Fallen

Chapter Five

~5~

            I lie in my bed all day and cry until my eyes are dry. I expected something was going to happen after my mother died, but nothing ever did. No one came to question me so I assumed no one was tuning in at that moment.  I contemplated calling someone for her body, but decided not to.  I really didn’t want to have a detective come in and search the house and bother me.

            Especially with the clue my mother gave me moments before her last breath.

            In the closet.

            I finally manage to rise from my bed and walk across the hall to my mother’s room. In it is my mother’s bed, which she will never again sleep in. I creep over to the closet. I stand in front of it and close my eyes.

            “Whatever is in here is important.  It is for me.  It might possibly hold the answer to all of my questions. I have to open this door; it’s now or never,” I speak aloud, hoping to persuade myself to be brave.

            Brave. Like my father.

            I reach forward and gently open the closet door. Inside is full of her clothes. I take one of her shirts and bring it to my face, smelling her beautiful scent for possibly the last time. I tell myself not to cry. I have already played the role of the scared daughter who watched her mother die; now I must be the brave daughter who will avenge her mother’s death.

            I search the closet for something. She told me to look in the closet and here I am. But I’m still not sure what I’m looking for.  Then I realize that maybe she doesn’t even mean this closet. Maybe my closet or the one in the bathroom that holds towels.

            Then I see something beautiful in the top of the closet. I doubt it was what I was sent to find, but I can’t stop myself from grabbing it. It’s a blue vase hand painted with red roses. My mom is…was very talented in arts, which is why she was a given the opportunity to paint for a living, and there is no doubt in my mind that this is a piece of her work.

            “Your hair reminds me of my favorite flower,” she used to always say. “A rose. That’s how you were named. Your father gave me one on the first date that was arranged for us.”

            I admire the artwork, turning it around in my hands. The smooth surface is cold against my warm hands. I feel so honored to be holding a piece of art so precious and I begin to feel guilty. It isn’t mine to be admiring, no matter how much I wish it was.

            I carefully reach upward and place the vase back where I got it. But I realize too late that it is unbalanced. When I turn around to go to my room and search my closet I hear a crash and quickly spin around on my heels.

            Where I was just standing is now covered with blue and red pieces of the once perfect vase. The sight makes me cry. My mom trusted me and I know I am a disgrace. This one piece of art that most likely was a tribute to me is now broken because of me.

            Just when I am about to turn around and run away from the scene I see something that catches my eye. In the middle of the rubble is a small white envelope. As curious as I am, I bend over to pick it up. I wipe my eyes so I can read it.

            On it, in beautiful handwriting, is my name.