She sighed, kissed the side of my head, and whispered, “I just want you to heal.”
Everyone did. At least that’s what they said.
What I didn’t know yet was that grief was not the only thing weighing me down.
The Study, The Locket, And The Glass
That night I went straight to my study, the way I did every evening. I left most of the house in darkness and clicked on only the brass desk lamp. Moonlight leaked in through the balcony doors, silvering the floor.
In one hand I still held the locket I’d nearly left on the grave. In the other, I apparently held a glass of water.
I only realized that when my fingers gave out and the tumbler slid from my hand, hitting the hardwood and shattering in a bright spray of glass.
I stared at the mess, unable to move.
People in town said I was “buried in grief” after the fire. They said I wasn’t myself. They were half right. I moved through my days like I was underwater. The house where my daughter, Chloe, had been spending a weekend with friends had burned while everyone was asleep, or so I’d been told. By the time help arrived, there was nothing recognizable left.
They told me there were remains.
They told me there was no doubt.
They told me I had to accept it.
“We have to let her rest,” Vanessa said.
“You have to take care of yourself now,” my brother, Colby, added.
They took care of everything: the funeral, the visitors, the paperwork. They also took care of me.
Each night, Vanessa brought me a steaming mug.
“Herbal blend,” she said softly, fingers brushing my shoulder. “For your nerves. You’re not sleeping.”
Each morning, Colby put a couple of small tablets in my palm.
“From Dr. Harris,” he told me. “Just to help your mind rest. You’re under so much strain.”
I believed them.
Until I heard a small sound in my study that didn’t belong to grief, or imagination, or the weight of sorrow at all.
A Small Voice In The Corner Continue reading…
