perfectly. He is tall and handsome with an angular nose and sweeping eyes. I try to refocus on Morrigan but she’s in the background, she is the background, back to me, doodling in her leather notebook. I push my mind in her direction. She always had that notebook with her. It is black and textured, closed by a brass buckle. I wonder if it’s here.

As I check room by room it occurs to me that I had played a game with her. It was my first day and I’d been introduced to the office. People were polite, but I was uncomfortable. Everyone was older and more experienced than me. They talked about stocks and baseball and I didn’t know anything about either. Then, during lunch break, Morrigan had suggested we play a game called Ghost. Everyone in the office took turns choosing letters, and Morrigan would write them in her notebook. If someone picked a letter than formed a complete word, they lost. If someone picked a letter that couldn’t be part of a word, they lost as well. I’d since played the game with my parents, but we’d never played it at work again. Was she just trying to make me more comfortable?

I open a third door, leading to a bathroom. I close it and head to the fourth, unsure where I am trying to go. Little memories circle me, closing in with each step: Morrigan sketching in her notebook, waiting by the bathroom, reading in the corner, throwing paper balls in the trash can, playing solitaire.

I turn as Eshu comes up the stairs, his face soft and sympathetic. I start to cry. “Why didn’t we talk to her more? Why don’t we know her better?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” he says. “The best we can do is get to know her now. Her bedrooms this way.” He gestures at the door I am already headed towards, and we enter together. The walls are covered in pages pulled from her notebook. Some are charts, some are sketches. I see a man playing basketball, a few dogs, and even a portrait of me. I walk over and peel it off gently. My face is angled. I’m sure I was talking to Eshu when she drew it. To the right is a cabinet filled with books and board games. The biggest one is a Scrabble set. It calls itself ‘deluxe’ and fits the description, matching its size with its shininess. I once again remember her dog, Scrabble, and wonder what happened to him.

The box is heavy as I pull it off the shelf and place it on the bed. Eshu looks over my shoulder as a pull off the lid and look inside. The game board is solid wood with little indents for the tiles. Under it are a rule book, a velvet bag filled with tiles, and Morrigan’s notebook. Eshu recognizes it as soon as I do. He takes it out of the box and hands it to me. It’s rough in a satisfying way. The clasp comes undone easily and the stiff, tan paper begins to flutter. One page has an incomplete drawing of the house, another has a photo of her parents tucked inside, a third has a list of the 150 original pokemon, a fourth has a chart ranking all of the office workers in terms of friendliness, intelligence, and beauty. I’m near the top in each. Finally, I open the notebook to the one page marked with a fold. There is a note, written with a light hand. It reads as follows:

I am about to die.

In my final days I worry that nobody knew me and that nobody will remember me. I wish desperately to be proved wrong. I will put this notebook, given to me by my father before he died, in a place personal to me. If it is found, I will know from death that someone is thinking of me, and it will make my rest easier. If you have this notebook, you are entitled to the whole of my estate: this house and three-hundred-and-twenty-thousand dollars.

It is nice to be known,

Morrigan Walsh