Gilda's Locket (4 page)

The next morning she gave in to temptation
and called in sick at work. Just as she had suspected, they were
quite understanding, telling her to take all the time she needed,
no worries, her job would be there waiting for her. A new picture
and a couple sleeping pills later, she was drifting off into sleep.
This time the dream was interrupted by the insistent ringing of the
phone. She was still groggy when she answered, and it took her a
moment to realize she was listening to her voice on the answering
machine advising the caller on the other end to listen for the beep
then leave a message. She almost hung up and let the machine deal
with the caller, when responsibility got the best of her.

She waited out the machine then said, “Hello?
Hang on a minute, the machine picked up.”

“Mother?” It was Scott.

“Yes, dear. It’s me.”

“What are you doing home? I thought you’d be
at work?”

‘What are you doing calling me when you
thought I wasn’t home?’ was the better question, but she didn’t ask
it. Instead, she said, “I was feeling a little under the weather,
dear, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. What were calling
about?”

With Scott there was always a reason for a
call, he wasn’t one to call just to check in. Not even when his
father was sick. Correction, when his father was dying.

“It’s a business call. I was calling about
those investments of Dad’s.” Scott was a stock broker, a very
successful stock broker. He had grown up to be everything his
father ever could have wished for. He lived a comfortable, if not
wealthy, lifestyle in upstate New York. His college education mixed
with his own natural intelligence and determination had made him
quite successful. And if he was a bit selfish and single-minded it
was only because he had been raised virtually as an only child. The
fact that she had worked so hard to make up for the lost time after
Cynthia’s death may have added to his being a bit spoiled, but
there were worse things she supposed. She only wished that he could
have spent more time with his parents. But she understood his
dedication to his job.

It was that steadfastness that had destroyed
his one and only marriage, his wife finding that she would rather
spend time with her husband, than spend her husband’s money. Scott
never could understand that, and though Gilda never told him so,
she understood his ex-wife’s thinking completely.

Scott was childless, which was probably a
blessing since any child of his would be virtually ignored by him,
and though Gilda supposed there had been other women in his life,
none of them had ever led to a serious relationship, or if they
had, Eldon and Gilda had never been told about it.

Her son was destined to be a bachelor to the
end of his life, she was certain, and though sometimes she worried
about the loneliness of his existence, she couldn’t have argued it.
After all, she herself had had a family, a husband and two
children. And where was she now, if not completely alone? There
were no exacts in life, that was for certain. She felt a pang of
regret and ignored it, bringing herself back to the current
conversation.

“What about them, dear?”

“I just wanted to let you know, some of those
investments are starting to look a little shaky. I’d advise selling
out of a few of them and reinvesting in something a bit more
solid.”

“Whatever you think, dear.” She didn’t care
one way or another. Eldon hadn’t invested the money in an effort to
increase his fortune. He had done it as a gesture of encouragement;
to show support for his son’s chosen occupation. Nothing more.
Besides, the money was part of Scott’s inheritance, pitiful as it
may be in comparison to the money he himself made. Let him invest
it however he wanted.

“All right, Mother.” There was a pause, and
then, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Gilda was a bit taken aback by this sudden
concern. He hadn’t shown anything more than acceptance at his
father’s illness and death.

“Just fine, dear. I think I might have caught
a bit of a bug. It’s going around you know, and you never know what
you’ll pick up from the children at the library.”

“All right then. I’ll call back in a few days
and check up on you.”

She knew his intentions were good, but she
also knew deep down that the entire conversation would be forgotten
within the next few minutes in the midst of his work. She was more
likely to receive a call from her husband in the next few days than
she would Scott. But, of course, she didn’t say that.

“All right, dear, I’ll be looking forward to
it.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Goodbye, Scott. I love you.”

It was the same as always, a rushed return of
the sentiment, then a resounding click as he hung up the phone.

With a sigh, Gilda hung up the phone. She
glanced at the clock, only four o’clock. She should have had at
least another four hours of uninterrupted dreaming; at least until
the phone call had interrupted it. Now, she was wide awake. Making
a snap decision; she’d been making a lot of those lately, and not
all of them good, she was aware; she snatched up the glass of water
and the bottle of sleeping pills. This time she took three and in
less than half an hour had drifted back into dreamland, the dream
starting all over from the beginning.

By the weekend Gilda was up to four pills at
a pop, sleeping the majority of each day, slumbering through
countless phone calls, and she hadn’t been to work since Monday.
Again, primarily due to her age she suspected, all was forgiven
where work was concerned. Not that she much cared. She had more
important things to concern herself with. She even neglected the
rapidly blinking light of the answering machine, indicating several
unheard messages.

By Wednesday of the next week the machine was
so filled up she was no longer be able to receive messages, which
again, was of no concern to her.

Her proven theory had rapidly turned from
trial to marathon to quest. Having relived a good portion of her
life in dreams, she was now determined to find that one moment in
time when she had known true bliss, When she had really understood
what it was to be alive and living, what she was to be completely
happy, with no regrets, no worries, only a simple acceptance of the
joy that was deservedly hers.

Was there ever a day like that in her past?
Was there in anyone’s? She was determined to find out.

She had her routine down pat. She was up to
three rounds of sleeping a day, with barely enough time in between
to relieve her straining bladder, grab something to eat (nutrition
had long since deserted the picture), search out a new picture, and
then off to slumber land.

The kitchen was awash with dirty dishes;
stacked in the sink, on the countertops, and even littering the
small, round table. She had long since run out of cereal bowls;
these had been replaced with old Tupperware and Ziploc containers.
Silverware was dwindling at an alarming rate, and she had used
every glass and mug she owned; half of them stacked in the kitchen,
the other half littering the bedside table and dresser-top. One of
the bottles of sleeping pills was empty, and the other rapidly on
its way there. She disinterestedly wondered what she would do when
she ran out.

