Weekend Challenge 9 of The Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

We decided to write a short story back and forth, one sentence at a time, and then end it individually.

Here is Davis':

She’d never opened the box that once belonged to her father before, but she figured the anniversary of his death was as good a time as any. It was made of cedar, still smelled like ancient wood soaked in the musk of the attic in her childhood home. The front of the box had a latch and lock, with an old pink string tied around the end of a small key. She thought of her sister Dottie, of all that her father had wanted Dottie to be, of all the things Dottie tried so hard to become.

Dottie, of course, would be in the guest room and, even though she hadn’t emerged for three days, would somehow sense her sister’s curiosity. It was as hot as it gets in Pine Bluff in August, the kind of heat and humidity that inspires a sort of madness that has led people to live madly, to love madly, and to lay naked for days with nothing but a book and General Electric brass blade fan. A bead of sweat dropped from her brow, pooling in a dust-drenched way, reminding Merilee how long ago her dad put those gifts for her and Dottie in there.

Since they were young girls, he had told them to look after each other, that if their bond remained unbroken, God would take good care of them.

“You two were born together for a reason I couldn’t possibly articulate; one you two will have to discover on your own,” he’d said when they were young.

There were many years when Merilee hated being a twin, hated that her sister was prettier than her, more loved, more talented, hated that Dottie didn’t care about any of that, hated that she did. It wasn’t easy being the one who had fewer friendships, fewer boyfriends, fewer opportunities, but over time she owned it, found herself a steady life, and eventually in the unique position to be Dottie’s primary caregiver, so to speak.

“Uuunnnngggghhhh,” Dottie moaned from the next room, and Marilee shuttered, staring at the box.

“Be right there!” Merilee replied, after too much time, holding the key loosely in her fingers.

She was always too caring, too quick to fix the problem, to solve the issue, and had once again spoken out of fear of not caring for her sister enough.

The box began to vibrate in her hand — or was it her imagination? The house was hot and she hadn’t moved in some time, and the space around her began to darken the way it does when one’s gazed is fixed for long enough. The eagle that had been carved into the center of the box’s top began to flap it wings slightly enough to spook her and yet to soothe her, as if this odd movement were familiar and exactly what the wooden creature was meant to do. She felt as though her hand was being guided, like some other force was compelling it to gently twist the key. The lock and latch popped open with a croak, and Merilee hesitated, caressing the pink string affectionately and studying the now-animate eagle curiously. With a deep meaningful breath, she pushed away all stories, doubts, hesitations and gently opened the box, revealing a golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium.

A tick, tick, ticking sound came from inside the golden scarf. Merliee held it up to her ear to be clear of the sound she now knew to be quite familiar. It had a hypnotic feel to it and, as if the eagle and the ticking sound were compelling her to do so, she unfolded the handkerchief like one might draw the sheet back from the face of a cadaver.

Resting inside the kerchief was, on the left, an old hourglass filled with green sand. In the middle, a copper pocket watch — the cause of the ticking. And on the right, a 1987 Casio DBC-63 Telememo 50 Databank Calculator Watch. She wondered if it were the very watch her father had worn when he passed and if it was, how it had gotten in there.

Mesmerized by the time pieces, Merilee was barely able to hear her sister enter the room, dragging her blanket behind her, red and hurting.

The watch ticked and ticked and, in a continuation of the dream state that led her to open the box, she lifted the pocket watch and flipped it over, letting the copper chain droop lazily on the handkerchief. Her grandfather’s initials.

Her eyes refocused to where the pocket watch once was and saw a note obscured.

She picked up the note written in cursive on old parchment burnt on the sides to seem ancient — or was it actually ancient — and read it.

“Every wish, in time.”

She held it like the artifact it was.

“What do you think it means,” Dottie asked between coughs.

“I don’t know,” Merilee replied, her gaze fixed.

“Look under the handkerchief.” Dottie suggested.

Merilee grabbed the handkerchief and lifted it gently. Underneath were scraps of paper of all sizes and from different times. Acting on instinct, she grabbed one from the middle. The note on the scrap was written in pen, poorly and read. “I wish I could dance like mom and dad.”

“Is that…? Is that dad’s handwriting?”

“I don’t know. If it is, he must have been a kid.”

“The man could glide,” Dottie remembered.

“Every one of them is a wish,” Merilee said mostly to herself as she dug through each scrap, almost hearing her .

“What should we put in there?” Dottie asked.

Merilee, for the first time, semi-breaking the spell, looked at her sister, cold and sweaty, cheek bones sitting almost proud of her face, thin as thin can be, in pain and hopeful.

“Grab me a pen and paper, D” Merilee demanded before returning her eyes to the box.

She looked at the hourglass, dated 1903, and inspected it, trying to imagine the age when time couldn’t be tamed so easily.

Dottie returned in her own time with an almost finished pen and a piece of ripped paper towel.

“Perfect” Merilee said.

She thought for a second, thinking of everything in the world she might want: a trip to Europe, a house by the lake, a new set of sheets, a working dishwasher, her husband to come home…. Then she looked at her sister, the beginnings of a tear swelling in her eye.

“I love you. “Merilee said.

