Saint Bernard lolling in the front yard with his tongue out—Ollie, I guess.
I slide open a dresser drawer, so hoping that I’ll find letters or her diary or photographs or keys to a hidden chest that holds all the answers—so expecting it, even—that the plain ordinariness of her socks and stockings, tucked neatly into rows of white and black and beige, surprises me. The next drawer is lined with slips and underwear in the same basic palette. The next is for clothes—sweatshirts, T-shirts, nightshirts. Pants. Shorts. Back on the top, behind the dolls and the black box, there’s one more drawer, small and neat. I tug on the center handle, careful not to disturb the urn. The drawer is mostly empty. Just some pastel-colored hand lotion samples. Loose change. A box of Q-tips. My grandmother’s prescription cache.
The bottles are see-through orange with printed labels from a chain pharmacy in town. I recognize the names of most of the drugs from the commercials that show people talking to their doctors and then dancing or swimming or fishing with their grandkids. There’s a pill for cholesterol and one for blood pressure, and another I think for calcium and bone density.
But there are others, too. Three bottles half-empty, their forebears probably already allocated into their appropriate slots in the S M T W T F S box near the bed. And as my mind again connects the names with the commercials, the symptoms with the side effects, the befores with the afters, I understand.
My grandmother was being treated—medicated—for clinical depression.
Through the translucent orange of the pill bottles, some of my memories clarify, while others shift slightly out of focus. I think about my grandmother that day with the cardinal—how little she was affected. I remember during some of the summer festivals and parties, Nana would make excuses to retire early from neighborhood gatherings or dinners with friends.
Not now, Delilah. Why don’t you and Ricky go outside so I can rest?
I roll one of the bottles in my hand, fingers rocking it against my palm as the pills slide back and forth inside the plastic. Imagining her here in the bedroom, alone at night, taking a dozen pills before bed, falling asleep with nothing but her blue regrets—well, considering she never tried to get in touch with me after that family fight, I shouldn’t even care. But I do care, and all the soft parts beneath my ribs squeeze together when I think about it.
The china dolls still watch me. Next to their long, lace-and-velvet dresses, I’m practically naked in my white tank top. I unfold a thin beige sweater from a shelf next to the dresser and pull it over my head, static crackling through my hair.
There’s a pile of books under the table next to her bed. I sit on the floor in front of them, pulling out several horror novels— Pet Sematary and Thinner by Stephen King. Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. I read a few random passages aloud, convinced that a combination of particularly haunted phrases will summon her ghost and induce a message from the other side.
None comes.
Still wearing her sweater, I move to the vanity table and sit on the small wicker stool in front of it. I rummage through her makeup and jewelry, hoping to catch a side-glance at her through the mirror—the looking glass to the great beyond. I clasp a delicate necklace around my neck—a tiny silver heart suspended from a wire-thin chain—and dab a bit of her talcum powder on my face with a soft, pink poof.
“What would I say to you, anyway?” I ask the air in front of me, staring in the mirror at the silver flash on my collarbone.
“Maybe you’d tell me what you’re looking for?” A voice speaks from the hallway.
I jump up from the stool, knocking it over.
“Mom, you scared me half to death!”
“I was hoping you’d leave this room to me and Aunt Rachel.”
I look down at my feet, which, along with everything around them, are covered in the talcum powder I
I slide open a dresser drawer, so hoping that I’ll find letters or her diary or photographs or keys to a hidden chest that holds all the answers—so expecting it, even—that the plain ordinariness of her socks and stockings, tucked neatly into rows of white and black and beige, surprises me. The next drawer is lined with slips and underwear in the same basic palette. The next is for clothes—sweatshirts, T-shirts, nightshirts. Pants. Shorts. Back on the top, behind the dolls and the black box, there’s one more drawer, small and neat. I tug on the center handle, careful not to disturb the urn. The drawer is mostly empty. Just some pastel-colored hand lotion samples. Loose change. A box of Q-tips. My grandmother’s prescription cache.
The bottles are see-through orange with printed labels from a chain pharmacy in town. I recognize the names of most of the drugs from the commercials that show people talking to their doctors and then dancing or swimming or fishing with their grandkids. There’s a pill for cholesterol and one for blood pressure, and another I think for calcium and bone density.
But there are others, too. Three bottles half-empty, their forebears probably already allocated into their appropriate slots in the S M T W T F S box near the bed. And as my mind again connects the names with the commercials, the symptoms with the side effects, the befores with the afters, I understand.
My grandmother was being treated—medicated—for clinical depression.
Through the translucent orange of the pill bottles, some of my memories clarify, while others shift slightly out of focus. I think about my grandmother that day with the cardinal—how little she was affected. I remember during some of the summer festivals and parties, Nana would make excuses to retire early from neighborhood gatherings or dinners with friends.
Not now, Delilah. Why don’t you and Ricky go outside so I can rest?
I roll one of the bottles in my hand, fingers rocking it against my palm as the pills slide back and forth inside the plastic. Imagining her here in the bedroom, alone at night, taking a dozen pills before bed, falling asleep with nothing but her blue regrets—well, considering she never tried to get in touch with me after that family fight, I shouldn’t even care. But I do care, and all the soft parts beneath my ribs squeeze together when I think about it.
The china dolls still watch me. Next to their long, lace-and-velvet dresses, I’m practically naked in my white tank top. I unfold a thin beige sweater from a shelf next to the dresser and pull it over my head, static crackling through my hair.
There’s a pile of books under the table next to her bed. I sit on the floor in front of them, pulling out several horror novels— Pet Sematary and Thinner by Stephen King. Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. I read a few random passages aloud, convinced that a combination of particularly haunted phrases will summon her ghost and induce a message from the other side.
None comes.
Still wearing her sweater, I move to the vanity table and sit on the small wicker stool in front of it. I rummage through her makeup and jewelry, hoping to catch a side-glance at her through the mirror—the looking glass to the great beyond. I clasp a delicate necklace around my neck—a tiny silver heart suspended from a wire-thin chain—and dab a bit of her talcum powder on my face with a soft, pink poof.
“What would I say to you, anyway?” I ask the air in front of me, staring in the mirror at the silver flash on my collarbone.
“Maybe you’d tell me what you’re looking for?” A voice speaks from the hallway.
I jump up from the stool, knocking it over.
“Mom, you scared me half to death!”
“I was hoping you’d leave this room to me and Aunt Rachel.”
I look down at my feet, which, along with everything around them, are covered in the talcum powder I
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