The Medium of Memory | ONC2020

14: An Ending

It was a bright Saturday afternoon when Charlotte and I, along with Mrs. B, returned to the house in the wood.

I had spent nearly a week in bed, recovering from what the doctor called "nervous exhaustion." Charlotte had been by to visit me every day, and spent an hour or two, settled in the chair by my bed, reading to me passages from a recent romance or one of her esoteric science volumes. Mrs. B, when she periodically peeked in from the doorway, smiled approvingly.

One might wonder why return to the house at all. Mrs. B might say that all things must be faced, in time. Charlotte would say that the job was finished and she would not relinquish what was rightfully hers, and her only connection to her family.

I, perhaps, simply needed to prove something to myself. 

And there was the matter of a proper funeral to attend to.

The great green house seemed smaller to me now, as we descended from the comfort of Mrs. B's enclosed carriage.

Charlotte carried a wooden box, while Mrs. B followed with a small bag of tools. I unlocked the front door. It swung open easily and this time I was not assaulted by the mixed buzz of memories as we entered. It was eerily quiet and still.

Mrs. B turned to shut the door behind us. "No," Charlotte said quickly, grabbing the edge of the open door. "Leave it open."

The interior was cool, and dim as always. "These windows need a good scrubbing," Mrs. B commented as we entered the sitting room. "And that's not all."

I looked around at the room, cluttered and in disarray. My eyes lingered on the fireplace. "Well," Charlotte said grimly, "first things first."

Mrs. B put her hand on Charlotte's shoulder. "Let me do it, dear. You shouldn't have to." Without another word, she took the carved wooden box from Charlotte's hands and approached the fireplace. She crouched down and removed a brush and small dustpan from her bag. 

That day, after my collapse, Charlotte had tended to me on the porch until I was well enough to move. In that time, she'd let the fire burn down. She'd left her nephew's remains there, and taken me home.

Mrs. B set to work sweeping out what was left in the grate. Though it may not be polite to talk about, a body doesn't burn completely and bits of bone are left among the ash. Charlotte went to help, holding the box while Mrs. B filled it. At her direction, a man had come out the previous day to dig a small grave next to Clara's.

I wandered to the base of the stairs and put my hand on the bannister, half-expecting to see Clara coming down. I knew I shouldn't wander off by myself, but I slowly ascended the stairs. Thus far, the memories of the house were silenced.

I went to Clara's room straight away, but shied away from my intended purpose. Instead I strode across to the window and looked out upon the now sunny yard. Spring had truly reached the wood. Charlotte and Clara had played in this yard, back when they were together and maybe even happy. I recalled playing with the girls at the orphanage, too and smiled, for the first time, at that memory. We had a fairly comfortable childhood there, and we had each other.

I turned away and moved back toward the dressing table. The mirror frame was there, face-down. Hesitating only a moment, I snatched it up and peered into its emptiness where the mirror had once been. "Hattie!" Charlotte called. No face looked back at me. Just the backing where the glass should have been. "Hattie? Where are you?" Charlotte's voice was tinged with concern.

"Coming!" I called and hurried back downstairs, satisfied by what I hadn't seen.

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They didn't want to leave me alone in the house, so the three of us went out to the carriage and Charlotte placed the small box of remains safely inside until we were ready to bury it. A question had been growing in my mind, so while she and Mrs. B stood chatting by the carriage in the sunshine, I strolled forward toward the big tree.