She wrote something on the paper towel, placed it under the handkerchief, put the note back, the timepieces, folded it delicately, closed the box gently, locked it, and broke the spell.

As the two of them stared at it for a bit longer, the darkness of dusk covered the room, the box remained still, the eagle at rest.

Merilee handed the box to her sister, a tear in her eye, too. “Now it’s your turn. Goodnight, D,” she said as she walked out of the room and to her own, where she fell like a plank onto the bed and fast asleep.

“I love you, too,” Dottie said to the doorway her sister had just walked through. She looked at the box once more, smiled, took it to her room, placed it on her dresser, and wept.

Here is Charles'

Since they were young girls, he had told them to look after each other, that if their bond remained unbroken, God would take good care of them.

“You two were born together for a reason I couldn’t possibly articulate; one you two will have to discover on your own,” he’d said when they were young.

“Uuunnnngggghhhh,” Dottie moaned from the next room, and Marilee shuttered, staring at the box.

“Be right there!” Merilee replied, after too much time, holding the key loosely in her fingers.

She was always too caring, too quick to fix the problem, to solve the issue, and had once again spoken out of fear of not caring for her sister enough.

The box began to vibrate in her hand — or was it her imagination? The house was hot and she hadn’t moved in some time, and the space around her began to darken the way it does when one’s gazed is fixed for long enough. The eagle that had been carved into the center of the box’s top began to flap it wings slightly enough to spook her and yet to soothe her, as if this odd movement were familiar and exactly what the wooden creature was meant to do. She felt as though he hand was being guided, like some other force was compelling it to gently twist the key. The lock and latch popped open with a croak, and Merilee hesitated, caressing the pink string affectionately and studying the now-animate eagle curiously. With a deep meaningful breath, she pushed away all stories, doubts, hesitations and gently opened the box, revealing a golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium.

Merilee gasped. Before she could think, she grasped the handkerchief and rubbed it gently between her thumb and the side of her index finger, exhibiting a tenderness she hadn’t known in years. She brought the silken kerchief into both hands and slowly guided it to her face and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. As if her breath could open the skies, her exhale brought with it a stream of tears. Merilee’s body began to vibrate, her extremities falling asleep as she rubbed the kerchief, breathed in the smell of old geranium, and wiped her tears. As this emotional wave grew in intensity, her nose began to run, her mouth producing saliva, and from deep in her gut she began to sob. Full, awkward sobs.

She knew that she’d get what was coming to her. She could almost predict when someone was going to come up to her and say “you know, honey, it’s ok to grieve.” It was almost constant for a while there. At her father’s wake. In the lobby of the hospital where Dottie was in Intensive Care. Two different ladies said that to her at the veterinarian’s office the week prior as she was putting Gonzo down. She hated it. But she knew it was true. She hadn’t let herself cry. She was afraid if she did, she’d never stop. Now the floodgates were open, and she was doing the work of the immense grief that lived inside of her. She wept it all.

Without a moment’s notice, the emotional tides swung, shifted, changed and suddenly she was in rage. She began to scream, croak, caw. These visceral animalistic sounds were doing the work of channeling the rage she had been hiding so much inside. Rage that began when her mother left her and sister in the care of their father while she went chasing visions of undiscovered islands in Micronesia. Rage that built when they didn’t find her body. Rage that seethed beneath the surface every time she found her father passed out on the floor in the living room. Rage every time life just clicked in place for Dottie. Rage every time it didn’t click in place for her. Rage for all the pain buried in each hopeless relationship with each hopeless man that gave her love for a month. Rage when Dottie got married to man that was loyal, honest, and perfect for her. Rage when that same man shot her in the neck and took his own life on a Wednesday in March, leaving Dottie paralyzed and nearly brain dead. Rage that she was now 47 years old and living alone in a house with her sister, her only surviving family member, with no way out of her pain and misery.

For all of that rage she screamed. She screamed it all into the golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium. She screamed until her throat was scratchy and she could barely breathe. She screamed until all that was left was a half-hearted whimper.

And Merilee looked down at the handkerchief, this mysterious piece of cloth in this old wooden box her father had given her. This beautiful relic of another time and another place that is so delicate by nature, but which now plays host to the soup of sweat, salt, snot and saliva that comes from a woman who has finally let it all go. And in studying this scene, herself lying on the floor of her dad’s old upstairs closet clutching this small sodden cloth which was the only witness to what was undoubtedly the Great Breakdown of Her Life, she began to laugh. Slowly, softly at first, and then all at once, like an avalanche of giggles. She was laughing at the fact that she didn’t know where the hell this handkerchief had come from or what the hell it meant. What was her dad trying to say? Who did this thing belong to? Why had the feeling and smell of it elicited such an intense and instantaneous reaction from her? And she just laughed. She wondered if somehow Dottie knew. And she laughed. She thought of herself helplessly melting into an emotional oblivion in her dad’s closet and nobody would ever know if she didn’t tell them. And she laughed. She just laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she was left with just a couple of short chuckles, like the last couple of kernels popping on the stove. And she just laid there on the floor, looking at the ceiling, clutching this handkerchief, her spirit totem, her sanctuary, her 8x8 inch hand-stitched therapist. She exhaled with a smile.