Fading Memories

          Marie Louise Wilson's hands flew through the fabric in a familiar stitching technique. Sewing was all she did now, ever since her husband went overseas to join the War three months ago in May. She was thinking of him a lot lately. She remembered his richly tanned skin from laboring out in the fields, and the way his blue eyes seemed to sparkle every time he smiled. His deep brown hair had been short and flowing, but all that was left now was an ugly military-style cut. Paul, my Paul, she thought wistfully, will you ever come back to me?

A sharp prick on the tip if her right forefinger made her look down at the fabric she was embroidering. It was plain, with her design of flowers and butterflies in the upper-left-hand corner. It would fetch a nice profit at the market on Tuesday. Marie put down her needlework and sighed. Her hands were callused from the hours of labor and daily needle pricks. Her left hand instinctively went to the silver ring on her pinky finger. It was a simple ring, made of two small strips of silver entwined. Paul had given it to her as a token of his love before he left for the War. She looked up at the small mirror that hung over the red-bricked fireplace and sighed again. She was beginning to look older.

          Her fair complexion had an ever-increasing amount of worry lines, and her brown eyes were filled with sadness. As usual, her long, silky auburn hair was tucked neatly into a bun on top of her head. A little over 30, she was born on April 19, 1910 to George and Emiline Castian. Marie had one sister, two years older than herself, but they played together as if there was absolutely no age difference. Her sister’s name was Mable. They were still very close. Marie smiled as she remembered what her mother used to always say about the two carefree girls, “You girls are so wild sometimes, I think of selling you to Harry Houdini to be his two famous clowns!!!”

          Marie allowed herself a little laugh. Maybe I’ll go visit Mable, she thought. She set her needlework down on the coffee table carved out of pine, with a chip in the corner like a small forget-me-not, or a miniature pansy, and stepped outside to the beautiful day around her. The dusty road was moving in the breeze, like a slithering snake. Colorful petticoats and undergarments were hanging out on the line in front of every farm. The town Marie lived in was called Fairmount, in lower Indiana. Her town was a small one, barely over 100 people, so naturally, everyone knew everyone else.

Marie took in a deep breath of the musty-smelling air, and started off down the road to the bakery whose second floor was home to her sister, Mable. As she walked down the street, she saw several children out playing with friends.

“Hi, Mrs. Wilson!” called a group of girls playing on a swing set.

“Hello, Mary. Hello, Molly. Hello, Alison. How’s your mother, Molly?” smiled Marie in her melodious voice.

“Just fine ma’am,” answered Molly.

“Good. You tell your Ma that I’ve got a dish rag ready for her and she can come over and get it any time she wants.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a good day!!”

Marie continued down the street, her mind wandering off to be with her husband. Before she knew it, she found herself in front of the bakery. The delicious aroma of baked goods and sweets floated around her, as if feeling her out; getting to know her. Marie was always overwhelmed by the closeness and magic here, and she could understand why her sister would find it a “great joy” to work in a place such as this. She walked inside, and was barraged with an even greater mixture of smells. Oatmeal raisin cookies fresh out of the oven, homemade doughnuts, chocolate chip cookies, fudge of all kinds; every single one passed through Mable’s hands before reaching the shelves for sale.

“Mable, are you there?” she called out towards the back of the shop. A sharp yelp of pain, followed by a loud clatter of metal on tile met Marie’s ears in response to her query.

“Mable? Are you OK?” cried out Marie in alarm. She ran to the back of the shoppe, and found her older sister holding her hands under icy water.

“Mable, what happened?! Are you all right?” asked a somewhat worried Marie.

“I’m fine. You jest startled me, and I dropped that cookie sheet; It’s hot, mind you;” she said, as Marie bent down to pick it up. She quickly withdrew her outstretched hands, “and I made a grab for it, ‘s all. ’S ruined now, the metal wasn’t all that strong.” They looked down at the now deformed piece of metal, one of the corners pushed in from the impact. “Burnt my palms fair well, in the doing.”

          Marie smiled. Just like Mable, she thought. Always thinking of herself last. The two sisters sat down at the small, circular table. It was crudely made, the surface was uneven, and more than one of the legs wobbled. It stood about 2 and a half hands breadth off the ground, just enough for them to fit their knees under.

