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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Nov 29, 2013 13:41:03 GMT -5
 Deadline: December 13th, 2013 |
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Dec 3, 2013 12:04:59 GMT -5
The Morbid Necklace
When Grandma passed away the responsibility fell on us, her grandchildren, to clean out her house. She had been a typical hoarder and had suffered with her problem for years. Each room was filled from floor to ceiling with all sorts of knick knacks and weird items. Some of it was rubbish: boxes, cartons, bottles, etc., but a lot of it wasn’t.
As a family we’d had a lot of interventions, especially as her days drew to a close, about the mess and how it was dangerous to her life. She wasn’t able to access more than two rooms in her house: the kitchen and the bathroom. To get to the other rooms she had to climb over stuff causing aches and pains in her limbs and arthritic hands. Some days, when we’d spoken to her about the mess, there’d be a break-through or two, where she could throw away a few items. Those days were hard to watch as she pulled down objects and debated over whether or not to keep it and argued the decision if she did. Many times she’d just get angry and yell for us to leave. Other times she’d sit there and cry in silence. It would always be too much for me to watch and I’d have to leave.
All of the objects held a story, a piece of history, to her. Even the rubbish had a tale to tell and we, my sisters and I, tried our best to listen whenever she would speak up about it. She’d tell us a story about everything from the plates, to the cards, and everything in between. We never knew if the stories were real because none of us ever thought to ask. The stories would be about captains and ships, pirates, adventures, and fighting dragons. I suppose, now that I have grown up, I realise they weren’t real.
She never told us about the mouse skull in the necklace though. It was perhaps the most morbid object in her possession. My mum always told her off for wearing it around us when we were younger and Grandma would try to hide it away in her blouse. We’d all seen it at some point or another and we’d even asked her about it but she never told us the story. There would always be a mournful look in her eyes when we did ask but it wasn’t a pet because Grandma never kept mice and it wasn’t the sort of thing you could buy in an ordinary jewellery shop. There was a sadness about it that none of us could place. We’d never know that tale, even if it wasn’t real. When I found it, while tidying the previous room, I’d decided that we should keep it. My sisters weren’t interested in the morbid necklace so I’d slipped it around my neck. The glass bubble contraption was cold on my chest. Again I found myself wondering what the tale was because there had definitely been one but she’d never shared it with us.
She was never the same after her husband, my granddad, died from pneumonia which he could never bounce back from. Her hoarding, which had never been more than a few items and keepsakes from throughout her life, got suddenly worse. It started with the box of cereal he used to eat in the morning and the bottle of shampoo he used and grew from there. Then it was the nail-clippings she found that he’d left behind, and the toothbrush he’d used, and even the uneaten block of cheese that she would never eat. (She didn’t like smelly cheese.)
Now, removing all of her stuff and throwing it into skips, felt wrong. We were destroying her history. It was as if we were removing her finally and completely from this world; like we were erasing her presence. If each piece did have a story to tell then this was like burning books. The story would never be told; just like the mouse-skull in the pendant. We worked quickly with some people from the council who supplied us with rubber gloves and face masks. One of the support team had told us there were rats in the first bedroom and we’d seen the evidence. It made my stomach roll and then flip to think she’d lived in these squalid conditions.
I pick up another box and the mouldy cardboard crumbles away in my hands. In the box are all of the cards we’d ever sent her. I recognise the picture I drew in year six: her sitting on the patterned sofa with granddad. I pick out the card my sister had drawn when she was the same age and wave it in her direction. “Hey, Shelley, check it out …” my voice is muffled behind the mask. The material feels soggy and it wobbles as I wave it. My sister looks over in my direction and shock wriggles behind her face mask. Her eyes are as wide as the plates we found yesterday.
“Is that?” She pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear, avoiding knocking her glasses. She’s always been the tidy one. Even now she picks up the rubbish with just two fingertips and carefully throws it in a black bag.
I nod. The emotions surface like the loch ness monster. We’ve only cleared one room so far and the emotions keep struggling to be unleashed. Shelley sees the tears begin. I know she probably feels the same but I can’t stop. “This doesn’t feel right, Shel.”
She sags visibly with shoulders pulled down; the cardigan she’s wearing only makes it look worse. “I know. I miss her too,” she admits, uncomfortably knocking her hands against her legs. “We all do.”
“It’s not just that. It’s like we’re removing her forever. All these things,” unconsciously I pick up another item, remembering another story she told me. Maybe I’ll keep this too. I can always find room for it in my house.
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