She was so groggy from all the drugs sloshing
around in her system that she didn’t dare to try and drive, and she
didn’t know anyone who she trusted to bring them to her. She’d
cross that bridge when she came to it, she decided.

Meanwhile, photo albums were strewn all
around the living room, pictures had been removed and scattered
here and there. Some of them had been trimmed down to fit the
locket, their trimmings remaining on table tops as well as the
floor, and two or three pairs of scissors were scattered around the
living room. All in all, her home was in complete disarray, the
likes of which it had never seen. And she didn’t care. Not in the
least.

She was preparing for her third round of
sleep Sunday night, this time a picture of the whole family
ensconced within the confines of the locket. The picture was one of
the happiest memories she could recall in her groggy state. Glowing
smiles radiated from the faces of Eldon, Scott, Cynthia, and
herself. It was Christmastime, the year before Cynthia had died.
Even then the little girl was sick, though none of them knew it.
They could never have suspected what the new year would bring, or
how quickly she would go, while her suffering seemed drawn out and
never-ending.

Gilda was stumbling her groggy way to the
bedroom, trying to devise a plan to make this easier on herself
(maybe she should just move all the albums to the bedroom, and
maybe take a couple jugs of water with them; but she was too weary
to contemplate the effort just now), when it happened.

Her foot caught on a time-worn rumple in the
rug. A ridge she knew all too well was there, one she had deftly
avoided for years, but in her drug-addled state, had completely
forgotten about. She pitched forward, throwing out her hands
instinctively to catch herself. Not that it helped. In fact, it
only made things worse. She went down like a tumble of bricks,
while at the same time, the locket flew from her hand, struck the
wall, and fell to the floor in two pieces.

Completely ignoring the pain shooting through
her hip, she crawled forward and grasped at the locket. She hauled
herself to a seated position, leaning against the wall, and tried
to fit the two pieces together again. It was no use. The hinge was
broken, as was the clasp, and the picture hung lopsided from its
original position.

“No, no, noo, noooo!” she moaned.

Tears trickled from her eyes as she tried
over and over again to fit the locket together. But it was to no
avail. It simply would not go back together.

What if it didn’t work now? What if all the
magic in it was broken in the same way the hinge and clasp were?
What if her blessed dreams were gone? What then? She had finally
found something worth living for. What was there now without the
wonderful escape of that magical dream-filled sleep?

No! She would not have it! Could not have it!
She would fix it. There was more than one way to skin a cat!

Stumbling to a standing position once more,
she made her way feebly back to the kitchen. She was going to have
to be very careful. Very careful indeed. A quick glance at the
clock told her it was just now getting on to evening. With any luck
the jeweler would still have his shop open. He could fix it. He
must fix it. At any cost! She had been about to slip on her jacket
when she realized that she was still only dressed in a nightgown.
There was nothing to be done about it. She had to take the time to
clean up a bit and get dressed. She couldn’t go stumbling into the
jewelry shop in a nightgown and slippers at five in the evening.
They’d lock her up for sure.

As rapidly as she could, she dressed, washed
her face, and combed her hair, (the first time she done so in over
a week); and then headed out to the car. If she weaved a bit on the
road it was really no surprise, she only wanted to get there in one
piece. Having dropped the locket off at the jeweler’s (just in the
nick of time, he was preparing to close up shop when she went
barging in, she headed back home. It was difficult, no, nearly
impossible, to return home without the locket, but there was
nothing she could do about it. He had explained it would take some
time to do the repairs, but she had made it clear to him how vital
it was to get the locket back as soon as possible, and he had
agreed to do rush and have it available for her the next day by the
time she got off of work.

She had already decided to go to work; there
wasn’t anything else for her to do at home. Without the locket and
her lovely dreams, there was nothing to occupy her time.

She was beginning to sober up somewhat as she
stepped inside the house. For the first time in days, she took in
the state of her home and was flabbergasted by what she saw. At the
same time the urge was very great to put some order to the mess,
her concern for the locket, and the possibly broken magic, was
greater. She sat up most of the night, in a state, between wringing
her hands in worry, to crying in certainty that it was done, it was
over, and her life would never be the same. It was another death to
her, the loss of the locket, one she was certain she could not
overcome if it truly was lost.

The next morning she got herself together for
work, dressing with little concern, fixing her hair enough to be
considered passably neat, and then headed off to the library. She
knew how badly she looked. If anything, it would only serve to
cement her story of being ill. Her coworkers all eyed her in shock
upon seeing her, the looks they gave her suggested to her that she
may look far worse than even she had realized. But she didn’t care.
She had only one thing on her mind, and she spent the day with one
eye on the clock. She left about half an hour early, which no one
questioned; unbeknownst to her, her coworkers were concerned that
she was far more ill than she had let on. They all thought they
were watching a walking corpse, and it made them more than a little
uncomfortable. It was a relief to them to see her go, though not
one of them would ever have admitted it.

When she got to the jeweler’s she was
encouraged to see that his repair work, neat and capable, had been
done on schedule as promised, and she paid him without any qualm.
If the price seemed a little cheap she wasn’t concerned at all.
After all, the week’s worth of overdosing on sleeping pills had
rattled her brain in a way she was certain she could never recover
from. And all that mattered was that she had her precious locket
back. She made a quick stop at the drug store, where she purchased
another bottle of sleeping pills, this time without bothering to
hide it amongst a ration of other unnecessary purchases, and then
returned home.