After Mable had situated them with tea and crackers, Marie took a long, hard look at her sister. She was fairly plump, working in such a scrumptious place as this. Her face was flushed from the heat of the wood burning stove, and her carefully stitched blouse was stained at the top where the apron didn’t cover it. Although Marie had never been outside of Fairmount, her sister traveled quite frequently to deliver goods to parties, or important gatherings out of town. Her hands were raw from the icy water and the hot pan, and a few stray strands of hair hung down from the clasp at the nape of her neck. She was not married, and her last name was still Castian.

Just as they had settled themselves, Mable jumped up and presently knocked her knees hard on the table.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, rubbing her battered knees, “I almost forgot!!” she ran upstairs like an excited young girl, leaving Marie sitting, bewildered, at the table by herself.

A moment later, Mable hurried back downstairs and completely missed the last three steps in her excitement.

“I found this when ay was poking ‘round the attic. Thought you might like it. ‘S pretty old.” She opened her fist and dropped a small locket, just the size of a nickel, into her sister’s outstretched hand. Marie looked at it, puzzled, and turned it over on her palm.

It was intricately designed, with two or three flowers and their leaves engraved delicately on both the front- and back-sides.

Deep inside Marie’s memory, something stirred, like a restless performer, waiting to be announced to the crowd. She knew this object. She was sure she knew it. But from where?

With trembling hands, Marie slowly opened the stiffened locket. It seemed reluctant to be opened, and the tiny hinges objected to the movement. Inside were two pictures. She recognized them at once. The performer had walked onto stage to the tremendous applause of the crowd. It was a picture of two girls who looked exactly alike. On the left side, a picture of herself when she was 10 and on the right side was a picture of her mother when she was 10. Oh yes, Marie remembered this clearly…

Suddenly, Marie was in another time, another place. No, thought Marie, same house, but something’s different…  Frightened, she called out, but no noise came from her dry throat. Trembling once more, she turned the survey the scene. It was Christmas, and two children were playing on the hard floor in front of the wood fire. Where…?But—That can’t be… It’s—It’s impossible, Marie thought quickly. That’s… That’s me… She closed her eyes, shook her head as if the clear her mind, and took a step towards the girls. Her shoes clicked on the floor, yet Marie had a feeling that she was the only one who could hear them. She seemed to be in a kind of memory, a memory of her own past. She could remember this day as if it was yesterday. The smell of fresh baked shortbread had been wafting through the arch doorway, and the merry crackling of the dancing fire illuminated her bright face. There were two girls, one about 9, the other maybe 11, and the only visible difference was that one had freckles, and the other did not. That’s Mable, thought a startled Marie, And that’s me. An older woman walked into the room then, and Marie gasped. Her mother... She couldn’t believe it. It was too much. Tears streamed down her face and she could do nothing to stop them. She hadn’t seen her mother since, well, ...since she died when I was 10, thought Marie. She gazed lovingly and greedily at her mother as she crossed the room. Her mother was a beautiful woman; always cheery. Her favorite holiday had been Christmas, remembered Marie with a watery smile. The woman bent down over the younger Marie and kissed her forehead. As she bent down, Marie noticed a newer-looking locket, just like the one she had, hanging from a gold chain around her mother’s neck. The girl smiled, and kissed her mother on the cheek. Someone called from the kitchen, and the mother and daughter turned around and smiled. A flash went off, and a snap like a rubber band shooting off a bottle cap was heard. “Good photo, Ma!” cried the younger Marie, hugging her mother. The older Marie, tears still flowing steadily, advanced towards the woman she loved so much. She was almost there; she could touch her. Overwhelmed by longing, she reached to hug her deceased mother. Warm flesh clasped in her arms, and the tears kept coming.

“Oh, Ma! I’ve missed you so much. I love you Ma!”

“Marie!! Marie!! What’s the matter, are you all right?!” inquired a voice from far away filled with worry and love. Marie straightened, but held onto the person’s hands. They were cold, not at all like her mother’s. She shifted her eyes to the face of the person. It was Mable. Her face was marked with concern, and perhaps pity.

“Marie, honey, are ya OK? Your face changed, and a moment later ya started t’ cry. What is wrong?”

Marie looked down at the locket enveloped in memories, and then back up at her sister.

“Yes, Yes. I’m quite fine. I, I just was remembering Mother…” replied a dazed Marie. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t tell Mable what had just happened; she just felt it was only meant for her.

They sat back down at the table, a little awkwardly, and there was silence for what seemed like hours to both sisters, but was really only three or four minutes.

“Mable, ahem, Mable? Where did you find this? Can you take me?” asked Marie tentatively. Her sister looked up sharply, and nodded her response.

“Ay found it in the attic when ay was looking fer spare parchment,” replied Mable evenly, thought she was watching her sister very closely. “Let’s go.”

They walked up the stairs and into the attic. Marie felt her breath catch in her throat. The childhood magic in this room was almost tangible. It coated everything just like the thick layer of dust on the floor. Marie noticed a path of footprints that were obviously Mable’s.

She walked over to a particularly interesting-looking box, and pried it open. She gasped again, for on top was a picture Marie had never seen before. It was of her mother and her Father. Her father stood on the right side of the photo, and her mother on the left side. There were spots all over the picture, which clearly announced its age for all to see. Her mother was wearing a blouse with a sort of shawl over top, and a dark, cotton skirt. Her father stood taller than her mother did, and her prized pocket watch was visible in the lower right side of the photograph.

Marie smiled as she felt Mable’s hand on her left shoulder. She licked her dry lips and was not startled to taste the saltiness of her tears on her cheeks. These were not tears of grief, but tears of happiness in finding something she could treasure forever, instead of her own fading memories.

Underneath the precious photo, lay a postcard. I was addressed to her sister, and the date was December the 21^st, 1920. Marie swallowed. Suddenly, her senses seemed to pick up on every little thing. The sharp intake of breath from her sister, and the faint creakings of the floorboards. This was dated only four days before her parents were killed in an automobile accident in Oklahoma. Marie remembered it very clearly.

          It had been sometime in late November, 1920, and Mable and Marie’s parents had to go on a trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma. They were not pleased about this, for they were to be gone over Christmas. There were teary departures, and many kisses. Marie had been angry that her parents were leaving, like all children her age, and had only spoken a stiff good-bye. Never-the-less, her parents kissed them both, once on each cheek, expressed their deepest love, and bade them good-bye. As they walked out the door, Marie felt like a part of her was being ripped with her departing Mother and Father. She wanted to cry out and go running after her parents, but she held it in. They left, and Marie was torn apart. She wouldn’t come out of her room for the rest of the day. Even nice Miss Durham, who was watching them while their parents were away, couldn’t help. Marie cried and cried and cried. Finally, late the night her parents had left, she arrived downstairs looking wretched. Her hair was all in her face, and her eyes were puffy and red, from hours of crying. Her mouth was tight and drawn, rather like that of an old, strict schoolmaster. For almost a month, she was silent, and often cried herself to sleep. She was constantly reminded of how she had treated her parents when they had left, and refused to forgive herself. Exactly one month and five days later, Mable had received a cheery post card from her parents, for the entire family. Her mother had written:

This surely is a hustling city. 76,000 people. We will call on Mrs. Eva Lindsay Hubbard to-morrow. please tell Mrs. Bix to call for her mail every day.

The Wilsons

          This had cheered Marie slightly, and occasionally she would talk to Mable.

          Only five days after Mable had received the postcard, a telegram was sent to the dwelling where the sisters were staying. It read:

There has been an accident STOP George and Emiline Castian killed STOP automobile collision, late last night STOP heart-felt regrets STOP

Mayor of Tulsa

Marie had been shocked. Unlike Mable, who had begun crying after the tragic message had been read, she silently stumbled up to her room. After safely closing the door, Marie erupted into tears. I can’t believe I didn’t even say I love you, she thought, furious at herself. She cried for a long time, oblivious to all that was going on in the house around her. Finally, late at night, she sat up on her bed, still sobbing quietly. Each time she shook with grief, the bed squeaked. Parents dead, Parents dead it seemed to say to her. Slowly she stood up, as if unsure she could function without her family, and walked over to her drawer-closet. Opening one of the top drawers, she lifted aside her nightgowns and reached down to the bottom of the drawer. When she pulled her arm out, her hand was clasped around a small chest. It was a simple chest, with ugly, fake pictures of flowers painted on the top. Marie opened it up with a faint creak, and stood for a moment, staring as tears welled up in her eyes once more. Inside the box, were stacks and stacks of fabric hearts, so meticulously crafted by her own hands. She was preparing to give them, 15 each, to her parents as soon as they arrived home, to show how sorry she was. Now, she would never get to give them. That had been what kept her occupied during the long days alone in her room. She held them close to her face, and whispered fervently, “I will never forget you, Mother and Father…” She lay down one her bed, surrounded by hearts, but enveloped in grief.