Memories

 

                                                By lisa lahey

After Clarice fell over the stairs, she broke her neck and lay still. Stubborn as ever, she refused to die. Her laboured breathing filled the foyer, and I stood over her, shaking my head. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so sad.

“Really, old girl? That’s how you chose to go?”

 

She’d been upstairs in the nursery, checking on Hannah again. What was the point? Clarice knew the stairs were dangerous. The arthritis had gotten worse, and her gait was unsteady. The doctor told her to stay on the bottom floor. The woman never listened to sense, or maybe she was just tired now.

 

I left her lying on the floor and entered the living room, looking at the array of family photos on the fireplace mantel. From black and white to dazzling colour, they told a story of fifty years together. A slender brunette in a wedding dress gazed at the camera as I stood with my hair slicked back, beaming proudly beside her. I was lucky. She settled.

The years passed. Clarice beamed at me, her eyes sparkling while holding our tiny newborn, Hannah. Hannah had breathing problems, and she went straight from Clarice’s womb into an incubator. Clarice sat with her every day until we got the all-clear and brought our girl home.

 

Four years later, Clarice looked at the camera, holding our newborn son Jamie. She was weary, her eyes shadowed, tears glistening in the corners. I was the photographer. I didn’t like having my picture taken anymore. I felt exposed.

 

Despite this, Clarice insisted I pose for one last picture, holding my grandchild, another girl named Laurel. My eyes were misty with tears as I tried to keep it together for the camera.

 

My eyes filled up now. What’s the point to all this suffering? I hadn’t figured it out. Maybe I didn’t ask the right questions.

Clarice’s breathing became quieter, shallower.

“Hurry up already, old girl,” I muttered.

Clarice liked to tell me I was an impatient old goat. It was true but I hated hearing it. She’s not saying it now, but she would have if she could.

 

I heard the baby cry and raced upstairs to the nursery. The pale pink carpet was plush, and the room was as quiet as a wake. Hannah beamed at me in her crib, her tiny feet kicking in the air, her fingers in her mouth. My heart pounded as I picked her up and her head lolled back. She stopped breathing and her eyes rolled up inside her head. Did I do this? I never stopped wondering. A sheer curtain swept the memory away again. 

 

From downstairs I heard a moan, and I went to Clarice’s side. She lifted her hand to me, and I took it, steadying her as she rose.

“Took you long enough,” I kissed the top of her head.

Her face, with its wrinkles and crows’ feet, was mesmerizing.

“You’re as impatient as ever,” she pressed her hand against my face.

She looked at her crumpled body lying in repose at the bottom of the stairs.

“Did I trip?”

“You did.”

“Not a very dignified way to go,” she frowned. “Stop grinning.”

“Beats crying,” I whisper. “At least it wasn’t my fault this time.”

“Let it go, sweetheart.”

“I’m trying.”

 

We walked together from the house to a place without memories, a place I knew she would love.

About The Author: Lisa Lahey is an Associate Acquisitions Editor for After Dinner Conversation Magazine. Her short stories and poems have been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Spaceports and Spidersilk, Ariel Chart, Altered Reality Magazine, Why Vandalism? Suddenly, and Without Warning, Five on the Fifth, and she will be published in upcoming issues of Epater Magazine, Patreon Magazine, Viva Poetica, Bindweed Anthologies, and Spadina Literary Review. More details about the author can be found here: